The two lumbered to the sidewalk, and stood there blinking. Janson slid inside the roomy vehicle, one of the classic black cabs made by Manganese Bronze Holdings PLC.

“Wait a minute,” the woman called out. “Our bags. I had two shopping bags … .” She spoke slowly and petulantly.

Janson found two plastic bags emblazoned with the Marks & Spencer logo, opened the door, and heaved them at her feet.

“Where you bound, guv?” the driver asked. Then he looked at Janson through the rearview mirror and winced. “Got yourself a nasty gash there.”

“Looks worse than it is,” Janson murmured.

“You better not get any claret on my upholstery,” the driver groused.

Janson pushed a hundred-pound note through the glass partition.

“That’s a bit of all right,” the driver said, his tone suddenly shifting. “You’re the boss, I’m the hoss, crack the whip, I’ll make the trip.” He seemed pleased with his taxi doggerel.

Janson told the driver the two stops he had to make.

“Bob’s your uncle,” the driver said.

The pounding in his head had the force and regularity of a jackhammer. Janson pulled out a handkerchief and tied a bandana around his scalp, trying to staunch the seepage of blood. “Can we go now?” He looked out the rear windshield of the cab—which suddenly spider-webbed in the lower left corner, near his head. A subsonic bullet remained lodged in the laminated glass.

“Mother of Christ!” shouted the driver.

“Just floor it,” Janson said unnecessarily, hunching down in his seat.

“Bob’s your fucking uncle,” the driver said, as the engine roared to life.

“He is if you say he is.” Janson pushed another hundred-pound note through the partition.

“Am I gonna have any more problems?” the driver asked, looking dubiously at the banknote. They were now at Marylebone Road, merging into fast-moving traffic.

“Not at all,” said Janson grimly. “Trust me on this. It’s going to be a walk in the park.”

She was looking at him. He wasn’t imagining it.

Kazuo Onishi glanced across the smoky singles bar and then looked back at the sudsy inch of beer remaining in his mug. She was stunning: long blond hair, a pert nose, a mischievous smile. What was she doing alone at the bar?

“Kaz, is that honey on the bar stool hitting on you?”

So it had to be true: even his friend Dexter had noticed.

Onishi smiled. “Why do you sound surprised?” he smirked. “The ladies know a true stud muffin when they see one.”