Don Juan pursed his lips at the reporter and lowered his eyebrows. "Are you Abernathy?" he asked, meaning the question as an answer. If you are, I'm not lost, am I? He didn't understand why the question had been asked at all. Surely Abernathy had been waiting for him? There wasn't any chance that this actually was someone else, was there? No. Abernathy wasn't even an important reporter, judging by the state and position of his desk; not the sort of fellow who would have a secretary (or the male equivalent — what was the word for a male secretary, just assistant?) filling in while he was out to lunch of whatever. And it wasn't even lunch time, Don Juan didn't think — he thought it was rather an ungodly early hour to be conducting any business, but he was at least self-aware enough to know that his personal perception of appropriate times to start and end work was skewed.

"So, listen, I've got the story for you," he said with a shrug, again assuming Abernathy already knew which one he meant from some prior correspondence. Oz had told him this reporter specifically; it stood to reason that there had been some communication where he had briefed him on what to expect. "The treason. Espionage. Blackmail. However you're spinning it. Is this where you interview people? This desk?"

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