His situation was desperate and dangerous, but he could fix it. The key to his own survival was simple: he had to find Flamel.

He dressed quickly, relishing the feel of clean clothes, and made himself some tea, then went to look out over the city he controlled. Standing before the window, staring across the sprawling streets, he realized the enormity of the task before him; he had no idea where the Alchemyst had taken the children.

He did have agents-both human and inhuman-in London. Next Generation and immortal mercenaries were on the streets. They all had the latest descriptions of the Alchemyst and the children, and he would add Palamedes and the Bard to that list. He would double-no, triple-the reward. It was only a matter of time before someone spotted the little group.

But he had no time.

Dee’s cell phone buzzed in his breast pocket, then played the opening bars of the theme to The X-Files. He made a face; suddenly that didn’t seem so funny anymore. He put the cup of tea down, fished the phone out of his inside pocket and held it clenched in his fist before looking at the screen. It was the impossibly long and ever-changing number he’d been expecting. He was surprised it had taken them until now to get to him; maybe they’d been waiting for him to make a report. His finger hovered over the green Answer button, but he knew that the moment he hit it, the Elders would know his location. He doubted he’d live long enough to finish his tea.

Dr. John Dee returned the phone to his pocket unanswered and picked up his cup.

Then, a moment later, he plucked the phone back out and dialed a number from memory. His call was answered on the first ring. “I need a favor.”

Niccolò Machiavelli shot out of his chair. “Favore?” he said, unconsciously slipping into Italian.

“A favor,” Dee said in the same language. “No doubt you have heard about my little difficulty.”

“I’m looking at news of a fire in London,” Machiavelli told Dee cautiously, aware that everything he said could be recorded. “I guessed you were involved.”

“Flamel and the others fled in a car,” Dee continued. “I need to contain them.”

“So you are still pursuing them?” Machiavelli said.

“To my death,” the Magician said. “Which could be sooner than I wish,” he added. “But I am sworn to do my duty to my masters. You understand duty, Machiavelli, do you not?”

The Italian nodded. “I do.” He sat back in the chair. “What do you want me to do?” He glanced at the clock. It was 5:45 a.m. in Paris. “Be aware that I’m flying to San Francisco in a few hours.”

“I need you to make a phone call, that’s all.”