Zidarov accessed his personal funds. They weren’t looking too bad, all things considered, so he blinked a withdrawal. It was a lot, by his standards, but then Scribo wasn’t cheap. The analyser barely flinched as the transaction hit his iris.

‘You want it bad,’ he said.

‘I want it to work,’ Zidarov said. ‘I want full-spectrum, lots of detail, absolutely no risk of detection.’

Scribo sighed theatrically. ‘No such thing. Everything has a risk, probator. No system is foolproof, no scatter-field is perfect.’

‘Yours are.’

‘Coarse flattery has no effect on me.’

‘But the money I just sent you?’

‘That carries a bit more weight, yes.’

Scribo reached out to a battered metal chest of drawers and activated a fingerprint lock. One of the drawers slid out, revealing a whole tray of tiny surveillance devices, all neatly placed in field-protected boxes. He pressed the lid of one box, and the field snapped out, giving access to a small metal pin the size of an insect. It was mounted on a metal square, which Scribo levered out and handed to Zidarov.

‘This one’s both clever and nasty,’ he said. ‘Get it pinned on your subject and you’ll get several days. It’s scan-proof and has a nominal light-bender aegis once activated – virtually invisible. You’ll get audex and holo-footage when it detects moving objects, fed right to your terminal here. Only about thirty-foot range, so you’ll need it close to whomever you’re after. The output’s full-holo, so you don’t need to worry about sight lines.’

‘That’s no problem,’ said Zidarov, stowing it carefully in an inside pocket. ‘Just what I was after. Just between you and me, yes?’

‘As always. Unless I get a better offer.’

Zidarov smiled wearily. ‘Oh, one other thing – who’s analysing the equipment brought in by Probator Borodina?’

‘No idea.’

‘Could you take a look?’

Scribo tutted, pushed the sensor-box to one side, and activated a terminal. His thin face lit up with phosphor-glow, and his long fingers skittered over the control pad. ‘Section Six,’ he said. ‘They’ve completed the work.’

‘Has it been filed yet?’

‘No.’ Scribo looked up, and his dark eyes flashed. Neither eye was the one he’d been born with, and the Throne only knew just what he saw with them.

‘Pull the report.’

Scribo sat back and folded his arms. ‘Why would I want to do that, probator?’

‘Because I’ve already paid you more than the scanner’s worth. And I’m one of your best customers. And you have a noble, shining soul.’

‘What do you need it for?’

‘A favour for a friend. It’ll help a case I’m working on. Nothing else that anyone needs to worry about.’

Scribo thought about it. He looked again at what Zidarov had given him, looked back at the terminal, then pressed a few buttons. ‘It’s off-system,’ he reported. ‘You’re not interested in what it said?’