He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a heavy gold case.

He selected a cigarette and lit it with a silver lighter, the flame briefly illuminating the deep lines around his eyes.

The scent of expensive Turkish tobacco filled the damp room, completely out of place.

“I underestimated you,” he said, blowing a thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling.

It was as close to an apology as Arthur Costello had ever come in his life.

“I thought you were a functionary,” he continued. “A very efficient, very loyal clerk who kept my schedule and made sure the coffee was hot.”

“And now?” I asked.

“Now I see the gaps,” he said. “The whole machine is grinding itself to pieces because the grease is gone. You weren’t just fixing the schedule. You were holding the perimeter.”

“I was doing my job,” I said.

“You were doing everyone’s job,” Arthur said. “And you did it so quietly that I didn’t notice until the noise of the collapse woke me up.”

He stood up, holding the cigarette between two fingers.