Germany’s BND was as cool and effective as you’d expect from an intelligence agency born out of the ashes of postwar Berlin, second only to the CIA in scale but several fathoms further below the radar. To the British, they were mostly regarded as an ally but not always. They didn’t have MI6’s legacy of global coverage, but they spied the hell out of Europe and had been increasingly energetic over the last few years.

When Taylor met Fischer in Geneva, she was running an agent in a private bank with a lot of interesting Russian clients and he was establishing himself as a high-flying money man with fingers in several pies. That was ten years ago. He was a heavy drinker, shrewd gossip, bon viveur. She’d been tipped off about his real employer, and it seemed he knew she wasn’t simply embassy staff, which didn’t stop some good-natured, flirtatious, and mutually beneficial information sharing. And there was plenty to share. Geneva attracted every intelligence service in the world: The Russians loved the ease of agent rendezvous and low levels of police surveillance. The US hammered at the UN’s European headquarters. Germans and French went heavy on the WTO, while MI6 tried to keep an eye on all of them. Markus Fischer had provided a convenient entrance to various worlds, but Taylor never kidded herself it was out of the goodness of his heart.

She stopped on the corner of the square and Fischer appeared from the darkness and jumped in, checking the road behind them, exhaling when they were on the move.

“Your car?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Head toward the river.”

Fischer loosened his tie. He slid the seat back, lowered the sun visor, ran a hand across the fabric, looking for microphones, then flipped it back up.

“How are you, Kathryn?”

“That’s a good question.”

“Enjoy the party?”

“Where are we going?”

“Cross the river. I have somewhere in mind.”

Taylor turned onto Waterloo Bridge and continued into South London. They needed a location that was both secure and discreet. If Fischer had a suggestion, she’d have to take it.

“So, was that your first taste of New Space?” he said.

“First taste of something.”

“What did you learn?”

“There are approximately two thousand bolts in a space hotel.”

“Michael Greenwood. Funny guy. But their contract with India’s Galactic Tourism could be worth a cool sixteen million.”

“Doesn’t seem to be a shortage of money around.”

“Never is when the future’s at stake. Know what Geoffrey Payne said to me?” Fischer imitated the MP’s cut-glass accent. “There’s one thing of which I’m certain, and that’s the generation being born now will look up and see lights on the moon, and they’ll feel a lot more free and a lot more prosperous than us.”

Fischer laughed. She wondered if he was drunk. Wondered who was luring who.