The lounge was quiet this evening, and Josh reasoned he could guess why. The kidnapping of Nadya Volkova was still fresh in the minds of the public and press alike, and though no blood had been been spilled at the moment of her taking, Noche seemed stained with it. Each breath felt laced with iron, dripping red and viscous. Joshua had inhaled fresher air in a morgue.

   But, he thought, Bijou was worth it. She was worth the discomfort, the itch between his shoulder-blades, all for the possibility he would see her there and grab some small bite of her time. He’d not sent a message ahead - far too dangerous, what with his wife sometimes answering his phone - but instead sat at the bar, peering this way and that through the sparse crowd for a glimpse of her.