“
Pardon me,” he said. His voice was smooth—part Romanian, part American, part Ricardo Montalban discussing Corinthian leather. “You are Myron Bolitar, are you not?” “I am.” He dismissed Jack Lord with a nod. Big Jack was not happy about it, but he moved out of the way. His body swung to the side like a metal gate, allowing only Myron to enter. Pavel Menansi held out a hand. For a moment Myron thought he wanted him to kiss it, but it ended in a brief handshake. “Please,” Pavel said. “Sit here. Next to me.” Whoever was in the seat quickly made himself scarce. Myron sat. Pavel did likewise. “I apologize for my guard’s zeal, but you must understand. People, they want autographs. Parents, they want to discuss their child’s play. But here”—he spread his hands—“this is not the time or place.” “I understand,” Myron said.
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