"Carting my violin across town so an expert can examine it." She finishes her cereal bowl. "A restorer, very expensive, very exclusive. The cover story is I'm working for one of the big auction houses and we've been commissioned to get an estimate of its worth—don't look at me like that, they do this all the time, for stuff they don't have any in-house expertise with. I've got to go along because our other two violins are booked solid, and I'm not letting this one out of my sight . . ." She eyes the coffeepot. "What are you planning?"

"Got to go see Iris after her morning meeting, then we'll see." My cheek twitches as I pour two mugs of coffee. "Got some files to read. Angleton told me to deputize for him on a committee. Then there's the structured cabling in D Block to worry about. The glamorous life of the secret agent, when he's not actually out there saving the world . . . I was thinking, that story Andy came up with—do you want to look into it? Sanity-check Dr. Ford's analysis?" I finish the question slowly, trying not to think too hard about the implications.

"You read my mind." She adds milk to her coffee, stirring. "Not that everybody else in Research and Development with CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN won't be doing exactly the same thing, but you never know. I think I'll go pay Mike a little visit this afternoon, if he's got time." She looks at me, eyes wide. They're blue-green, I notice; it's funny, that: I don't usually pay attention to her eyes. "Are you all right?"

I nod. "Just a little unfocused today."

"You and me both." She manages a little laugh by way of conversational punctuation. "Well, I need to be off." She takes a too-big mouthful of coffee and winces. "Sorry I'm leaving you with the washing up again."

"That's okay, I've got an extra hour." No point showing up before Iris's steering group meeting, is there? "Take care."

"I will." She picks up her handbag and the violin case and heads for the door, heels clicking: "Bye," and she's away, looking more like an accountant than a combat epistemologist.

I putter around for a while, then get dressed (jeans, tee shirt, gun belt, and linen blazer—mine is not a customer-facing job at present, and I hate ties) and prepare to head out. At the last minute I remember the NecronomiPod, sleeping (but not dead) beside the laptop. I grab it along with my usual phone and head for the bus stop.

"WELCOME TO BLOODY BARON," SAYS IRIS, OFFERING ME A recycled cardboard folder with MOST SECRET stamped on the cover: "You have two hours to familiarize yourself with the contents before the Monday afternoon team meeting."