“This is still the father of my fiancée you’re talking about.” Newcomen slid across the car to inspect the hamper.

“Yobany stos, man. He’s trying to have you killed, and you worry about good manners? Chyort, the only reason you’re polite to him is because Christine is his chattel and he can do what he wants with her.” Petrovitch laid a proprietorial hand over his carpet bag. “This sort of situation would never happen in the Freezone. It just couldn’t. If Lucy had ever shown any interest in men, there’d have been no question of me interfering. Or even threatening to cut their yajtza off with a cleaver.”

“She’s your daughter, though.” Newcomen opened the lid of the hamper, and his eyes grew wide. He was disarmed enough that his train of thought derailed and fell down an embankment.

“She doesn’t belong to me. I belong to her. After she lost her parents, I was all she had. I might have been piss-poor as a dad, but even I knew I had to protect her, teach her, and try and turn her into a rounded human being. I pretty much failed on every count, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love her. What it does mean is that I don’t own her.”

The lights outside dimmed. They were crossing the Murrow Bridge. In the dark, Newcomen asked quietly: “You’ve not had children of your own?”

“There’s a good chance that both me and Maddy are sterile. She’s a mutant, I’m radiation-damaged.” Petrovitch stared at the glint of his wedding ring. “We’ve not done any tests, not gone for any treatment. Yeah, a gestation tank would be the simple answer, but we’re still young. And you know, we still enjoy trying at every available opportunity.”

Newcomen pulled a face. “Oh, stop. Now.”

“Bearing in mind this could be it,” continued Petrovitch, “you might consider doing the same. Going out in a blaze of glory. Spawn and die.”

“I am not an animal. And Christine…”

“It’s often when faced by imminent death that you feel the biological urge the most.”

“Shut up, Petrovitch.” Newcomen balled his fists, but didn’t do anything with them. “Just, shut up.”

“Okay.”

The limo cruised off the bridge and into a tunnel.

“We’re still being followed,” said Petrovitch. “Wish I could do something about that.”

“Maybe they’re wondering where we’re going.” Newcomen sounded relieved at the change of subject.

“They’re not wondering at all. They made the plates on the car and checked the destination with the hire company. They’re just doing it to piss me off. Did you know they’ve diverted a satellite so that it can track me better? Polar orbit, so it’s only overhead for a short time each day, but they’re bringing in another one tomorrow. All that expense, all that effort, just to see where I’m going.” Petrovitch looked up from his lap at Newcomen. “Do you suppose they have a good reason why they’re doing that, and not using those same resources to find Lucy?”

“If it’s true…”

“Which it is. I don’t think I’ve lied to you yet.”

“Which itself is probably a lie,” said Newcomen. “If it’s true, perhaps they are using it to look for Lucy.”

“Wrong footprint on the ground.” Petrovitch gave a halfsmile. “And we’ve intercepted the datafeed. We know exactly when it’s live, and where it’s pointing. You’ve got plenty of resources, you’re just not using them right.”

The car turned off the freeway and slowed to the new speed limit. It became obvious who was on their tail, as first one, then two sets of headlights peeled off from the main road but kept a respectful distance.

“Nearly there,” remarked Newcomen. “Will you be listening in, when I’m alone with her?”

“It’s not the way it works. Michael monitors you. If you say anything you shouldn’t, he’ll let me know. I can honestly say that you won’t be overheard by another human being.”

“So you’re definitely bugging me?” He checked the inside of his jacket, as if he was going to find something obvious within the folds of his clothes.

“Yeah. We get to keep some secrets. Neither was I born yesterday, so let’s change the subject.” Petrovitch reached into the carpet bag for the jammer. “I will leave this for you, though. That should be enough insurance against your own side. I’ll take my chances.”

Closed high gates presented themselves in the limo’s lights, and the chauffeur buzzed the intercom to speak to his passengers.

“There’s no call button, sir. Can you contact the house, get them to open up?”

Newcomen lifted up his tie to access the keypad, while Petrovitch eyed the gates.

“I can open them for you. Security’s good, but I’m way better.” He realised what Newcomen was doing, and pressed his hand against the American’s. “Fried, remember? I’ll call.”

Newcomen’s face clouded over. “At least try and keep things civil.”

Petrovitch spoke to one of Logan’s staff, and despite their visit being prearranged, permission from the man himself suddenly became necessary.

“Logan knew I was here too.” Petrovitch raised his eyebrows. “He’s got someone on the inside. Fancy that.”

“Everything you say is deliberately designed to reinforce the idea that you’re right.”

“Maybe so. Or perhaps I’m trying to get into your thick skull the fact that I am right. All the time.”

The gates started to swing apart, and the driver nosed the car forward. The drive was gravelled, and stones crunched beneath the wheels as they pulled up outside the mock-Georgian frontage.

Lights blazed from every window, and a silhouetted figure was visible in one of the first-floor rooms, hands on hips, staring down at them. Petrovitch ran a pattern match, and found it was Logan. He was probably looking forward to this encounter as much as his guest was.

The chauffeur opened Petrovitch’s door for him, when he felt he should really have done it for himself. “No need for that,” he said.

“All part of the service, sir.”

“Yeah. You should go back to college and graduate. Your grades were more than good enough.” He jerked his head at Newcomen. “Better than his.”

“I needed the work, sir.” That Petrovitch knew didn’t seem to surprise him. “And I guess after that, I just got out of the learning habit.”

“Try it again. You might find you can pick up where you left off.” His breath curled in the air, a coil of fog. “Come on, Newcomen. You’re keeping the lady waiting.”

The agent eased himself out. “Cold.”

“Nothing aches like metal: trust me.” Petrovitch frowned. “Flowers?”

Newcomen dived back in and re-emerged with the two shivering bunches.

“Give me the lilies. It’s not like I can feel any more stupid than I do already.”

Together they advanced on the front door, which appeared to be made of wood but was in fact a laminated sandwich of composite materials that even Valentina would have trouble blowing her way through. The place was a fortress, designed to seal and lock at the touch of a button. Either Logan was paranoid, or he genuinely had made some powerful enemies during his struggle to the top of the tree.

Newcomen rapped the heavy brass knocker, an entirely redundant gesture as there were cameras, pressure pads and laser nets covering their every move.

The door opened a crack. Logan had sent his wife ahead of him.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mrs Logan,” said Newcomen. “I’m here to pick Christine up, as arranged.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” She opened the door fully. “And you’ve brought someone with you.”

“I’m afraid Bureau business has got a little out of hand, ma’am. Can I present Dr Samuil Petrovitch, the internationally renowned scientist and accredited diplomat of the Irish Freezone?”

Petrovitch stifled the urge to snort with laughter, and gave a short, formal bow. “Mrs Logan. These are for you.” He brandished the bouquet, and she reacted as if they were a weapon. “They’re just flowers. Honest.”

“Th-thank you,” she answered, and took them from him. She was terrified. Of Petrovitch, of the whole situation.