If I was James Bond, this is the point at which I would draw my concealed pistol, plug both heavies between the eyes, get Panin in an armlock, and pistol-whip some answers out of him. But I am not James Bond, and I don't want to precipitate a diplomatic incident by assaulting the Second Naval Attache and a couple of embassy guards or footballers or whatever (not to mention sparking a murder investigation which would result in the Plumbers having to conduct a gigantic and expensive cover-up operation, all of which would come out of my departmental operating budget and drive Iris to distraction). And anyway, everyone knows that you don't get useful answers by torturing people, you get useful answers by making them trust you.

(Why don't you talk to them? I'd asked the committee.

(Because we might unintentionally tell them something they don't already know, said Choudhury, after staring at me for a minute as if I'd grown a second head.

(Fuck that shit, like I said.)

So I let Panin buy me a pint. "By the way, do you mind if I text my wife to tell her I'm going to be late?" I ask.

"If you think it necessary, but I promise I will keep you only half an hour."

"Thanks." I smile gratefully and whip out the NecronomiPod and tap out a text: HAVING A BEER WITH UNCLE FESTER'S BOSS, HOME LATE. Panin holds up a purple drinking voucher and it has the desired effect: money and a pair of pint glasses change hands. He carries them over to a small table in the back of the pub and I follow him. Panin's assistants gave me a nasty turn, but it seems this is to be a friendly chat, albeit for extremely unusual values of friendly. I keep both my hands on the table. Wouldn't do to give the Spetsnaz goons the wrong idea—I have a feeling it would take more than Harry's AA-12 shotgun to stop them in their tracks.

"To health, home, and happiness," he proposes, raising his glass.

"I'll drink to that." My ward doesn't nudge me as I bring the drink to my lips. "So. I guess you wanted to talk?"

"Mm, yes." Panin, having taken a mouthful, puts his glass down. "Do you have any clues to its whereabouts?"

"Have what?" I ask cautiously.

"The teapot."

"Tea—" I take another mouthful of ESB. "Pot?" There was something about a teapot in those letters, wasn't there? Something Choudhury said in the meeting, maybe?

"It's missing." Panin sounds impatient. "Your people have lost it, yes?"

I decide to play dumb. "If any teapots have gone missing, I suppose Facilities would be the people who'd deal with that . . . Why do you ask?"