There was a crackle of static from the radio headphones, and Demarest’s voice came online: “Handle contents with care. You bring them two clicks north of base camp, and pretend they’re Waterford crystal. No breaks, bruises, or scrapes. Think you can manage that?”

“Sir?”

“Capture with kindness, Lieutenant. Don’t speak English? I can say it in seven other languages if you prefer.”

“No, sir. I understand, sir. But I’m not sure just how we’ll manage—”

“You’ll find a way, Janson.”

“I appreciate the confidence, sir, but—”

“Not at all. You see, I know that I would find a way. And, like I say, I’ve got a feeling that you and I are a lot alike.”

His finger groped the ground: trimmed grass, not jungle vine. He forced his eyes open again, took in the green vistas of Regent’s Park, looked at his watch. Two minutes had elapsed. The retention of consciousness itself would be a supreme effort, yet one at which he must not fail.

The thoughts that had coursed through his brain were drowned out by another, more urgent one: There was no time.

The collapse of the axial array must already have been detected, simply by the absence of radio signals. Others would proceed into the area. His vision swimming, his head ringing with pulsing, pounding agony, he crashed through an obstacle course of cone-shaped yews until he had made his way to Hanover Gate.

A black cab was letting out an elderly couple as he staggered to the curb. They were American, and slow-moving.

“No,” the bloated and dyspeptic-looking woman was saying, “you don’t tip. This is England. They don’t tip in England.” Garish red-orange lipstick ringed her mouth, drawing attention to the vertical creases of age above and below.

“Sure they do,” her husband groused. “What do you know? You don’t know anything. Always got an opinion, though.” He was feebly looking through the unfamiliar currency in his wallet, with the care and deliberateness of an archaeologist prizing apart ancient papyrus. “Sylvia, do you have a ten-pound note?”

The woman opened her purse and, with agonizing slowness, began peering into it.

Janson watched with mounting frustration, for there were no other cabs visible on the street.

“Hey,” Janson said to the American couple. “Let me pay for it.”

The two Americans looked at him with frank suspicion.

“No, really,” Janson said. The American couple kept moving in and out of focus. “It’s no problem. I’m in a generous mood today. Just … let’s get a move on.”

The two exchanged glances. “Sylvia, the man here said he’ll pay … .”

“I heard what the man said,” the woman replied peevishly. “Tell him thank you.”

“So what’s the catch?” the old man said, his thin lips drawn into a half frown.

“The catch is, you get out, now.”