My eyes are feeling hot and gritty from too much stress and too little sleep, but I manage to roll them anyway. "Big problem: you just tipped me off. Can you give me a reason not to out you to the BLOODY BARON team—other than 'because I said so'?"

"Of course." He looks increasingly, alarmingly, amused. What have I gotten myself into this time? "You'll keep it to yourself because while the cat's away the mice may play, and one of this particular bunch of mice appears to be a security leak, and I'm setting a trap for them. You're the bait, by the way."

"I'm the—"

"And to sex you up so they come after you, I've got a little job for you to do."

"Right, that's it, I'm through with—"

"Assuming you want to nail the scum responsible for the CLUB ZERO incident in Amsterdam."

"—fucking cultists—really?"

"Yes, Bob." He has the good grace not to look too smug. "Now shut up and listen, there's a good boy."

He deposits a slim memo on my desk, then places a small plastic baggie on top of it. I squint at it: it's empty except for a paper clip.

"Here's what I want you to do . . ."