8. Club zero

I GET HOME AN HOUR AND A HALF LATE, BONE-TIRED, BAMBOOZLED, and bothered. I haven't had a good day at the office, all things considered: a confusing briefing on Russian OCCINT activities in Western Europe, an old acquaintance who doesn't recognize me anymore, the discovery that the Fuller Memorandum is missing, and now Panin's evident patronizing contempt for my lack of insight. I've got a feeling that all the pieces of the jigsaw are within my grasp, if only I could figure out where they lie—probably dragged under the sofa by an invisible cat, knowing my luck.

It's after eight as I turn my key in the lock, pass my left hand over the ward, and slope into the front hall. The lights are on in the kitchen, and there's a pleasant smell—Mo is roasting a chicken, I think. "Hello?" I call.

"Up here!" She's upstairs and she doesn't sound pissed off, which is a relief.

I dump my jacket and take the stairs two at a time. The bathroom door's open and she's stewing herself in the tub in an inordinate amount of green foam and some kind of mud mask, so that she looks a little like the creature from the black lagoon. "Did you get my text?" I ask.

"Yes. Who was the Addams Family reference about?"

I do a double take: "What—Oh shit." I shake my head. "Never mind." Obviously she can't read my mind, otherwise there'd have been an Artist Rifles' brick staking out the pub before I'd taken my first mouthful of beer. I'm losing my touch. "I'm screwing up," I admit.

"You're . . . ? Huh. Bet you I've had a more boring day."

"Boring, maybe; unproductive, hardly."

She snorts and blows a handful of bubbles my way. "I spent most of the morning and afternoon sitting on a wooden stool, watching a burned-out sixty-something expert mumble into a dictaphone. Then I had to run for a meeting. After that I looked in on the office but Mike wasn't there, so I came home. Picked up a free-range bird at Waitrose; it's in the oven now. I was hoping you might want to fix some side helpings?"

"I can do that." I glance at the bath. "You going to be long?"

"Half an hour at least. I put the chicken in before I came up here; you want to look in on it in fifteen minutes or so."

I'd rather spend my time here with her, but I can tell the difference between an order and a request: I sketch a salute. "By the way," I say, trying to sound casual about it, "I've been stuck with Angleton's work on BLOODY BARON, and I'm finding it a bit confusing. And nobody's sent me the briefing papers on the other job yet, the one—you know. Last week."