Kendric's hovercraft beached itself on the left of the door, Greg's drew up on the right. The pilot kept going until the bow was bumping the filthy brick, then killed the lift.

The tower door opened and a man came out. He was fortyish, dressed in a fawn sweatshirt and olive-green Wranglers; his shoes were black leather, polished to a sergeant major's shine. A brown belt holster held a Browning 9mm automatic.

Kendric and Hermione alighted from their hovercraft. Greg was hauled to his feet beside Gabriel. The man from the tower took in the fresh crimson splash down his shirt, the way he kept swaying from side to side.

"You were told: intact," he said to Kendric. There was no deference shown. Kendric seemed to be among equals at last.

"He can walk, he can talk," Kendric retorted indifferently, and marched off into the tower.

"Un-cuff them," said the man, "and get them upstairs. He's waiting."

The crewmen began deflating the hovercraft. Mark unlocked the cuffs and waved them into the tower.

Resignation had settled in long ago. Greg stepped across the door, shuffling like one of the undead, shamed and impotent.

The basement was bare, brick walls and concrete floor, a smack of dampness in the air, but not as much as there should've been. He spotted a bright conditioning duct disappearing into the rude wooden plank ceiling. A deflated hovercraft of the same kind they'd arrived in sat in the middle of the floor. There was a cast-iron staircase opposite the door.

"Up," said Mark.

Shiny black shoes were already vanishing through the hole in the ceiling.

The first floor was also one big room, appreciably drier, used for storing crates of food. There were quite a few Harrods hampers stacked beside a small grey metal desk.

The second floor was a living room, carpeted in a thick steel-blue soft pile. Its furniture was modern, matching timber-framed leather chairs and settee, a low ceramic coffee-table, and rose-teak executive desk with a recessed Olivetti terminal.

Cupboards and a glass-fronted drinks cabinet were fixed to the wall, purpose-built, they fitted the shallow incline perfectly. Light shone through a single frosted glass window halfway up the wall. The brickwork had been left uncovered, scrubbed clean.

The dumpy woman who'd accompanied Greg on the hovercraft was waiting at the top of the stairs. Which was impossible, because she was following him up. Had to be twins.

But that revelation was blown straight out of his mind by the next person he saw. Kendric was talking earnestly to Leopold Armstrong. And Greg knew he'd finally met the person who'd organised the blitz on Philip Evans's core.

England's ex-president was fifty-seven, but still trim and fit; his meaty face had a few more lines than Greg remembered, his mop of neatly cut silver hair was combed back tidily. He wore a simple Shetland cardigan over an open-neck cotton shirt. So ordinary. Almost homely.