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matter,” Irene asked, with a hint of acid in her voice, “did your romance break up?”
    â€œI don’t really know,” he had to admit.
    Where’s she gone? he kept asking himself. What in hell is this all about?
    Within a half hour Cochrane was picked up by Irene’s two brothers: bulky, swarthy men in dark suits that seemed about to split at the seams. Aside from a brief hello, they said nothing to Cochrane; they drove him in brooding silence to the church where Mike’s funeral was being held. There were pitifully few mourners at the church. The service was mercifully brief; the minister stumbled over Mike’s name twice. Obviously Michael had been no more of a churchgoer than Cochrane himself—or their parents, for that matter.
    At the cemetery he saw Sandoval standing alone on the fringes of the tiny gathering, dressed in a black sheath. Cochrane had brought his only dark suit, which he hadn’t worn since he’d left Massachusetts. It felt uncomfortably heavy, stifling. Irene was with her plump, black-dressed mother and her two beefy-looking brothers, both hefty enough to fell teams of oxen. He hadn’t seen them since Mike’s wedding; they’d grown even bulkier over the years. Both the brothers had their wives with them, and a half dozen small children, all of them fidgeting but quiet, looking solemn and almost frightened. They’re the only family Mike had, Cochrane realized. Except for me. The rest of the small group were strangers, mostly men, somber, almost embarrassed; they introduced themselves as co-workers from Mike’s lab. No sign of Arashi, but there was another stranger hovering on the grass about a hundred yards away, a big-shouldered man wearing dark sunglasses and looking like a cop. Not Purvis or McLain, though, Cochrane was certain of that.
    The sunshine was warm and there wasn’t any kind of a breeze at all. Cochrane began to perspire in his wool suit. The minister went through his ritual and then Cochrane followed his sister-in-law to the closed coffin, took a red rose from the hand of the somber funeral director, and laid it tenderly on the burnished mahogany.
    He turned away, the photo of his brother’s battered face filling his mind. Christ, what a way to die. Then Sandoval appeared before him, her face a perfect picture of sadness and sympathy. She’s an actress, Cochrane found himself thinking. A goddamned actress.
    He said goodbye to Irene and her family, then followed Sandoval to her Infiniti. As she drove toward the Calvin Research Center, he asked, “So just who the hell is this Arashi? What’s he after?”
    Her eyes flicked from the road to his face and back again. “He’s a… facilitator, of sorts.”
    â€œWhat the hell does that mean?”
    â€œHe works out business deals, smoothes the way for big corporations, international corporations. Sometimes government agencies, as well.”
    â€œWhy’s he interested in Mike’s work? Why are
you
interested, for that matter?”
    â€œI’m interested because Arashi is. He doesn’t show up on the scene unless there’s a lot of money involved.”
    Cochrane thought that over for a few minutes, decided that the information content of what she’d told him was pretty close to zero.
    Sandoval pulled the gold Infiniti into the Calvin Center’s driveway and parked it in a visitor’s slot. She turned off the engine, took the key out of the ignition, and opened the door on her side. Cochrane didn’t move.
    â€œAren’t you getting out?” she asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNo?”
    â€œNot until you tell me what this is all about.”
    â€œPaul, I can’t. Not now. Not yet.”
    â€œArashi offered me fifty thousand bucks.”
    Her eyes widened slightly. “And what did you say?”
    â€œAre you working with him or against him?”
    â€œNot with him.”
    â€œSo who are you