One: Just After We Meet (continued)

I'm anxious not to appear anxious, and keen not to appear keen, so I leave it at that. He's told me nothing, but I can't dig further, it would be... unseemly. She's coming to meet us for lunch on Monday, just seventy hours hence, and I'm giddy right now, and somewhat nauseous but there is work to be done this afternoon, and then a weekend with La Strega, my ladyfriend, to negotiate.

Rather than involving ourselves in those tasks identified by management as time-critical and due for completion by the day's end Napier and I decide instead to work on The Memo. Napier unlocks the bottom drawer of the rosewood partner desk that he has recently appropriated from office storage, and which now occupies most of the cubicle. He removes a small, fireproof deed box therefrom, then places one hand on each side of the box and exhales thoroughly. He depresses the latch, the lid of the box pops up a quarter of an inch, and Napier, with infinite care, pulls out the linen-bound notebook within.

"Let us return to our great undertaking," he says, "alert to the wayward nature of truth."