‘That’s perfect. Why don’t I buy you dinner this evening.’

About half a dozen reasons why not suggested themselves. He swept them to the edges of perception.

‘You want to buy me dinner?’

‘Seems the least I can do, if we’re going to cooperate on a book. Look, why don’t you meet me uptown in about an hour. You know a place called Regime Change?’

‘Yes.’ He’d never been inside. No one who worked Conflict Investment would ever have considered it. Just too tacky.

‘I’ll be in there from about six-thirty. The Bolivia bar, upstairs. Bring an appetite.’

She hung up.

He called Mike back and made some excuses. It was tougher work than he’d expected - he could hear the disappointment in the other man’s voice, and the offer of the night with the Bryants now carried added overtones of comfortable safety compared to—

‘Look, to be honest with you, Mike, I need some time on my own.’

A brief silence down the line. ‘You in trouble, Chris?’

‘It’s.’ He closed his eyes and pressed hard on the lids with finger and thumb. ‘Carla and I aren’t getting on too well right now.’

‘Ohhh, shit.’

‘No, it’s. I don’t think it’s that serious, Mike. It’s just, I wasn’t expecting her to take off like that. I need to think.’

‘Well, if you need to talk ...’

‘Yeah. Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.’

‘Just take it easy, huh.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, I will. I’ll talk to you Monday.’

He wandered aimlessly about the office for a while, picking things up and putting them down. He studied Mike’s move, tried out a couple of half-hearted responses. He leaned on the window glass and stared down at the lights of Louie Louie’s in the street fifty floors below. He tried not to think about Carla. Tried, with less success, not to think about Liz Linshaw.

In the end, he killed the office lights and went down to sit in his car. The enclosed space, recessed instruments, the stark simplicity of wheel and gearshift, were all more bearable than life outside. As the Saab’s security locks murmured and clunked into place, he felt himself relaxing measurably. He sank back into the seat, dropped his hand onto the gearstick and rolled his head side to side in the neck support web.

‘Now then,’ he told himself.

The car deck was almost deserted. Mike’s BMW was gone, the other man no doubt well on his way home to Suki and Ariana. There was a thin scattering of other BMWs across the luminous yellow-marked parking ranks, and Hewitt’s Audi stood off in the partners’ corner. It dawned on Chris how little he’d seen of the executive partner since Cambodia took off. There’d been the usual brushes at quarterly functions, a few team briefings and a couple of congratulatory mails, copies to himself, Bryant and Makin. For the rest, Hewitt had ignored him as completely as was possible given the work they both had to do.

For a moment he entertained the fantasy of waiting behind the wheel until she came down to the car deck. He thought about ramming the vehicle into drive and smashing the life out of her. Smearing her across the deck surfacing, the way Edward Quain—

He shook it off.

Time to go. He fired up the engine, rolled the Saab up the ramp and out into the street. He let the vehicle idle westward. There was no traffic to speak of, Regime Change was five minutes away, and with the corporate ID holoflashed into the windscreen glass he could park anywhere.

He left the Saab on a cross street filled with the offices of image consultants and data brokerage agencies. As he alarmed the car and walked away from it, he felt a slow adrenal flush rising in his blood. The buzz of a London Saturday evening drifted to him on the warm air, streets filling slowly with people, talk and laughter punctuated with the occasional hoot from a cab trying to get through the tangle of pedestrians. He slipped into it, and quickened his pace.

Regime Change was the end building on a thoroughfare that folded back on itself like a partially-opened jackknife. Music and noise spilled out onto the streets on either side from open-slanted floor-length glass panels in the ground floor and wide open sash windows above. There were a couple of queues at the door, but the doorman cast an experienced eye over Chris’s clothes and nodded him straight in. Chorus of complaint, dying away swiftly as Chris turned to look. He dropped the doorman a tenner and went inside.

The ground floor bar was packed with propped and seated humanity, all yelling at each other over the pulse of a Zequina remix. A cocktail waitress surfed past in the noise, dressed in some fevered pornographer’s vision of a CI exec’s suit. Chris put a hand on her arm and tried to make himself heard.

‘Bolivia Bar?’

‘Second floor,’ she shouted back. ‘Through the Iraq Room and left.’

‘Thanks.’

Screwed-up face. ‘What?’

‘Thanks.’

That got a strange look. He took the stairs at a lope, found the Iraq Room - wailing DJ-votional rhythms, big screens showing zooming aerial views of flaming oil wells like black and crimson desert flowers, hookah pipes on the tables - and picked his way through it. A huge holoprint of Che Guevara loomed to his left. He snorted and ducked underneath. A relative quiet descended, pegged out with melancholy Andean pipes and Spanish guitar. People sat about on big leather beanbags and sofas with their stuffing coming out. There were candles, and some suggestion of tent canvas on the walls.

Liz Linshaw was seated at a low table in one corner, apparently reading a thin, blue-bound sheaf of paperwork. She wore a variant on her TV uniform - black slacks and a black and grey striped silk shirt buttoned closed at a single point on her chest. The collar of the shirt was turned up, but the lower hem floated a solid five centimetres above the belt of her slacks. Tanned, toned TV flesh filled up the gap and made long triangles above and below the single closed button.

Either she didn’t see him approaching, or she let him get close deliberately. He stopped himself clearing his throat with an effort of will, and dropped into the beanbag opposite her.

‘Hullo, Liz.’

‘Chris.’ She glanced up, apparently surprised. ‘You’re earlier than I thought you’d be. Thanks for coming.’

She laid aside what she’d been reading and extended one slim arm across the table. Her grip was dry and confident.

‘It’s.’ Chris looked around. ‘A pleasure. You come here often?’

She laughed. It was distressingly attractive, warm and deep-throated and once again Chris had the disturbing impression of recall he’d had on the phone.

‘I come here when I don’t want to run into anyone from the Conflict Investment sector, Chris. It’s safe. None of you guys would be seen dead in here.’

Chris pulled a face. ‘True enough.’

‘Don’t be superior. It’s not such a bad place. Have you seen the waitresses?’

‘Yeah, met one downstairs.’

‘Decorative, aren’t they.’

‘Very.’ Chris looked around reflexively. There was a long bar bent into one corner of the room. A woman stood mixing drinks behind it.

‘What would you like?’ Liz Linshaw asked him.

‘I’ll get it.’

‘No, I insist. After all, you’re making yourself available to me, Chris. It’s the least I can do, and it’s tax-deductible.’ She grinned. ‘You know. Research costs. Hospitality.’

‘Sounds like a nice way to live.’

‘Whisky, wasn’t it? Laphroaig?’

He nodded, flattered that she remembered. ‘If they’ve got it.’

Liz Linshaw pressed a palm on the table top and the menu glowed into life beneath her hand. She scrolled about a bit, then shook her head regretfully.

‘No Laphroaig. Lot of bourbons, and, ah, what about Port Ellen? That’s an Islay malt, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, it’s one of the new ones.’ The sense of flattery crumbled slightly. Had she being doing research on him, he wondered. ‘Reopened back in the thirties. It’s good stuff.’