The Battering Rams’ resident tattoo artist, Farley, trailed behind Riley through Holborn, his face hidden by a silken hood of a kind favored by Arab mercenaries. Riley might not have recognized the tattooist even without the hood, had he caught sight of him. Farley did not seem nearly so decrepit as he had in the Hidey-Hole. His back was ramrod straight, and his sure-footed stride was that of a man in early middle age.

Pedestrians gave Farley a wide berth on the footpath for two reasons. For one, something red glittered from the shadows under his hood like the night eye of a wolf, and for another—if a second reason was needed to avoid a gent with a wolf’s eye—this man was obviously a lunatic and destined for a bed in one of Her Majesty’s asylums, for he was speaking into his closed fist as though there was a fairy living in there listening to every word.

So people stepped aside and cast quick, sidelong glances at Farley.

Talking to oneself is the first sign of madness, they thought. And there ain’t no predicting when a madman will spring into sudden violence.

What the Victorian pedestrians could not have possibly known was that Farley was speaking into a microphone strapped to the back of his wrist rather than to a fairy. And the wolf’s eye glowing from the shadowy recesses of his eye socket was, in fact, a monocular infrared scope with a visible-lightblocking filter. Simply put, to Farley, anyone who had been in a time tunnel and whose atoms had been coated in its particular radiation would sparkle gently, as though coated with gold dust. It was a very handy way to keep an eye on someone without getting too close.

“Rosie, patch me through to the colonel,” he said into the microphone, his accent still English, as it had been in the Rams’ Hidey-Hole. Farley had been in character so long that he rarely came out of it.

“You sure?” said a voice in his earpiece, male in spite of the name. “He’s having a massage. You know what he’s like.”

Farley did indeed know what the colonel was like—no one knew it better, but he also knew that the colonel had asked to be kept up to date. In truth, Farley suspected that his superior was excited that something a little out of the ordinary was happening. This stage of the operation was all preparation, which was never very interesting, so this whole Agent Savano thing had put a little pep in everyone’s step.

“I am sure, Rosenbaum. Just put me through. I’m out in the open here, talking into my hand like a halfwit.”

“Connecting you now, Major.”

Farley held for a moment, watching Riley open the door to a theater that had seen better days.