"Somewhere on Norroy . . . Road," he says slowly. "Off Putney High Street." Then he opens his eyes. The glow from his retinas spills sickly green across the paper, but fades rapidly.

"Wouldn't it be simpler to use a GPS tracker?" carps Andy.

MEANWHILE: A WOMAN WITH A VIOLIN WALKS INTO A PUB.

An hour and a half has passed since Mo spoke to Angleton. She's been home to get changed and collect her go-bag, but still makes the meeting in a popular wine bar off New Oxford Street with time to spare, thanks to her warrant card and a slightly confused police traffic patrol. (External Liaison will raise hell about it tomorrow, but tomorrow can fend for itself.)

The middle-aged man in the loose-cut Italian suit is already there and waiting for her, sitting in the middle of a silent ring of empty tables while his dead-eyed bodyguards track the access routes.

"Mrs. O'Brien," says Panin. "Welcome."

She pulls out a chair and releases her bulky messenger bag, dropping it between her feet as she sits. She has her violin case slung across her chest, like a soldier's rifle.

"Dobryi viechier, kak ty?"

Panin's lips quirk. "Quite well, thank you. If you would prefer to continue in English ..."

"My Russian is very limited," Mo admits. "My employers are more interested in Arabic—not to mention Enochian—these days."

"Well, let us consider drinking to the bad old days, may they never return." He raises an eyebrow. "What's your poison?"

His English is very good. Mo shakes her head. "A lemonade. I don't use alcohol before an operation."

Panin glances over his shoulder. "A lemonade for the lady. And a glass of the house red for me."

"I didn't know they had table service here."

"They don't. Rank has its privileges."

They wait for a surprisingly short time. The minder delivers the drinks, as ordered, and retreats to his stool in the corner. "Angleton told you he was sending me," she says, tentatively laying out the terms of discussion.

"He did." Panin nods. "We share a common interest. Other agencies of our two great nations continue to bicker like bad-tempered children, but we must rise above, perforce. Alas, all is not always clear-cut." He reaches into his inside pocket and brings out a wallet, then produces a small portrait photo. "Do you recognize this man?"

Mo stares at the frozen face for several seconds, then raises her eyes to meet Panin's gaze.

"I'm not going to start by lying to you," she says.

Panin relaxes minutely—it is not evident in his face, but the tension in his shoulders slackens slightly. "He left a widow and two young children behind," he says quietly. "But he was dead before you met him."

"Before . . . ?"

"He was one of ours. I emphasize, was. Abducted two weeks ago, not thereafter seen until he appeared on your doorstep, possessed and controlled—we would say prievratilas', turned—a tool of the enemy."

"Whose enemy?"