of the way first, then we can sit.” M. Beret picked up the bottle and read the label. “No hurry, actually; this won’t be ready to drink for another year or so.”

“I’m supposed to wait until you ask me a question.”

“Good. Top row, picture on the right end. Taken at night?”

I leaned over and studied the photo. “No.” It might have been, for all I knew. I just wanted to get this over with.

“Excellent. Simple answer. Continue in that vein, if you please. How about the one just below it?”

That one was taken at a distance, maybe at dusk. Two men faced the camera, although they had their heads down as if they were talking quietly. One of them was short and had sharply chiseled features; you could see that much because of the angle of the shot. In the dying light, it was hard to tell, but he seemed to have a dark complexion. I couldn’t see anything of the man standing next to him. Both had on short-sleeve shirts. There were palm trees in the background. If I had to guess, I would have said it was taken somewhere tropical, but the question hadn’t been where but when. I don’t volunteer information unless I’m going to get something in return. There was nothing in this for me, except to find out what happened to Sohn. “You mean was it taken at night?”

“Yes.”

“No. Twilight, maybe.” By now I knew he didn’t care when the photographs were taken, and he probably didn’t care what answer I gave. He was just warming up the machinery.

M. Beret put his hands behind his back and stood on tiptoe as he leaned over the table. “Now, I want you to listen closely. Do you recognize anything in the third row of pictures? Look at them closely before you answer.”

“Third row?”

“Yes.”

“Third row from the top?”

“Inspector …”

I didn’t recognize anything in the third row, but the middle picture in the second row was of my brother meeting with the short, dark man. My brother had on a hat, something stylish and worn at just the right angle. I didn’t know he wore hats. From a distance, this one might make him look taller, but it didn’t change his face. He looked angry, which didn’t surprise me. From what little background was visible, it appeared they were in Europe, and fairly recently. I couldn’t see any loaves of bread.

The last picture in the second row was of the facility in Pakistan where the Man with Three Fingers and I had botched the operation during those few minutes a lifetime ago. I had forgotten a lot of things in the meantime, but I still remembered the layout of the facility and the target building, and especially that one room, by heart. In the picture, the door was open; it hadn’t been that night. The photo must have been old. All of the trees looked smaller, younger than they had been when I was there. What the hell was M. Beret doing with that picture? “No,” I said finally. “I don’t recognize anything.”

“Not even the first picture, the one of the individual?”

I shook my head. “In the third row?” I hadn’t focused on that one before. “No.”

“That’s Sohn when he was younger. He’s changed a bit, may have had some sort of operation. I think he may have gone by another name in those days.”

“Doesn’t look anything like him.” There was nothing wrong with the lighting or the focus. It was a good ID picture, a little old, with some of that yellow-brown that colors old pictures, but it just wasn’t Sohn. The ears were too big.

“You’re sure. Quite sure.”

“If this is the person with the broken neck, I’m not going to be able to identify him for you, because I don’t know who he is.”

“Positive?”

I picked up the photograph and looked at it closely. For a moment, in the flickering light of the Sunflower’s back room, it looked a lot like Pak might have appeared twenty-five years ago. “I don’t know who it is. But now you have my fingerprints. Also, I suppose, my DNA. Would you like a blood sample? I could pee in a cup, if you want.”

M. Beret took the photograph from me, collected the others, and put them all in a brown envelope. “I don’t need your fingerprints.” He moved the wineglasses onto the table. “I already have plenty. Blood samples are someone else’s business. Perhaps you should visit the Red Cross headquarters, up