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both down a short corridor that led through an empty mailroom and out the back way to the elevator banks. There was a reception desk at the far end. As Gwen pushed the Down button, Sandy walked, chatting, toward the receptionist, blocking her view of the trembling Jonathan Corbin and the look of panic that was building on his face.
 
 
    Three
    On the fourth floor of the Warwick Hotel, in a room di rectly facing Corbin's office, a thickset man of about fifty rose from his chair at the open window and slammed it shut over a half inch of snow that had collected on the sill. He twisted the 200-millimeter lens off the Nikon he held and set the pieces into a padded camera bag. He logged the time and date in his notebook and buttoned the topcoat he had not removed since taking his position five hours earlier.
    Using the fire stairs, Raymond Lesko took less than a minute to reach a new position at the corner entrance to the Warwick Bar. From there, as long as the Sixth Avenue buses stayed out of his field of vision, he could watch the entire plaza of the Burlington Building and all its exits. Unless Corbin grabbed a cab, and fat chance of that, thought Lesko, he would have to pass this corner on his way to Grand Central Station.
    Two or three incoming bar patrons eyed Lesko uneasily as they shouldered past him. He ignored them, being long accustomed to people looking at him that way. Lesko had a wrestler's body and the intimidating eyes of an aroused bouncer even when he wasn't mad at anyone. He had a tight, cruel mouth that concealed perfect teeth of which Lesko was proud. But even the perfect teeth frightened peo ple when he showed them. Sometimes that made him sad, especially when he meant to be friendly, but more often it turned out to be useful.
    Raymond Lesko's mind, however, was not on his ap pearance. It was on Jonathan Corbin and the paying job at hand. A hunch had warned him that something would be different about today, but even so he came close to losing Corbin. The snow was what was different. What Lesko was hearing about Corbin was right. The guy's a wacko when it snows. Not that he's any tower of mental health when it's balmy. Here's your basic eligible bachelor who has all of New York and its women to play in after work but all he does is bust out of those doors at five o'clock and runs with his head down for his Connecticut train. Same way he runs for the office in the morning. Head down. Not even looking sideways. Like a guy who's scared to death of this whole town. Which is why it's such a pain in the ass to get a decent picture of him except through his office win dow.
    Lesko checked his watch. Where the hell is he? Damn. Lesko realized he'd been looking for Corbin's trench coat, Corbin all by himself in his head-down run. But the Leamas woman left with him. Lesko stood as tall as he could and scanned the Burlington's doors, nearest to farthest. There they were. He'd almost missed them but there they were, just clear of the last revolving doors and heading the wrong way, north; running like a pack of dogs were on their heels. With a curse, Lesko stepped into the storm and followed.
    Even with the driving snow and the trucks that strobed across Raymond Lesko's field of view, he was able to lock on Corbin easily. Corbin stood out from the others who rushed toward shelter along the same sidewalk. There was a special frenzy to his movements. The head wasn't down this time. He was glancing around wildly as the woman steered him. Did he suspect he had a tail? Lesko wondered. He decided not. Corbin wasn't looking at people and things so much as he was looking through them. Now he's looking up. And flinching. What do you see, Corbin? What do you see, right this second, in the wind above Sixth Avenue? And the woman, yelling into your ear. She's asking you the same thing, isn't she?
    A packed northbound bus hissed to a stop, blocking Cor bin and Gwen Leamas from Lesko's sight. When it passed, the two had vanished. Shit!