"This bad." I point to the row of butterfly closures on my head and she winces. "Have you heard anything about—about upswings in non-affiliated agency activity in London this week?"

"My office," she says, very firmly, and this time she means it.

"Okay."

Once inside her office, she locks the door, switches on the red DND lamp, then lowers the blinds on the glass window that lets her view the corridor. Then she turns to me. "What codewords do you know?"

"I've been approved for CLUB ZERO"—she gives a sharp intake of breath—"and CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN. Not to mention MAGINOT BLUE STARS, but Harry the Horse wouldn't give me an alarm buzzer without your chop on the order form. And Angleton just told me to deputize for him on BLOODY BARON, although I haven't been briefed on that yet."

"Wow. That's a bundle." She eyes me warily. "Angleton dumps a lot on your shoulders." For someone so junior, she leaves unsaid.

"Yes." I focus on her more closely: wavy chestnut hair that is currently unkempt and beginning to show silvery roots, crow's-foot worry lines at the edges of her eyes, a restlessness to her stance that suggests she's far busier than she wants me to see. "Your turn."

"Wait, first—what happened yesterday?"

"Andy was with the Plumbers on cleanup; it should be on today's overnight events briefing sheet."

"That was"—her eyes widen—"you? Active incursion and assault by a class three, repelled by agents? Those stitches, it was that?"

"Yeah." I flop down on her visitor's chair without a by-your-leave.

"They tried to rearrange my features: it was a close call. I came in today to draw a personal defense item, but also to ask what the hell is going on? And this business about Angleton—"

"You saw him the day before yesterday."

"Yes." I pause. "He's still missing. Right?"

She nods.

"Do you want me to look round his office? In case he left anything?" Iris sniffs. "No." I think she's a poor liar. "But if you know anything . . . ?"

"I don't like being kept in the dark." Coming over all snippy on the person who is my nominal manager isn't clever, I know, but at this point I'm running low on self-restraint. "It seems to me that a whole bunch of rather bad things are happening right now, and that smells to me like enemy action." I'm echoing Andy. "Whoever the enemy is, in this context. Right, fine, you keep on playing games, that's all right by me—except that it isn't, really, because one of the games in question just followed my wife home and tried to kill her. Us." I point to the row of butterfly sutures on my forehead, and to her credit, she winces. "Remember, it costs."