She backed into an empty office just as the door opened and they came into view. She had seen them, though, which meant they might have seen her. Taylor swore silently to herself. It had been three individuals: a middle-aged woman in a black skirt, a gangly, bespectacled man in a blue jacket, and a shorter, slightly older man in a gray suit. Their voices continued, jovial.

“Well, you must join us another time,” a man said.

“This is your night,” a woman said. “You enjoy it.”

“I hope you will celebrate somehow.”

“Indeed.”

“Right. Showtime.” Someone clapped their hands.

“See you later.”

Taylor watched the two men pass the office doorway. It appeared they had left the woman to whatever went on behind the security door. The older man swung an umbrella. He had neat gray hair. She tried to recall their faces again. The men had looked an odd couple. Both in high spirits, though. Taylor thought she recognized the older man. A public figure of some kind.

“She’s great,” one of them said as they passed.

“One of the best around.”

“Knows her stuff.”

“And no shrinking violet. You’re okay to walk?”

“It’s barely a minute away.”

Taylor stepped slowly into the corridor. The men were almost at the front door now, about to leave. She wondered what showtime involved, wondered if it would throw some light on this setup. Taylor waited for the door to close, then left the building a few seconds behind them, in time to see the two men enter the square itself. Barely a minute away.

She followed them.

The man she had recognized was a politician, Taylor felt sure now: Geoffrey Payne, secretary of state for Business, Energy, and Industrial Strategy. Who was he with? What were they up to here? This is crazy, Taylor thought. They crossed the square diagonally, and she checked her pace so as not to get too close. First rule of tailing: Never do single-person mobile surveillance. The idea of successfully pulling it off without being noticed was a joke. But it was a winter evening in busy central London. Neither of them was conducting any countersurveillance. She could potentially follow them for miles without becoming conspicuous.

She didn’t have to go that far. They left the square and continued along the side of the British Museum to its front before entering the gates into the museum’s grounds.

Taylor stopped, momentarily thrown. It was seven p.m., past the museum’s closing. But security remained on the gates conducting bag checks, and a handful of people were crossing the front grounds to the steps. Beneath the pillars she could see a small queue to enter the building.