For all her talk about the present and the future, Anna could feel the past slowly seeping back and engulfing her. She'd dreamt it all before, though not as often as she did now. And before it had been less disorienting; after all, she'd been alone. Now when she had the dream she'd fall asleep with 2014-Robert by her side and turn over to see 1991-Robert smiling back at her, telling her good-morning, telling her he loved her, pulling her toward him. In the dream they made love for what Anna knew would be the last time. She was inconsolable after, which of course hadn't really happened—she hadn't cried like that because she hadn't known, couldn't know that she would be snatched away from her life later that same day.

Sometimes she would wake up at this point in the dream, sad and empty. Sometimes the dream continued: she was on the yacht again at the moment of realization, lying on her bed, arms wrapped around her chest, legs pulled up into her stomach, her mind racing: how to get away, how to signal for help, how to keep safe, how to keep Faison from noticing her condition. It was early days yet but in three months, four months, she wouldn't be able to hide the truth any longer, even if she succeeded in keeping him at arm's length. The idea that he might touch her while she was pregnant was especially repulsive.

Still other nights the dream progressed to its terrible conclusion: pain and blood, emptiness and despair. This part of the dream was always confused and fragmented; her memories, when they'd finally come, had been indistinct, hazy and muddled, and they'd never resolved themselves and become clear inside or outside of the dream. She heard her own voice and felt herself screaming; she sensed searing heat and something, wetness, between her legs. Anna assumed she was remembering the aftermath of the explosion and that her memories were in disarray because of her head injury; she suspected months of memories of her convalescence were irrecoverable. Someone kind like Tom Hardy would, she was sure, tell her the memory loss was for the best, her mind's way of protecting her.

Now when she woke from the dream, at whatever stage, in whatever state, Robert was there, sometimes awake, sometimes asleep. But he was always more than twenty years older than the man in her dream, a realization that never failed to produce a final fresh sting of grief. If he was awake, she'd reassure him that she was fine. If he was asleep, she'd lie on her side and watch him until her eyes grew heavy.

On Wednesday morning, Duke, Giordano, Victor, Ms. Wu's assistant, and her associate waited for the truck to arrive. It never did. Two days later, the driver's body was found floating in the harbour without identification. His finger prints weren't on file, no one had reported him missing, and so the PCPD arranged for a photograph of the man, his face only slightly distorted by his time in the cold water, to be broadcast on the news, printed in the local paper, and published on local websites in the hope that someone could identify him. That's how Duke recognized the dead man as the driver who'd delivered the first shipment weeks before. It was the second death consequent to his deal with Sonny Corinthos, Duke realized. The first had been the figurative demise of his relationship with Anna. This second death, the literal death of a man he'd never really known, caused him a temporary pang of conscience. But it soon passed.

Giordano was livid. "Who the fuck," he railed when Duke had told him about the driver, "would be stupid enough to mess with our shipment, Lavery? Does my reputation not precede me? Are people around here under the mistaken impression I'm some overly polite country cousin who'll turn, tail between my legs, muttering 'sorry, sorry, je m'excuse' all the way back across the international border? Who do I go after to get my product back? Who do I hold responsible for this? Who should pay?"

Duke made a show of considering his response carefully before he spoke. "The Jeromes," he began, "are almost certainly responsible for the robbery and for the death of the driver. If you find the Jeromes and make them talk, you'll find the shipment."

He paused, performed looking hesitant although he wasn't. He'd thought about his next moves long and hard. "But I'm certain the man behind it all," he continued, "is Sonny Corinthos. I thought Corinthos and the Jeromes were on opposite sides, but I'm more and more convinced that they're working together. They want to force you and Wu out of town and think that task will be easy. Once you're gone, they'll resume their old hostilities. I suspect that's what's going on here."

Giordano stared at Duke for a moment without visible reaction. Then he smiled. This sudden apparent shift in mood was profoundly unsettling. "I guess I know what I have to do, then. Thank you, Mr. Lavery. I'll be in contact once I locate our shipment. In the meantime, please continue preparing the club for its opening night. That's one week from today, if I'm not mistaken – next Friday? I hope you're planning an impressive soiree."

With that Giordano left. Duke wondered what would happen next.

When Julian's men reported what they'd discovered in the shipment—a half-a-million-dollars-worth of heroin—and asked what they should do with it, Julian didn't bat an eye.

"Destroy it," he told them. "We can't move any of it, so dump it in the harbour. Split the bags open and eliminate any and all trace."

When one of the men objected, Julian grabbed him by the neck and pushed him hard against the wall of his office. "I said destroy it," Julian repeated. "We don't have the networks to distribute the product; we'll risk getting caught if we try to move the stuff. The important thing is that we've taken it from Corinthos. We don't need to gain as long as he loses. Do as I order."

So late on Sunday night, four days after the driver of the van had met a similar fate, thirty thousand dollars worth of stolen alcohol was dumped into the harbour along with almost all the heroin hidden among the bottles. The man Julian had threatened kept just enough to sell on the side to make his own small bonus—and just enough to make him a person of interest to Giordano's and Wu's men and women who, already fanned out across the city and established as the new concern in town, had him pegged and were following him by Thursday.

That same morning, Detective Falconeri knocked on Anna's door and popped his head into her office. "Chief?" he asked, "Do you have a few minutes?"

Anna waved him in. "Of course. What do you want to discuss?"

Dante was holding something up. "I wasn't sure if you'd heard—the club is having its grand opening tomorrow night. I managed to score a couple of tickets. A friend of a friend got them for me; I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have been able to buy them myself. I don't think I would be on the official guest list." He handed them over for her to inspect.

"Nor would I be," Anna mused, taking the tickets. She furrowed her brow. "Is your heart set on attending, Mr. Faconeri?"

Dante shook his head. "Given what you've told me about the club's foreign investors, I'm not sure in what capacity I'd be more hated at the club: as Sonny Corinthos' son or as lead detective with the PCPD. Plus, I don't own a tux."

Anna raised her eyebrows. "It's a black-tie affair? That's surprising."

Dante gestured toward the tickets in her hand. "Take a look—assigned seats, a five-course meal, champagne, dancing, the whole nine yards. It seems a bit old-fashioned to me. Did I mention my wife hates this kind of thing? Thank god. Do you want to go instead? I'll go, but only if you have no interest."

Anna smiled. "As it happens, I'm very interested. I'm curious to see who else will be there. Thank you, Dante. Make sure you fill out a requisition form and get your reimbursement. These tickets must have been expensive."

Dante raised his hand to his brow, saluted, and left the office.

Robert was at the desk when Dante returned. "Agent Scorpio," he nodded. "Don't get up; I'm off to check things out around the club before it opens tomorrow night. The Commissioner's in her office if you need to see her about anything. Otherwise, make yourself comfortable; I'll be away from the desk for most of the day." He grabbed his coat and scarf and was gone.

Robert's phone rang. He picked up. It was a woman's voice.

"I got your message, Bobbie. I've been expecting a call from you for months, you shit. What happened—you lose your memory while you were in your coma? Did you forget how to use a phone? If you ever get your ass back to Washington, I'll remind you why you always want to keep in touch with me."

He smiled. "Emma: no need to remind me, Babe—thanks anyway. And I'm sorry for not calling earlier. Things have been crazy out here." He braced himself for a reaction. "And actually, this isn't a social call. I need a favour."

A string of obscenities followed.

"I know, I know, I'm an ass. But I need you to check out a name for me—Jeff Hallam. It's almost certainly an alias, a false identity assumed by someone on the run. I've exhausted official channels here ; I know nothing you give me will be admissible in court, but I'm desperate for a lead. If I don't get something on this name, my investigation stalls."

"If I do this for you, what do I get in return?"

"How about dinner and drinks next time I'm in town?"

The female voice made another suggestion. Robert flushed.

"I don't think that'll be possible. As I said, it's been crazy out here. A lot has happened. But we'll talk about it later, yeah?"

"I don't like the sound of that. You find religion?"

Robert laughed. "Not religion, no. I'll talk to you again soon. And thanks."

Robert hung up, looked at the phone for a moment, considered and remembered, shook his head with just a hint of regret, and put the phone away.

At five o'clock, he checked in with Anna. "You've been here since 7:00," he reminded her. "Ten hours seems a decent-enough shift. You ready to leave?"

Anna lifted her head from the desk. "Shit. It's five already?" She squinted at the clock on the wall. "Damn. Robert, do you have a tuxedo?"

Robert looked blank. "With me? No. Wait a second—do I even still own one? How quickly do styles change? Could I wear one circa 2000? I think I had one for a job over in Montenegro. I'm not sure where I put it though. Or if I'd still fit into it."

Anna lifted her hands to her temples and applied light pressure. "It doesn't matter. I'm sure you can rent one. I wonder if anything's open tonight."

"When do I need it by?"

"Tomorrow evening, I'm afraid. We're going to the club opening. I have tickets."

Robert was intrigued. "Duke's club's opening? Not generally your style—rubbing salt in wounds. Why are we going?"

Anna frowned. "To make new acquaintances. I want to get to know our new enemies personally—Mr. Giordano and the mystery head of the triad. I haven't been able to get any intelligence on him yet."

Robert looked skeptical. "And you think they'll be there? Isn't that a bit—I don't know—brazen?"

Anna shrugged her shoulders. "They're the club's new investors. I suspect we have a better chance of seeing them at the opening than we do anywhere else or at any other time. Will you be my date?"

"If you help me find a tux," he promised. "What will you be wearing?"

Anna sighed and slumped into her chair. "I have absolutely no idea. I can't believe I used to have a closet full of gowns appropriate for just such occasions. I guess I'll have to find something as well. What do you say to a quick dinner and shopping excursion?"

They were back at her apartment by 9:00, more-or-less prepared and both completely exhausted. Robert threw his garment bag over the back of a chair; Anna glowered, picked it up, and smoothed it out. "I'll take this and hang it up, shall I?" she asked; "Before it wrinkles? I'm off to take a bath after, Robert. I'll leave you to amuse yourself."

Robert flopped on the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table. He let his head fall back and closed his eyes, felt himself slipping pleasantly into a light doze. Then his phone rang. He started, fumbled for it, answered without checking the number.

"Scorpio."

There was momentary silence. Then he heard an uncharacteristically soft voice on a bad line: "Robert? What the hell have you gotten me into?"

It was the woman he'd talked to earlier in the day. "Em, is that you? I can barely hear you. What's going on?"

"I'm calling from a payphone, Robert. I just spent an hour trying to make sure I wasn't followed. Right after we talked, I checked the WSB database for the name Jerry Hallam and I think my search was flagged. I found a file but it included minimal information—there was just another name and a nonsensical Latin phrase. When I searched the second name and the Latin, nothing came up. And maybe an hour later someone very scary-looking and not very official-looking was at my door asking what I was working on. I made up a cock-and-bull story about a field agent making an inquiry, something he said he heard out on the street, but I'm not sure the guy bought it. Thanks for landing me in it. What the hell kind of case is this?"

Robert was suddenly worried for her. "It's better you don't know if your search provoked this kind of reaction. For the life of me I can't imagine why it did."

Emma's voice sounded farther away than Washington. "Well, the name that came up linked with Jerry Hallam was Sebastiaan Houtman. I think it's Dutch. I couldn't find anything on file about him. Do you know the name?"

Robert lied. "No, I don't. What was the Latin phrase attached?" he asked, suspecting he already knew.

"Well, like I said it's a fragment. It sounds familiar but I don't know why. It's "artis bene." I took Latin in university; it roughly translates to "the art of" doing something "well."

"My guess is 'moriendi,'" Robert muttered. "The art of dying well."

"Oh fuck," Em breathed into the phone. "I've heard of that before—that's a medieval text, isn't it? Robert, tell me you haven't gotten me mixed up in some kind of weird Dan Brown DaVinci Code shit. That guy in my office this afternoon wasn't a Knight Templar, was he?"

Robert's jaw clenched. "No, Sweetheart. He wasn't a member of a secret society. And the phrase is just sick college-boy humour—this has nothing to do with Jesus Christ's bloodline or the Holy Grail. I owe you big-time for this one, Em. I can't tell you anything more. Just stick to your story and feign complete ignorance. You'll be okay. Now go home and stay safe."

He heard her hang up, turned off the phone, and wondered what the hell he'd stumbled upon. He hadn't heard Bas Houtman's name since he'd left the bureau to work for the World Health Organization.

He'd never met the man. But Robert had known of him when he'd been forced to work off his and Anna's black box status by acting as a hired gun for the WSB. Artis bene moriendi: though it translated to "the art of dying well," in agency parlance it really meant "the art of killing well," and Robert had fallen under the program's purview. Bas Houtman had been the WSB's star assassin. He'd probably even been assigned to Robert and Anna's case before the explosion. And Robert had just learned that $50 000 from Elizabeth Beaty's bank account had been wired to one of his aliases.

He was certain now that Alan Schaber was dead. Bas Houtman had killed him and disposed of the body where it would never be found. No one but Robert, with his particular history with the WSB, could have discovered the connection. To anyone else, it looked very much like Alan had left his wife and absconded with the cash.

But why had Houtman taken the file? He wouldn't have been allowed to freelance. He must have done the hit, and accepted payment for it, on orders from the WSB. Why had the WSB wanted Alan Schaber dead? And had they wanted Carolyn Thompson dead as well?

Robert thought again of files he'd been given, of targets he'd eliminated.

"Robert?" Anna was standing in front of him. He hadn't noticed her come in. "Didn't you hear me? I'm going to bed. Will you be joining me?"

He forced himself to smile up at her. "I'll be in shortly. Don't wait up."

But Anna did try to wait up. She could sense something was troubling him and she wanted to be awake and supportive if he needed her. So she read her book, finishing the last three chapters of Agatha Christie Partners in Crime. When she reached the last page, she stared blankly at the final lines. She'd forgotten how the novel ended.

Tuppence was telling her husband Tommy she wanted them to give up solving mysteries. She had something better for them to do, something more exciting, something they'd never done before. Tommy forbade her the new, more exciting thing; she responded that he couldn't forbid it, it was a "law of nature." She was having their baby.

"'I'm talking,' said Tuppence, 'of Our Baby. Wives don't whisper nowadays. They shout. OUR BABY! Tommy, isn't everything marvellous?'"

Anna took off her reading glasses, put the book back on her nightstand, turned off the light, and tried to will herself asleep. When Robert finally came in, she pretended she was.

And he, preoccupied with his own memories and regrets, was more careful than usual not to wake her.