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Pendergast.”
    Weber drew out his Beretta from the desk, but before he could aim it, the man, seemingly reading his mind, lashed out and slammed the pistol from Weber’s grasp. It went tumbling across the floor. Covering Weber with his own weapon, which had appeared from nowhere, the man retrieved the Beretta, put it in his own pocket, and returned to his chair.
    “Shall we try again?” he asked in a reasonable voice.
    “I have nothing to say to you,” Weber replied.
    The man calling himself Pendergast hefted the weapon in his hand. “Are you truly not attached to your own life?”
    Weber had been very carefully trained in interrogation techniques—both how to administer and how to resist. He had also been schooled in how one of superior blood and breeding should conduct himself before others. “I’m not afraid to die for what I believe in.”
    “That makes two of us.” The man paused, considering. “And what is it, exactly, that you believe in?”
    Weber merely smiled.
    Pendergast glanced around the office again, his gaze finally returning to Weber. “That’s a rather nice suit you’re wearing.”
    Despite the big Colt trained on him, Weber felt perfectly calm, perfectly in control. “Thank you.”
    “Is that by chance a Hardy Amies, my own tailor?”
    “Sadly, no. Taylor and Merton, just a few doors down Savile Row from Amies.”
    “I see we share a fondness for fine clothes. I would imagine our mutual interest extends beyond just suits. Take ties, for instance.” Pendergast caressed his own. “While in the past I’ve usually favored handmade Parisian ties, like Charvet, these days I prefer Jay Kos. Such as the one I’m wearing at present. At two hundred dollars, not cheap, but in my opinion worth every penny.” He smiled at Weber. “And who makes your ties?”
    If this was some novel interrogation technique, Weber thought, it was not going to work. “Brioni,” he replied.
    “Brioni,” Pendergast repeated. “That’s good. Well made.”
    Suddenly—again with speed that more resembled an explosion than movement—Pendergast shot up from his chair, leapt over the desk, and grabbed Weber by the throat. Dragging him backward with shocking strength, he threw up the sash of the nearest window and propelled the struggling Weber into it. In terror Weber grasped the window frames on both sides. He could hear the traffic on Peachtree Street twenty stories below, feel the updraft.
    “I love the windows in these old skyscrapers,” Pendergast said. “They actually open. And you were right about the view.”
    Weber clung desperately to the sides of the window, gasping with terror.
    Reaching around with the butt of his gun, Pendergast smashed the fingers of Weber’s left hand, breaking bones, then pounded on his right. With a cry, Weber felt himself shoved backward into open space, his arms flailing uselessly, his legs still hooked over the windowsill. Pendergast prevented his fall by grabbing his tie, holding him out at arm’s length from the window.
    Frantically Weber pressed his calves against the sill, choking and fighting to maintain a grip.
    “A man should always know his wardrobe—and his wardrobe’s limitations,” Pendergast went on, his voice still light and conversational. “My Jay Kos ties, for example, are made of Italian sevenfold silk. As strong as they are beautiful.”
    He gave Weber’s tie a rough jerk. Weber gasped as one leg began to slip from the sill. He scrabbled to regain his footing. He tried to speak, but the tie was choking him.
    “Other manufacturers sometimes cut corners,” Pendergast went on. “You know, like single stitching, only two folds.” He gave the tie another tug. “So I want you to
be sure of
the quality of your tie before I ask you my question again.”
    Jerk.
    With a harsh sound, Weber’s tie began to rip. He stared at it, crying out involuntarily.
    “Oh, dear,” Pendergast said, disappointed. “Brioni? I don’t think so. Perhaps you’ve been