"You have no need to—" She shudders slightly, puts the mug down, and grabs a tissue. I notice her hands are a mess, reddish-brown grime ingrained around her nail beds: Jonathan Hoag territory. Holding the kleenex to her face she blows her nose once, twice: a peal of bloody trumpets. "It was ghastly. They made me—I think I can say this—Bob, remember the Plumbers?"

I nod. Deep in the pit of my stomach, I feel dread. "The job in Amsterdam. They shut you up with a geas afterwards, didn't they? Was it that bad? No, don't try to tell me. You just stay right there."

She nods convulsively. "I can't talk about it." Emphasis on the can't. I stand up. "I'm going to make a call." I go through to the kitchen and speed-dial Andy.

"Hello?" Andy sounds distracted.

I take a deep breath. "Pay attention now, I will ask this only once: Who should I blame for this? You? Or that motherfucker Tom in Conflict Resolution? Or someone else? Because I've got a situation here."

"What—" Andy pauses. "Bob? Is that you?"

"Mo is home from Amsterdam," I say carefully. "She's in a state, and she can't unload on me because some cretin in Plumbing has drawn the magic circle too tight. I don't know what happened out there, but she's about two millimeters away from a nervous breakdown. I can't help her if she's blocked from talking to me, so let me explain the situation in words of one syllable: you are going to get the geas relaxed so she can vent about whatever happened yesterday, or the Laundry is going to have to replace a valued employee. No, make that two—no, three new employees they'll be needing, by the time I'm through with whoever's responsible. Capisce?"

"It wasn't me!" Andy sounds shocked. "Stay on the line. Where are you, exactly?"

"I'm in the kitchen at home, that's on file as safe house Lima Three Six. Mo was in the living room, last time I looked. Is that exact enough for you?"

"Probably . . ." I hear keys clicking hastily, a keyboard on a desk near his phone. "Listen, you aren't cleared for this, and I can't do it over the phone. Normally you would be cleared but that enquiry that's pending has screwed up your—look, I'm tied up right now, but I'll send someone round immediately, as soon as I can find a warm body. Can you hold the fort for an hour?"

"Who are you going to send, exactly?"

"The office bloody intern if I have to, as long as they've got an Oyster card and can carry a Letter of Release, will that do you?"

I sigh. "It'll have to. Better hurry, though, or you're going to be short-staffed next week."