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impervious.’ Hudson looked roguish. ‘I think Cupid’s dart gave him a bad sting not long ago and he’s retired from the lists. He used to be quite susceptible to women, too.’
    ‘Why are you telling me this?’
    Hudson shrugged. ‘No reason. But there is one thing you could do for me.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Just keep a sisterly eye on him for me, would you?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Now, you’d better get on. I’ve asked Marlow for an end-of-day report … unless you can give me a preview?’ He raised an eyebrow a fraction.
    ‘The only way to trace these people is to find out what they were after. But the gist is that it was a simple dig.’
    ‘The Dandolo Project.’
    ‘Absolutely. Marlow’s got all the information available from the universities the three archaeologists work for – Yale and Venice. The two Yale boys are Dr Bradley Adkins and Dr Richard Taylor; the Venice academic is called Su-Lin de Montferrat, a Chinese-Italian.’
    ‘And –?’
    ‘Dandolo was doge of Venice, but he died in Constantinople in 1205. The archaeologists had discovered his burial site and were researching it.’ She paused. ‘Marlow will fill you in later. That’s all I have.’
    ‘Nothing special they were looking for then?’
    ‘Nothing to show that yet.’ She looked at him. ‘But there must have been. Otherwise, why give this to us?’
    ‘And why were they taken? This isn’t some ad hoc terrorist kidnapping.’
    ‘Too clinical?’
    ‘Precisely.’
    Hudson made a tent of his fingers. ‘So it boils down to this: find out what they were looking for, and that tells us who snatched them. And be quick. We’re keeping the Press away from this, but the families are beginning to ask questions. Understandably.’
    ‘Shouldn’t we make tracing the archaeologists top priority?’
    Hudson swivelled his chair round to the window and gazed out over leaves still clinging listlessly to the trees in Central Park. The day had become as grey as a prison.
    ‘There’s interest in what they were looking for,’ he said. ‘And these days, it’s sometimes hard to define what one’s priorities are.’
    He swivelled back, reached for a cigar, and lit it. ‘You’d better be getting back downstairs,’ he continued. ‘And don’t forget the little favour I’ve asked you.’
    Graves made her way back to the elevators unsure whether she’d been given an order or not. But she felt less bad now about being passed over for Marlow. Slightly.
    She thought again about the information she’d been able to glean on him. He certainly wasn’t the easiest guy to read. Physically, not bad, she had to admit. Lanky, wore good clothes, carelessly green eyes, sad-looking, veiled, but buried humour there, if it ever got a chance to get out. Looked a little older than he was, but no doubt of a muscular, fit body. And, though she hated to admit it, he was sexy.
    No details of his private life at all. Pity.
    And no time to think about that now.
    She punched in the code to Room 55 and entered quietly. The two men were at the other end of the room, backs turned, talking in low voices. She caught the tail-end of a conversation, and felt like she was snooping already.
    ‘You’re right,’ Marlow was saying. ‘It’s a lesson I should have got by heart.’
    Lopez looked sympathetic. ‘But you’ve put that in the past.’
    ‘It’s still with me, like shrapnel. But as far as I’m concerned, the bitch is dead. And let’s shut up about it. We’re wasting time.’
    Then he saw Graves and his expression changed. ‘You’re late,’ he said, but he wasn’t unfriendly. ‘Where’ve you been?’
    ‘Sorry’ was all she said. To her relief, he seemed to choose not to pursue it. But he looked at her enigmatically and she wondered if he knew.
    ‘What’ve I missed?’ she went on hastily.
    Marlow was already lifting a folder from his desk. ‘This is it,’ he said. ‘Just come in. First section.’
    He tapped the folder. ‘The starting point