“Just wondering if London got the Olympics,” she explained.

Their IDs were scrutinized at three separate checkpoints between the field and the hotel grounds.

“We don’t go near the hotel itself,” the driver said. “I’ll pick up the suit from the meet ’n’ greet next to the media center.” Both were situated near the hotel’s main car lot. Rebus saw that no one was playing the golf course. Pitch-and-putt and croquet lawns-both empty, except for dapper, slow-paced security men.

“Hard to believe there’s anything happening,” Siobhan commented. Her voice was just above a whisper; something about the place…Rebus felt it, too. You didn’t want to draw attention to yourself.

“Just be a sec,” the driver said, stopping the car. He pulled on his chauffeur’s peaked cap as he exited. Rebus decided to get out, too. He couldn’t see any rooftop marksmen, but figured they were probably there nevertheless. They had parked to one side of the main baronial building, near a vast conservatory that Rebus guessed was probably the restaurant.

“Weekend here would do me grand,” he confided to Siobhan as she emerged from the backseat.

“Cost you a grand, too, no doubt,” she countered. Inside the media center-a tented structure with solid sides-reporters could be glimpsed hammering copy into their laptops. Rebus had lit a cigarette. He heard a sound and turned to see a bicycle round the corner of the hotel. Its rider was bent low, aiming for speed, another bike tucked in directly behind. The leading cyclist passed within thirty feet, caught sight of them, and offered a wave. Rebus gave a flick of his cigarette in acknowledgment. But lifting his fingers from the handlebars had unbalanced the rider. His front wheel wobbled, slewing across the gravel. The other cyclist tried to avoid him, but ended up going over his own handlebars. Men in dark suits arrived as if from nowhere, making a rapid huddle around the two sprawled figures.

“Did we just do that?” Siobhan asked quietly. Rebus said nothing, just dumped the cigarette and eased himself back into the car. Siobhan followed his example, and they watched through the windshield as the first cyclist was helped to his feet, rubbing his grazed knuckles. The other rider was still on the ground, but no one seemed to be paying him much heed. A question of protocol, Rebus guessed.

The needs of President George W. Bush must always come first.

“Did we just do that?” Siobhan repeated, her voice trembling a little. The Audi driver had emerged from the meet ’n’ greet, followed by a man in a gray suit. The man carried two bulging briefcases. Like the driver, he paused for a moment to watch the commotion. The chauffeur held open the passenger-side door and the civil servant got in without so much as a nod of greeting in the direction of the backseat. The chauffeur got behind the steering wheel, his cap grazing the Audi’s roof, and asked them what was going on.

“Wheels within wheels,” Rebus offered. At last, the civil servant decided to acknowledge that he was-possibly to his chagrin-not the only passenger.

“I’m Dobbs,” he said. “F.C.O.”

Meaning foreign and commonwealth office. Rebus reached out a hand.

“Call me John,” he invited. “I’m a friend of Richard Pennen’s.”

Siobhan looked to be taking none of this in. Her attention, as the car drew away, was on the scene unfolding behind them. Two men in green paramedics’ uniforms were being prevented from reaching the U.S. president by his insistent security detail. Hotel staff had emerged to watch, as had a couple of the reporters from the media center.

“Happy birthday, Mr. President,” Siobhan sang huskily.

“Pleased to meet you,” Dobbs was telling Rebus.

“Richard been here yet?” Rebus asked casually.

The civil servant frowned. “Not sure he’s on the list.” He seemed worried that he might have been kept out of the loop.

“Told me he was,” Rebus lied blithely. “Thought the foreign sec had a role for him.”

“Quite possibly,” Dobbs stated, trying to sound more confident than he looked.

“George Bush just fell off his bike,” Siobhan commented. It was as if the words needed to be spoken before they could become fact.

“Oh, yes?” Dobbs said, not really listening. He was opening one of the briefcases, ready to immerse himself in some reading. Rebus realized the man had suffered enough small talk, his mind geared to higher things: statistics and budgets and trade figures. He decided on one last try.

“Were you at the castle?”

“No,” Dobbs drawled. “Were you?”

“I was, as a matter of fact. Hellish about Ben Webster, wasn’t it?”

“Ghastly. Best PPS we had.”

Siobhan seemed suddenly to realize what was going on. Rebus offered her a wink.

“Richard’s not too sure he jumped,” Rebus commented.

“Accident, you mean?” Dobbs replied.

“Pushed,” Rebus stated. The civil servant lowered his sheaf of papers, turned his head toward the backseat.

“Pushed?” He watched Rebus slowly nod. “Who the hell would do that?”

Rebus offered a shrug. “Maybe he made enemies. Some politicians do.”

“Almost as many as your chum Pennen,” Dobbs countered.

“How do you mean?” Rebus tried to sound slighted on his friend’s behalf.

“That company of his used to belong to the taxpayer. Now he’s making a packet out of R and D we paid for.”

“Serves us right for selling it to him,” Siobhan chipped in.

“Maybe the government was badly advised,” Rebus teased the civil servant.

“Government knew bloody well what it was doing.”

“Then why sell to Pennen?” Siobhan asked, genuinely curious now. Dobbs was shuffling through his papers again. The driver was on the phone to someone, asking which routes were open to them.

“R and D departments are costly,” Dobbs was saying. “When the MoD needs to make cuts, it always looks bad if it’s regiments taking the brunt. Ditch a few techs, the media doesn’t so much as blink.”

“I’m still not sure I get it,” Siobhan admitted.

“Thing about a private company,” Dobbs went on, “is that they can sell to pretty much anyone they like-fewer constraints than the MoD, F.C.O., or department of industry. Result? Faster profits.”

“Profits made,” Rebus added, “from selling to suspect dictators and spit-poor nations already up to their eyes in debt.”

“I thought he was your…?” Dobbs flinched as he realized he was not necessarily among friends. “Who did you say you were again?”

“John,” Rebus reminded him. “And this is my colleague.”

“But you don’t work for Pennen Industries?”

“Never implied that we did,” Rebus insisted. “We’re Lothian and Borders Police, Mr. Dobbs. And I want to thank you for your frank answers to our questions.” Rebus stared over the seat toward the civil servant’s lap. “You seem to be crushing all your lovely papers. Is that to save on a shredder…?”

Ellen Wylie was busy manning the phones when they got back to Gayfield Square. Siobhan had called her parents, discovering that they’d given up on the trip to Auchterarder and had kept clear of the angry protest in Princes Street. There had been trouble stretching from the Mound to the Old Town -disgruntled protesters, prevented from leaving the city, clashing with riot police. As Rebus and Siobhan walked into the CID suite, Wylie gave them a look. Rebus thought she was on the verge of a protest herselfalone all day in the station. But then a figure emerged from Derek Starr’s private office-not Starr himself, but Chief Constable James Corbyn. His hands were clasped behind his back, showing impatience. Rebus stared at Wylie, who shrugged a response, indicating that Corbyn had stopped her from texting a warning.

“Pair of you, in here,” Corbyn snapped, retreating back into Starr’s airless domain. “Close the door after you,” he added. He was seating himself; no other chairs in the room, so Rebus and Siobhan stayed standing.