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that’s what he told me. He was probably working with the CIA, spying on someone or something.”
    “Do you ever think about Damian Cray?”
    “No.” Alex shook his head. The question seemed to have come out of nowhere. Alex glanced at Sabina and was surprised to see that she was looking at him with something close to anger in her eyes.
    “I do. All the time. It was horrible. He was crazy. And the way he died! I’ll remember that for the rest of my life.”
    Well, that made sense. Sabina had been there at the very end. In fact, she had been at least partly responsible for his sensational death.
    “I thought you said you were going to stop all that,” she went on. “Playing at being a spy . . .”
    “It was never my choice,” Alex replied. “And anyway, I’ve already told your dad. I’ve stopped. It’s not going to happen again.”
    Sabina sighed. “San Francisco’s great,” she said. “Great shops. Great food. Great weather. But I miss England.” She paused. “I miss you.”
    “I’ll come visit. I promise.”
    “You’d better. . . .”
    They had only been outside for a couple of minutes, but in this weather it was more than enough. Alex could see the flakes of snow in Sabina’s hair. “Let’s go downstairs,” he suggested.
    “Yeah. Let’s find Dad and get out of here. I’ll go back to the main hall. You look in the other rooms. I want to get back to Mum, and if you ask me, this party sucks. All these men in kilts and not one of them with decent legs . . .”
    She handed him back his jacket and the two of them made their way back down the twisting staircase, then split up, searching for Edward Pleasure. Alex watched Sabina hurry down the corridor, then went the other way, past more unsmiling portraits of long-dead ancestors. He wondered why anyone would want to live in a place like this. Maybe Desmond McCain needed somewhere to hide from the world. When he wasn’t trying to save it.
    He heard the murmur of voices, the clink of a glass, and a woman laughing. He had come to a set of double doors, opening into what must be the castle’s library, with shelves of leather-bound books that looked at least a hundred years old and which were surely never read. He saw at once that the library had been converted into a casino, with card tables, a spinning roulette wheel, and croupiers in white shirts, waistcoats, and bow ties. As he walked in, the roulette ball tumbled into its slot with a loud clunk, the audience laughed and applauded, and the croupier called out “Eighteen, red, even . . .” and began to sort out the bets. There were almost a hundred people playing the different games, most of them holding drinks and one or two of them puffing at cigars. This must be the only room in the castle where smoking was allowed; a cloud of smoke hung in the air.
    Alex didn’t even notice himself entering the room, so spellbound was he. He looked briefly at the cards sliding across the green baize, the fresh bets stacking up in front of the roulette wheel, the men and women, some standing, some sitting, leaning forward, their faces flushed with excitement. The main focus of attention seemed to be at the far end of the room. There was a game in progress with six players—but one of them had just lost. Alex saw him throw his cards down with disgust and get up, leaving an empty chair. At the same time the winning player laughed a deep, rich sound that warmed the room.
    Desmond McCain. It had to be him. Alex would have known it even if he hadn’t been the only black man in the room. McCain was lolling back in his chair in front of a great window that had the effect of framing him, putting him at the center of the picture. Almost despite himself, Alex moved forward to get a closer look. He had been thinking about McCain only a few minutes ago. It couldn’t hurt to see what the laird of Kilmore Castle was really like.
    McCain was gathering up his cards, which almost disappeared in his oversized hands. He was a