Garrick ducked out of the bathroom and strode to the kitchenette, where there stood what looked like a squat refrigerator of the American style. Garrick pulled open the door and inside, instead of rows of chilled food and beverages, he saw Agent Waldo Gunn, sitting behind a sheet of bulletproof glass.

Garrick knew from Orange’s expertise that this fake fridge was a personal panic pod and was just as secure as the president’s bunker under the White House.

Waldo sat shivering behind the glass, as though he were seated in a real refrigerator. He punched numbers into his phone with shaking fingers.

“This pod is not in the system, is it, Waldo?” said Garrick. “You have been augmenting your security.”

Garrick slammed the door so hard the catch snapped, and the door swung open. The fact that Waldo had been able to secure himself made Garrick’s own escape more urgent. The FBI would be aware of his existence now and would soon be—what was the expression?—hot on his trail. This century was becoming a dangerous place. Time to go home.

No more dallying! he told himself. In there you go, mate. And kill her. She is puny and helpless. One slice across the windpipe will more than do the trick. The noise will be distasteful, but there it is—too late now to be letting your qualms get in the way.

Garrick froze in mid-pace.

My qualms? But I don’t have qualms.

And, in a bolt of self-awareness, it came to him.

These are Smart’s qualms. He was fond of this Savano girl, and this fondness bleeds across my neurons, reinforcing this false identification with Sabine. This young woman is no more a reincarnation of Sabine than she is of Her Majesty, Queen Vic. I shall kill her and be well rid of an adversary.

Garrick stocked up on weaponry from the FBI arsenal, including Duff’s switchblade, which he had casually knocked from the agent’s grasp.

How charming, thought Garrick. The standard of weaponry has really improved. Killing in this time will be so much easier.

This notion cheered him immensely and he reentered the bathroom, bolstered for his grisly work.

Inside the bathroom, Chevie had her foot hooked underneath the unconscious Agent Duff’s chin and was trying to haul him toward her when Garrick’s frame filled the doorway.

“Most enterprising, Agent. Perhaps he has a blade of some sort on his person? One never knows, eh?”

Chevie glared at the assassin belligerently. “You killed them all, didn’t you? Smart, the hazmat team, those officers outside?”

Garrick twirled the blade. “Not all,” he said, nodding pointedly at Duff. “Not yet.”

Chevie withdrew her foot, hoping that Duff at least would be spared. “Riley was right about you.”

“Oh?” said Garrick, prepared to listen to this before silencing this girl forever. “And what did my wayward assistant say?”