“Chernobyl happened because there was no heavy water,” she said quickly. “The Russians used some cheap and useless method of their own to produce a nuclear reactor which was why the plant exploded. I’m sorry. This is doubtless just me . . . As to the moon, I’ve no idea.”

They didn’t say anything for a moment as Middleton looked at her, his benign, bland face creased with concern.

“You’re practicing here for the rest of the day?” he asked.

“Practice, practice, practice. After a while . . . ”

“Stay indoors. I’ll arrange a cab to the Wigmore Hall and a hotel for you this evening. Pack your things. Leave your bag here when you go to the concert. We’ll pick it up for you later.”

“But . . . ”

They didn’t wait for anything except a few short pleasantries. Felicia Kaminski watched them go, wishing they could have stayed a little longer. She knew no one in London. She felt a little lonely and bored.

“Practice,” she hissed. “If I practice one more time I’ll go mad.”

As the door closed, she picked up a piece of paper and scribbled down the words she remembered from Harold Middleton’s note.

Some forensics people would be running through every last one to try to forge a link. Maybe—she was worried, slightly, by the look on Middleton’s face when she threw in her idea about the bracelet—they would be looking to see what the term “heavy water” meant in relation to India, Pakistan and the Kashmir question. Quite a lot, possibly, not that she wanted to think much about that. The dark shadow Chernobyl had cast over Eastern Europe had never quite lifted from her.

She looked at the grandfather clock by the fireplace. Two hours remained before she had to leave, a little less if she packed as Middleton had wanted. She had time. There was something else she could use too, something she felt sure Middleton and Tesla would never have countenanced.

Felicia Kaminski went to her laptop computer and pulled up the web page for Bicchu, the new search engine she’d stumbled upon only a month ago. It was all the rage in the social networks. The answers were sharp and relevant, almost as if someone were reading the question then thinking about its context and perspective before responding. It felt smart and human, not part of some dumb machine. Best of all, Bicchu promised to pay you for being online, for typing in queries and following through on the results. Just a few cents but it was something. For all the glamour of an appearance at the Wigmore Hall, she still felt like a music student when she looked at her bank balance. It would be years before she could even hope to command a reliable income.

Felicia glanced down and typed in the words on her scribbled note.

Kashmir. Search for water. Geology. Copper. Bracelet. Scorpion. Devras Sikari.