“Please leave your questions for later,” says the SA. He’s still smiling, but there are wrinkles in his forehead and crow’s-feet at the sides of his eyes. “I see that Oscar Menendez is not present.” Mhari startles. “That could be significant. I have further bad news. In addition to Mr. Elliott’s death, last night Sir David Finch wrote a suicide note, then unscrewed one of the window units in his office and jumped to his death.” Alex seems to have got his rebellious stomach under control, but Mhari turns white as a sheet: she looks as if she might start with the head-spinning pea-soup spraying thing at any moment. “Which is extremely convenient. Ms. Murphy, do you have any reason to believe that Mr. Menendez might have wanted to kill Sir David?”

“Bu-buh—” Mhari’s jaw flaps for a few seconds. “No! It’s too early!” Now she looks ashen. “He’s not ready for the, uh, the bust-out. Nowhere near.”

“Thank you, that will be all,” the SA says, not unkindly. She flops back in her seat, gasping as if she’s just swallowed a toad. “We will discuss his plans further during your next enhanced vetting.”

“Pale” doesn’t really describe her right now: “ashen” would be a better word. She’s shaking, either from fear or anger. I’m not sure whether she’s pissed at (or afraid of) the Senior Auditor, or freaked because he thinks Oscar might be a murderer. But the SA rolls sublimely on, leaving the rest of us floundering in a sea of uncertainties.

“If Mr. Menendez is not responsible for Sir David’s death, then we must assume that he is in immediate danger. Gerald, if you’d be so good as to take care of matters? You may leave the room.”

“I’ll get onto it right away,” Lockhart says as he heads for the door. I suspect he’s relieved to be out of the firing line, with a straightforward task to accomplish. “Resource level?”

“This is a Code Blue,” interjects the female Auditor. “Do whatever is necessary to locate Mr. Menendez and move him to a place of safety.”

Mhari sticks up her hand. “There is a Mercedes van,” she says hesitantly. “Kitted out with food, fuel, and a full bug-out kit. Oscar called it his Mystery Machine; it’s parked in the Bank’s basement car park on level B.” She rattles off registration, make, and model details. “He was prepping a bolt-hole somewhere in the countryside. I don’t know where exactly, he refused to say.”

The Auditor beams at her. “Thank you, Ms. Murphy!” She glances at Lockhart. “Proceed as authorized.”