Metropolitan police’s keen-eyed team immediately recognized several cultural or economic affairs representatives from major OPEC nations arriving for prayers. There was no reason for them to be in London, let alone in this neighborhood, unless some operation was going down.

Middleton had a feeling Jana Grover would make an appearance. And, today, finally she had. Circling the mosque and then ducking into Café Nero. A Special Branch agent of Pakistani descent slipped inside for a cuppa, to verify it was she and cover her.

When the operative from the Syrian consulate stepped inside, the trap closed.

Suddenly a woman’s voice raged, “You’ll never beat us!”

Jana Grover was staring at him as she was being slipped into a squad car.

“You’ll never win!”

Seems like we just did, Middleton thought, but didn’t reply.

Barrett-Bone asked, “You’ll want to interrogate her, I assume. I can arrange it.”

The American glanced at his watch. Barrett-Bone, the spy with Patek Philippe taste, couldn’t help a faint frown of pity as he noticed the Timex.

Middleton laughed at his reaction. “Later. I have plans at the moment.” Then he frowned. “But maybe there is something you can do for me, Ian.”

“Whatever it might be, my friend, name it.”

The houselights dimmed.

The concert hall audience slowly fell silent.

But the curtain didn’t rise. And a moment later the lights rose and a voice came over the P.A. system. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention please. The management regrets to inform you that there will be a short delay. The concert will begin in fifteen minutes.”

Felicia Kaminski, standing in the wings, sighed. She hadn’t fully recovered from the kidnapping, the injuries, the psychological horror. Nor from the loss of her beloved Bela Szepessy violin (she now clutched a functional but uninspiring instrument borrowed from a musician with the London Symphony).

Besides she was lonely. She hadn’t seen Harold Middleton since he’d returned to London to arrest the woman who’d kidnapped Felicia. She hadn’t seen Nora Tesla or Charley either.

Felicia knew she needed one hundred fifty percent concentration to give a concert of this sort. Yet, under these circumstances, she wasn’t anywhere close. And now this nonsense with the delayed start, made matters worse.

The concert, she knew, would be a disaster.

What was the delay? she wondered, despairing.

The answer came in the form of a low American voice behind her.

“Hello.”

Felicia turned. She gasped to see Harold Middleton. She set her instrument down and ran to hug him.

“I heard you were all right. But I was so worried.”

Eyes tearing, she regarded cuts and bruises.

“I’m fine,” he said, laughing. He looked her over too. “You seem all right.”

She shrugged.

“You know,” Middleton continued, “we have one thing more in common now.”

“What is that, Harold?”

“We’ve both been kidnapped. And escaped.”