Which is fine by me, as long as the SA is the only person she tells. If we can’t trust the SA, we are so comprehensively fucked that we might as well wind up the organization and chow down on the poison pills right now.

Before heading home I spend another hour with the beta group, working out our plan for the morrow. I have some misgivings about it, largely because it relies heavily on Alex and Pete, both of whom are (in my opinion) undertrained newbies. On the other hand they’ll have me riding shotgun, along with a small battle group of specialists (who will be briefed at the last possible hour, to reduce the risk of leaks). And it’s all going to be supervised from the New Annex by Angleton himself. I’d ask for JOHNNY PRINCE and BASHFUL INCENDIARY if they were available, but most of our heavy hitters are out of the office this week, presumably hitting heavy things a very long way from home. The BLUE HADES negotiations had to come up at the worst possible time. I suspect the SA is taking steps to recall the delegates, but even so they won’t be back in town for at least twenty-four hours. So, in the meantime, we’ve got to work with what we’ve got.

Eventually it turns nine o’clock, and people are yawning. “Let’s call it a day,” I suggest, and nobody—not even Angleton—demurs.

I walk out into the corridor and, a few seconds later, Mhari follows me. “What now?” she asks.

“Taxi.” I don’t like the expense (London taxis are not cheap) but there are two of us, and I don’t like the exposure of walking.

“Okay,” she says. “Do you have a spare key? What about dinner?”

“Spare key’s at home. I was thinking of Chinese takeaway . . .”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh you. You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

We hail a taxi, and after a brief ride (and a cabbie-administered walletectomy) I lead Mhari up the garden path, all two wheelie-bin-lined meters of it. “Watch out for the wards,” I tell her as I apply key to lock.

“You don’t have to warn me. Brr! What did you do, bury an electrical substation under the front step?”

The door opens. “Come on in.” I step inside and turn on the hall lights. “We had a problem with unwelcome visitors a couple of years ago and they really beefed up the security afterwards.” I don’t tell her about the additional precautions we’re taking tonight: the basilisk camera in my left jacket pocket, or the Glock 17 loaded with banishment rounds in a quick-draw holster in my right. Mhari might be back in HR but I still don’t think she’s got the full picture about what I actually do these days.

“What caused the problem? Jehovah’s Witnesses?”