So as soon as I've stopped in my office and filled out a requisition for the file numbers Angleton scribbled on that scrap of paper for me—we can't get at the stacks directly right now, they're fifty meters down under the building site that is Service House, but there's a twice-daily collection and delivery run—I head down the corridor and across the walkway and up the stairs to the Security Office.

"Is Harry in?" I ask the guy in the blue suit behind the counter. He's reading the afternoon Metro and looking bored.

"Harry? Who wants to know?" He sits up.

I pull my warrant card. "Bob Howard, on active. I want to talk to Harry—or failing that, whoever the issuing officer is—about personal defense options."

"Personal def—" He peers at my warrant card: then his eyes uncross and he undergoes a sudden attitude adjustment. "Oh, you're one of them. Right. You wait here, sir, we'll get you sorted out."

Contrary to popular fiction, there is no such thing as a "license to kill." Nor do secret agents routinely carry firearms for self-defense. Me, I don't even like guns—I mean, they're great fun if all you want to do is make holes in paper targets at a firing range, but for their real design purpose, saving your ass in a life-or-death emergency, no: that's not on my list of fun things. I've been trained not to shoot my own foot off (and I've been practicing regularly, ever since the business on Saint Martin), but I feel a lot safer when I'm not carrying a gun.

However, two days ago my primary defensive ward got smoked in a civilian FATACC, yesterday I got doorstepped by a killer zombie from Dzerzhinsky Square, and I now have a dull ache in the life insurance policy telling me that it's time to tool up. Which in my case means, basically, dropping in on Harry, which means—

"Bob, my son! And how's it going with you? Girlfriend glassed your head up?"

Harry the Horse is our departmental armorer. He looks like an extra from The Long Good Friday: belt-straining paunch that's constantly trying to escape, thinning white hair, and a piratical black eye-patch. Last time I saw him he was explaining the finer details of the care and feeding of a Glock 17 (which we've standardized on, damn it, because of an ill-thought requirement for ammunition and parts commonality with the Sweeney); I responded by showing him how to take down a medusa (something which I have unfortunately too much experience at).

I recover from the back-slapping and straighten up: "It's going well, Harry. Well, kinda-sorta. My ward got smoked a couple of days ago and I'm on heightened alert—there's been an incident—"