It was awake well before eight, and I finally eased out of bed before nine, leaving Llysette to get the sleep she needed. My back was stiff from trying to be quiet and still when I was wide eyed. I never could sleep as late as Llysette, but I wasn’t under the same kind of strain that she was, nor was I undertaking the more strenuous kind of workout that a full recital or concert happened to be.
After closing the bedroom door, I did struggle my way through my exercises again—twice. They weren’t a substitute for the running up the hill and through the woods, but the mild workout helped both body and mind. I wasn’t about to go running off, literally or figuratively, not while she was sleeping or after the various attempts on either or both of us.
I did go downstairs and retrieve the papers, but no stories appeared in either daily, even concealed, about the assault by the phony stagehand or about Llysette. Most of the news that wasn’t local was focused on the Atlantic naval buildups and the increasing tension between the Austrians and New France and Columbia, although Ambassador Schikelgruber had met with Minister Holmbek to assure him that Austro-Hungary had no intention of beginning a naval war in the Atlantic.
“Just like Ferdinand had no intention of annexing France or the Low Countries … ,” I murmured to myself.
I had two cups of the powdered hot chocolate while I studied the papers, even the advertising, but there wasn’t even a hint in the police reports about the attack on Llysette. Should I have been grateful? I wasn’t sure.
Then I read through the cards that had come with the flowers. A few were recognizable, one way or another, like the formal card from Walter Klein, the Columbian ambassador. He was one of President Armstrong’s few political cronies who had actually gotten rewarded. I might have met him once or twice. There was one from Hartson James, the TransMedia mogul, who definitely saw something in Llysette. I just hoped his interest was purely commercial. The rest were from people, presumably Saints, whose names were unfamiliar.
Finally, I flicked on the videolink, keeping the volume down, and sampled the five channels, trying to avoid the endless family-centered commercials and to find something resembling either news or a cultural program.
Llysette kept sleeping and I kept switching channels. After probably another hour, I picked up the wireset to order a brunch for us—Llysette needed to get up before long and eat.
As I did, I thought I saw a video image of the Salt Palace, and I put down the wireset and eased the video volume back up.
“. . Columbian soprano Llysette duBoise, in the midst of an acclaimed series of performances at the Salt Palace, has shown a side that most women in Deseret would find closer to their hearts than navigating the treacherous slopes to a high C. DuBoise was apparently inundated with flowers from admirers. While she has kept the cards, she sent all but a single bouquet to those in hospitals and homes.”
The video showed the same clip of a flushed Llysette taking a bow with Perkins and then one of the interview clips with Llysette speaking.
“The beauty of the music will last when we are gone… . Many of the people, they are friendly.”
The video went back to a group of three around a low table in a studio setting
designed to resemble a sitting room. A blond man sat with a redheaded woman on his right and a brunette on his left.
“She sounds like a woman who has her heart in the right place,” commented the redhead.
“She probably does,” answered the man. “What’s more interesting is that she insisted on paying for the transportation of the flowers and that the donations of the flowers be anonymous.”
“Does she have any children?” asked the brunette.
“No … her marriage to Minister Eschbach is her first, and they’ve been married only about a year.” The blond announcer paused. “For those of you who only know that she’s a high-paid diva and sings beautifully, you might also be interested to know that she spent several years in an Austrian prison. Reportedly she was tortured before she was released.”
“So … you’re saying, Daniel, that this is one singer who isn’t just an image and a pretty face?”
“Does it sound that way?” asked the smiling blond man.
“No. She sounds like quite a lady. Have you heard her?”
“Last night. She and Perkins are wonderful. You’re going tonight?”
“I already was, but after hearing all this, I really wouldn’t miss it.”
“You won’t regret it. Now … we’ll be right back with a heartwarming story on the Heber City playground.”
With that, the video cut to another smiling Saint family and a sickeningly perky jingle. I switched stations, then turned the videolink off.
The story on Llysette was planted, so firmly I could smell the odor of manure seeping from the silent video set. I hadn’t checked the station, but I would have bet that it was the one owned by First Counselor Cannon.
The story was pitched to women, in a sickening way, and even cleverly suggested that Llysette was both to be admired and pitied—admired because of her pluck and talent and pitied because of her childlessness.
I almost wanted to retch. How many other stories were out there—ones I hadn’t seen? And why? Was this a crash effort in humanizing the former enemies? Or something else?
The silence about the intruder was deafening. No one had wired, and there was nothing on the videolink news or in either paper.
I felt isolated.
The bedroom door opened, and Llysette stepped out, eyes squinting even in the indirect light of the cloudy late morning.
“Johan … how you can chirp like the bird so early, that I do not know.”
“Heredity. You should see my Aunt Anna.”
“Toute la famille?”
“Not all. My father was more like you.” I glanced toward the window. “I was about to order something to eat.”
“Another meal in this room … non … that will not do.”
“That’s fine. Do you want me to wire Jensen and find another restaurant?”
“Non … the bird in the cage will I be.” She sighed. “But the cage downstairs, du moins. I will not be long.”
Her definition of long was another comparative I let go, especially since I also needed to shower and to get dressed. First, I did fix Llysette a cup of chocolate, before I climbed into the shower. The hot water felt good, and despite the chocolate I’d had, my stomach was growling by the time we stepped into the elevator.
The lobby was more crowded, but no one gave us more than a passing glance, and a tall blond waiter escorted us to a corner booth in the Refuge—not the same one we’d had before, but a corner booth that was relatively isolated, and I got hot and steaming nonpowdered chocolate, which I sipped most gratefully.
The family at the long table nearest our corner of the Refuge kept looking at us. I tried to concentrate on whatever a Deseret skillet was—a concoction of red potatoes, various peppers, eggs, and slabs of ham all served in a miniature cast-iron skillet set on a wooden holder or plate.
“That’s her … know it is … saw her on the link.”
“Must be her bodyguard with her… .”
I winced at that.
“Her husband … say he was a spy once.”
“… looks pleasant enough.”
I felt like glaring but didn’t.
“Do you expect a spy to look like a Lamanite, Ellie?”
“A spy you do not look like.” Llysette’s eyes twinkled, and she raised her water glass. “Even when you are spying.”
I decided to eat more and eavesdrop less.
The Saturday afternoon master class was nearly a repeat of the Friday one, except the students were more nervous and Joanne Axley gave Llysette a more glowing introduction.
Afterward, several of them clustered around.
“… will you be back to give more recitals here?”
“I must be asked,” said Llysette politely. “The arrangements are made years before, at times. This was not planned.”
I’d almost forgotten that.
“You were so good… .”
Llysette nodded toward Joanne Axley, who stood talking to a redheaded young man. “Your professor, she is very wise. You are fortunate.”
The slightest frown crossed the student’s forehead.
“So easy it is,” Llysette continued, an edge to her voice, “to forget. Do you know of Madame Rocza?”
“Ah … no, Miss duBoise. Is she a singer?”
Llysette shook her head. “She taught many of the best when they were young. Now … some, they scarcely know her. Do not do that.” She smiled politely.
“Ah … thank you.”
“You are welcome.”
Joanne Axley slipped over toward Llysette as the conference room emptied. “I overheard your words to Bronwin,” she said to Llysette with a small laugh. “I appreciate the thought, but I don’t know if she’ll listen.”
“The students, they are dense.”
I could vouch for that.
“Weren’t we all?” asked Axley.
Somehow I doubted that either of them had been. I had been, and I knew it, and I’d had to learn far too much the hard way. My only grace in that department was that I knew I’d been dense and spoiled—and fortunate enough to survive both.
After the master class, we walked eastward, through the light and chilly gusting breeze. I glanced ahead toward a large building taking up an entire block. “Zion Mercantile” was spelled out in shimmering bronze letters.
“Shall we?” I asked.
“Mais out.”
The first stop was the dress section.
Llysette frowned at the long-sleeved, almost dowdy, dress on the mannequin, then went to the next one—equally conservative, with another ankle-length skirt. Her eyes went to the shoppers.
A tall, graying redhead passed us, her camel overcoat open to show a high-necked cream silk blouse and dark woolen trousers. With her was a younger woman, also a redhead. After them came a stocky blonde, with a wide, if pretty, face and sparkling blue eyes. Each hand grasped a child’s hand—both blond and blue-eyed like their mother—and neither boy was over five or six. The mother wore a blue turtlenecked blouse, also of silk, and a skirt that reached nearly to her ankles. Under the skirt I could see blue leather boots. All three women had their hair in French braids. In fact, most of the women in Deseret had long, braided hair, I realized.
Silk blouses? They didn’t look synthetic, unless the Saints’ synthetic fibres were far better than those of Columbia. Then, the Saints had developed a silk industry early in south Deseret.
I followed Llysette into the coat department, where a well-dressed and gray-haired woman stood with three girls who looked to be of secondary school age. All four had their hair braided, and the girls tried on coats.
Llysette picked up several coats, among them a dark green woolen one.
“That looks nice.”
“At least, you do not tell me when I sing that it is nice.”
I winced. Llysette hated the word nice, but I didn’t always remember.
She handed me her coat and tried on the green, then walked over to the flat
mirror on the wall before shaking her head. I handed her back her coat and returned the green one to the rack.
The next stop was lingerie, and I tried not to frown at the filmy garments in every shade of the rainbow. While the coats and dresses had been solid and conservative, not even the theatre district of Philadelphia showed undergarments like some of the Zion Mercantile offerings.
Llysette saw my face, clearly, and a wide smile crossed her lips as she lifted a black lace teddy from a rack. “This one … you would like?”
I could feel myself flushing.
“Oui… .”
I had to grin.
“About some things, Johan, Dutch you are still.”
She was probably right about that, too, and I wasn’t sure whether I was relieved or disappointed that she didn’t buy any of the lingerie. Nor anything else except a small jar of a body cream. All in all, we spent nearly an hour roaming through the store, and I spent as much time thinking as looking.
The store bothered me, and I wasn’t sure why, exactly. There hadn’t been more than a handful of men anywhere, and the women in the store were well dressed and well groomed, and a number of them were smiling. Not exactly what I would have expected in a rigid theocracy.
“Johan?”
“Oh … sorry. I was just thinking.”
“We can go. I have found nothing that I could not do without absoluement.”
As we walked slowly back to the Lion Inn, toward a sun low in the sky, with the wind ruffling my hair, I watched the people even more closely. A woman with braided blonde hair coiled into a knot at the back of her neck walked with an older white-haired and bearded man. Neither looked at the other. She wore a long camel coat, as did he. Two women in short wool jackets and ankle-length skirts shepherded six children, all fresh-faced and scrubbed, in the direction of the Temple park. A young man, clean-shaven, strode briskly past us.
“Downstairs or upstairs?” I asked when he stepped into the inn’s lobby.
Llysette shrugged.
“Are you hungry? Pasta? Soup?”
“To finish the concerts, that is what I wish.” She marched toward the elevator.
I followed but said nothing until the couple with the three children exited at the fourth floor. “Are you angry with me?”
“Mais non … I am angry with this place.” .
“It is different. It—”
“Did you not see?”
“What? That there weren’t any women by themselves, unless they had children?”
“You did see,” she answered with that tone that indicated that what she meant was perfectly obvious.
With a slight cling, the elevator stopped at the sixth floor.
“You’re angry that the only place you’re getting a chance to sing is one where women are treated this way.” I paused, then decided against pointing out that the women I’d seen hadn’t seemed depressed or oppressed. It could have been that I wasn’t seeing those women.
“I cannot sing in France. It is no more. I cannot sing in Columbia, except to make … someone look good.” She left the elevator with a shake of her head. “These things … I must wait. Tonight, I will sing.”
“Did I do something?” What had I missed?
“It is not you.”
I wondered, but she did smile, and I opened the door. A large stack of cards lay on the small side table under the mirror—more, I supposed, from flowers sent to Llysette.
With my diva’s touchiness, I tried to remain in the background, guessing at the pasta she wanted for dinner and making the arrangements, fielding Jensen’s wirecall to notify Llysette that a limousine would be waiting to avoid problems.
The Browning limousine, with Heber at the wheel, was waiting, and we rode silently the long block to the underground entrance.
“Thank you.” I opened the door for Llysette one-handed, her gown in the bag I carried in the other.
“You’re welcome,” answered the driver.
We followed another functionary in a green coat up the ramps.
“How do you feel?”
Llysette didn’t answer, and I didn’t press. Once she wanted me out of her dressing room, I went to find Jensen. He wasn’t in the corner office, but I tracked him to a lower level where he was talking to three men in gray jumpsuits carrying tools and wearing equipment belts.
When he saw me, he turned and hurried over.
“No matter how you plan, some technical thing always goes wrong in a concert hall.” He laughed. “What can I do for you, Minister Eschbach?”
“I wondered if anyone has found out anything about the man who tried to attack Llysette last night.”
“No. We haven’t heard anything much. One of the … security types … said something about his being zombied.” He shrugged. “I just don’t know.” After a pause, he added, “We’ve put on another fifty guards, half in plainclothes, and the city police have doubled their patrols in the area around the complex.”
“Is there any other reason to worry?” I asked pleasantly. “Besides last night?”
“Not that I know of.” He glanced back toward the workmen.
“I won’t keep you.”
I decided to remain backstage, but I positioned my stool a little differently—where I could watch the approach area to Llysette’s dressing room, and the stage. That meant I would see Llysette performing from the side and behind.
Despite the dimming lights and the chimes, the concert was even later in starting than the previous two nights. Saints seemed to have this proclivity to be somewhat tardy. I had peeked earlier, and the hall was going to be standing room only. It made me wish that Llysette were getting a percentage of the tickets, because someone was going to make quite a stash.
With the lights down, the notes rose from the Steinbach, and Llysette’s, and Carolynne’s, voice shimmered out of the light and into the darkened space. I could almost imagine the notes lighting the darkness.
The Handel was good, the Mozart better, and the Debussy extraordinary.
Again, I kept out of the way at intermission.
The second half was every bit as good as, if not better than, the night before. Llysette’s voice seemed at times to rip my heart from my chest and at others to coax tears from me—or from a statue.
If I’d thought the applause the previous two nights had been thunderous, I’d been mistaken. The stolid Saints stood and clapped and clapped and clapped, and clapped some more.
Llysette and Dan Perkins finally capitulated and did a second encore—another Perkins song, simpler, but it didn’t matter to the crowd. They stood and cheered and clapped, and they kept doing it.
Llysette deserved it—more than deserved it—both for what she’d endured to get there and for the sheer artistry of what she had delivered.
I met her at the back of the stage. “You were wonderful. More wonderful than before.”
“My head, you will turn, but you love me.”
“You were wonderful,” added Dan Perkins. “And I’m not married to you.”
At that she did flush, and the blush hadn’t quite cleared when the admirers began to appear.
After several anonymous well-wishers, a familiar face appeared.
“You were wonderful.” Joanne Axley smiled at Llysette, then turned to Dan Perkins. “You were right.”
“Magnificent,” added the short man with the Deseret University voice professor.
“I wish more of my students could have heard you,” added Axley.
“They should listen to you,” said Llysette. “I told them all those things which you—”
“Thank you.” Joanne Axley and her husband slipped away.
Was she upset? I wasn’t certain. I just stood back of Llysette’s shoulder and surveyed the small crowd lining up to say a few words to either Perkins or Llysette.
“I’m sorry about Joanne,” Perkins said quietly.
“I would be upset, were I her,” answered Llysette quietly. “She has sung here?”
“A number of times, but she’s never moved people the way you did.”
“That is sad.”
A heavyset woman with white hair stepped up. “You remind me of that Norwegian. You were wonderful. Are you any relation?”
“Thank you. I do not think so. All my family, they come from France.”
“Magnifique, mademoiselle, magnifique!” That was the thin man with a trimmed mustache. “Claude Ruelle, the former French ambassador here in Deseret. After the Fall … I stayed. You, you have brought back all that vanished.” With a few more words along those lines, and a sad smile, he was gone.
Counselor Cannon appeared at the very end of the line of well-wishers, and he bowed to Llysette. “You have sung magnificently, and your warmth and charitable nature will do much for all of us. Thank you.” The voice and eyes were warm, but I still didn’t trust him.
Beside him were two other men I hadn’t met before. The dark-haired one bowed to Llysette, marginally. “You were outstanding.” The other nodded.
“Thank you.”
“Might we have a word with you, Minister Eschbach?” asked Cannon.
“Ah … of course.”
Llysette raised an eyebrow. “I will be changing.”
“I’m sure I won’t be long.”
She slipped toward the dressing room, not quite in step with Dan Perkins, and I watched for a moment.
“Minister Eschbach?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. You were saying?”
“She is truly amazing,” said the First Counselor. “You must be very proud of her.”
The idea behind Cannon’s words nagged at me. Was all of Deseret like that? Llysette was amazing and I certainly respected and admired her and loved her, but it really wasn’t my place to be proud. Her parents should have been proud, but I hadn’t done anything to create her talents or determination or to give her the will to succeed.
“Minister Eschbach … now that your wife’s concerts are completed … we had hoped that you would be willing to tour the prototype of the Great Salt Lake City wastewater tertiary treatment plant,” suggested the heavier-set man beside Counselor Cannon. “That way, you could report to Minister Reilly on our progress in water reuse and the continued progress on meeting the goals of the riverine agreements.”
Wastewater treatment? Minister Reilly might like that, but did I really care? “What did you have in mind?”
“Perhaps early tomorrow. We understand that you will not be leaving until Wednesday.”
“That might be possible.”
“We had also hoped,” suggested the thinner, unnamed man, “that you might be
free to see the water reuse section of the new stage-three synthfuels plant near Colorado Junction.”
What half of the Columbian government wouldn’t give for me to see that. “I hadn’t even considered that possibility.”
“We would be honored,” added Counselor Cannon.
At that instant, I heard—or felt or sensed—something chill and menacing. A faint scream? A cold feeling gripped me. “Excuse me.”
“Minister Eschbach … but …”
I pushed past the wastewater man, sprinting forward and right into Llysette’s dressing room. I also ran into something else, barely getting an arm up in time, and that was enough to send me reeling back into the door.
I staggered up, but the dark-shadowed figure literally disappeared.
My head throbbed, and Llysette’s dressing room was empty. Her gown lay on the floor, and her dress was gone. So was she. A few drops of blood led toward or away from the corner of the room.
I stood there fuzzily for a moment. No one had gone past me. Then I saw the air return grate, unattached and leaning against the wall. A man-sized section of the metal on the left side of the air grate ductwork beyond and behind where the grate cover had been cut out.
I didn’t bother to wait for whoever it was who charged into the dressing room behind me but scrambled through the grate aperture and then through the opening in the air return duct and into a room filled with pallets of paper products or something. I almost tripped but half-ran, half-tumbled out that door into a back corridor—just in time to see two black figures sprinting down a ramp.
I sprinted after them, but by the time I got to the lower garage, a steam van had hissed up the ramp and vanished into the darkness.
A pair of Danites and a uniformed policeman pounded up behind me.
“They’re gone.” I wanted to shake my head, but it might have fallen off if I had. I touched my forehead, and my hand came away bloody.
I followed them back to a small conference room in the center, where Brother Hansen and two other blue-uniformed officers waited. I didn’t wait to be asked but dropped into one of the chairs. I just looked at Hansen. “I couldn’t catch them.”
“This was on her dressing table.” A grim-faced Brother Hansen handed me an envelope. It had been opened, and that bothered me in a way.
I looked at it. In block letters that could have come from any of a dozen difference-engine printers was inscribed: “MINISTER ESCHBACH.”
The message inside was short—very short.
You will be contacted. Be ready. We do not want your wife.
I had a good idea what they wanted, and someone knew me well enough to understand that I was far more vulnerable through Llysette.
“What has anyone discovered?” I asked tiredly.
“Brother Jensen was surprised, bound, and gagged,” said Hansen coldly. “His keys were taken, with all the master keys.” Hansen seemed to have taken over the investigation, and the uniformed officers looked at him as he talked. “The steamer the kidnappers took was a common blue 1990 Browning, and the tags were covered. There are more than ten thousand blue 1990 Browning in Deseret. They wore gloves, it seems, and the security system was disabled on a lower garage door. Bypassed, actually. They wore standard staff working uniforms, and we think they wore flesh masks as well.”
“In short,” I said, “they left no traces at all. What about the tools?”
“They were all taken from the cribs on the lower levels. That was why they made the attempt tonight. They probably had all afternoon to get organized.”
“No working on Saturday afternoons?”
“Right. When did you last talk to Brother Jensen?”
“Before the concert, I talked to him briefly, but he had some problems. Maintenance problems, I gathered, because he was briefing or listening to several workmen.”
“Do you have any idea what they want from you?”
That was the question I’d been dreading, in a way. I took a deep breath. “It could be anything. Something about government in Columbia, information about … people I’ve worked with.” I shook my head. “Most of that I’d think they could get from other sources. I’ve been out of government long enough that things have certainly changed. And why they’d kidnap Llysette I don’t know.”
“There are some indications that they settled for her,” Hansen said. “You can’t think of anything else?”
I could think of plenty. “Let me think about it. There’s probably something, but my wife’s been taken, and I’m not thinking too clearly.” That part was definitely true. It’s different when matters are personal. I’d found that out with the Nord incident and with vanBecton’s games last year.
I stood. “So far as I can figure out, I’m not going to be contacted here, and I don’t know what else I can add.” My eyes went to Hansen. “How do I reach you?”
He extended a card. I read it—“James V. Hansen, Bishop for Security,” and a wireset number. “I think we should meet tomorrow, Minister Eschbach. Perhaps around eleven tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“We could come to your suite. That might be easier.”
“Fine. Eleven. Unless you find out something sooner.”
“I’ll have Officer Young escort you back to your room.”
I nodded and heaved myself to my feet. Fine operative you are, Eschbach. You can’t even protect your own wife when you knew there was trouble.
Dan Perkins stood outside the conference room. He’d been waiting. “No one told me, and it took a while to find someone who knew.” He swallowed. “Minister
Eschbach … I’m sorry. If I had known … this would happen … They wanted the concert … so badly. I just don’t see.” He shook his head.
“It wasn’t your doing.” I shook my head.
“I told them she was the best in Columbia.”
“She is. But that’s not exactly your fault.”
“I don’t know about that.” He paused again. “Can I do anything?”
Somehow, I didn’t think so. I had the feeling that he was probably the only honest one in the bunch, and there was no sense in getting him tangled up. “Just make sure you put together the best recording that you can.”
He looked puzzled.
“I think Llysette will be all right. One way or another, though, the singing was important, almost everything at times, and she’ll want the recording.” I was trying to be positive, hoping that the kidnappers would keep Llysette alive long enough for me to ensure that she’d remain so. The fact that it was a kidnapping, rather than another assassination, gave me some hope.
“I understand.” He worried his lower lip. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”
Something he’d said earlier … I frowned. “You said they had wanted the concert so badly.”
“When Brother Jensen found out that Dame Brighton was unavailable—she’d agreed, less willingly than Llysette, to sing two of my songs—he wired me. I wasn’t going to be the accompanist for Dame Brightman, you see. She has her own, some fellow named … I don’t recall. Jensen wanted to know who the best singer in Columbia was that he could get who could also sing at least a couple of my songs. I thought of Llysette, because of James Bird.”
I waited. The name was familiar, but I didn’t recall why.
“He attended one of her master classes in New Bruges last year. James has a good ear, and he was impressed. I knew her by reputation, and she’d written asking for one of my arrangements. So I told Jensen all that. He asked if I would play for her.” Perkins shrugged. “When he mentioned the fee, I couldn’t say no, but I did push for the recording rights for us.”
“Us?”
“It was in the contract. Llysette and I split them fifty-fifty. He agreed without even a murmur, and that was unusual. Then I didn’t hear anything for a few weeks. He wired and sent a contract, with the notation that I’d definitely understated her ability and that the First Counselor would surely be pleased with the concert.”
“I take it that such effusiveness isn’t exactly normal in their past dealings with you?”
A wry smile crossed the composer’s face, and I got the picture. Daniel Perkins wasn’t exactly persona grata with the hierarchy in Deseret, but he was just well enough known that they’d had to tolerate him.
“Your songs are well received elsewhere,” I pointed out. “And your operas.”
“Elsewhere—that’s true.”
More pieces fell into place—or more confirmation of what I’d already suspected.
“I’d even bet that you haven’t had much trouble lining up international distribution for the recordings.”
That brought another wintry smile. “I see you understand.”
“I’m getting there.”
“I shouldn’t be keeping you.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. But if there’s anything Jillian or I can do.” He handed me a card. “Anything.”
“Hold good thoughts.” Very good thoughts.
It had clearly been an inside job. Why had Llysette been given that particular dressing room? Jensen? Hansen? Cannon? Someone from the Revealed Twelve? But what did any of them have to gain? The problem was that I didn’t know Deseret politics well enough. I did know one thing. More than one person was playing for high stakes, very high stakes.