Allerdyce considered this, too. Then nodded.

Reeve hobbled over to the cabinet, whistling as he examined the bottles. “Royal Lochnager-you have good taste.”

“You’re Scottish, Mr. Reeve?”

“You know damned well I am. You’ve probably got a big fat file on me. I’d like to know why.”

“I assure you I don’t know the first thing about you.”

Reeve turned his head and smiled. “Do you want one?”

“Why not?”

Reeve fixed both drinks and turned toward Allerdyce.

“Leave mine on the cabinet,” Allerdyce said. He waited until Reeve had hobbled back to the sofa, then backed his way to the cabinet, keeping the revolver on Reeve. Maybe the thing wasn’t even loaded, but Reeve didn’t want to take that risk, not yet. Allerdyce picked up the glass and came back around to face Reeve.

“Slainte,” Reeve said, drinking deep.

“Slainte,” Allerdyce echoed, like he’d used the toast before.

“You going to call the police?” Reeve asked.

“I think I’d better, don’t you? A man has broken into my house, overpowered my dogs and my guards; that sounds like a man the police should know about.”

“Will they allow me one phone call?”

“What?”

“In Britain, we get one phone call.”

“You’ll get a phone call.”

“Good, I wonder which paper I’ll call.”

Allerdyce seemed amused.

“See,” Reeve went on, “those two deadbeats you had following me in Scotland, they didn’t just tell me they were working for you, they told a whole pub. Witnesses, Mr. Allerdyce. A precious commodity.” He worked his injured foot again.

Allerdyce took another sip of whiskey. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No? Are you quite sure? I mean, if you’re sure then I owe you an apology. But you’ll have to tell me about CWC first.”

“Excuse me?”

“Co-World Chemicals. They murdered my brother. Or maybe they hired your people to kill him.”

“Now wait a minute-”

“Or maybe all you did was compile a dossier on him. I believe that’s your specialty. And then you handed it over and washed your hands. Don’t you think you should have gone to the police? I mean, when my brother was found dead. Oh, no, you couldn’t have done that, could you? The police might have had you for conspiracy, or aiding and abetting. Not a very good advertisement for Alliance Investigative.” Reeve finished the whiskey.

“Your brother…” Allerdyce choked off the sentence.

“What?” Reeve raised his eyebrows. “You did know about him, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I…” Allerdyce was perspiring. “No, I’ve never heard of… your brother.” His face had lost its color, and he was having trouble focusing. “I think I’m…”

Reeve stood up and went to fix another drink. Allerdyce didn’t try to stop him. The gun was hanging by his side, the empty glass held loosely in his other hand.

“Hope I didn’t give you too much,” Reeve said from the drinks cabinet.

“Too… much… what?”

Reeve turned towards him, smiling again. “Too much birdy,” he said. “I had a little packet of it in my sock.”

“Birdy?”

“Know what? Maybe you should know all about birdy. It could revolutionize your business.” Reeve raised his replenished glass. “Slainte.”

This time the toast was not returned.

The thing about burundanga is, it is not just a truth drug. It makes the victim completely compliant. Completely suggestible. The victim becomes a sleepwalker. Men and women have been gang-raped after being tricked into taking it. They return to their senses forty-eight hours later and have no recollection. Amnesia. They could have been holding up banks, or emptying their own accounts, or playing in porno movies, or carrying drugs across borders. They’ll do what they’re told, no qualms, and will wake up with little more than a bad feeling, a feeling like their mind’s not their own. That was why you had to judge the doses just right, so as not to do too much damage to the victim’s mind.

It wasn’t simply a truth drug the way sodium pentothal was-it was so much better than that.

“Sit down,” Reeve told Allerdyce. “Take the weight off. I’m just going to look around. Anywhere special I should be looking?”

“What?”

“Do you keep any files here? Anything about me or my brother?”

“All my files are here.” Allerdyce still looked confused. He was frowning like someone on a geriatric ward faced with their children, not recognizing them.

“Can you show me where?” Reeve said.

“Surely.” Allerdyce got up again. He wasn’t overly steady on his pins. Reeve hoped he hadn’t given him too much. He hoped he hadn’t just given this old man a massive dose of scopolamine.

They walked out of the room and took a left. Allerdyce slipped a hand into the pocket of his dressing gown.

“What have you got there, Mr. Allerdyce?”

“A key.” Allerdyce blinked his moist yellow eyes. “I keep this room locked.”

“Okay, unlock the door.” Reeve took a look over the rail. The hall below was empty and quiet. Mr. Blue Öyster Cult probably wasn’t worrying about anything. He’d seen his employer train a gun on the intruder. He’d be waiting either for a shot or for the police to arrive.

Allerdyce pushed open the door. The room was part library, part office. There was a lot of shiny new plastic around-fax, photocopier, shredder-but also a lot of antique wood and leather. The chair behind the desk was immense, more throne than chair, and covered in buttoned red leather. There was a matching sofa. The walls were book-lined, floor to ceiling. Some of the shelves were behind glass, and these housed the most precious-looking volumes. There were no filing cabinets, but there were files.

A lot of files.

They stood in towers which threatened to topple at any moment, slueing paper everywhere. Some of the towers were six feet high, resting in the corners of the room, giving it a musty, unventilated smell. There were more files on the sofa, and on the floor in front of it, and others beside the desk. Older files had been tidied away into big cardboard boxes-ordinary grocery boxes like you picked up in supermarkets, advertising chili beans and dishwasher powder and Planters peanuts.

“Have you never heard of computers, Mr. Allerdyce?” Reeve said, looking around him.

“I don’t trust computers. With the right equipment, you can tap into a computer from a distance. To get this lot, someone would have to get very close indeed.”

“Well, you’ve got a point. Where are the relevant files?”

“File, singular. It’s on the desk. I was browsing through it earlier tonight, doing some updating.”

“Why don’t you sit on the sofa, Mr. Allerdyce?”

But there was no space. Allerdyce just stared at the sofa like a pet who’d been given an impossible command. Reeve cleared off some of the files so Allerdyce could sit down. Then Reeve sat behind the desk.

“You know about my brother?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Did your people kill him?”

“No.”

“Then who did?”

“There’s no proof he didn’t kill himself.”

“Take it from me, he was murdered.”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

Reeve accepted this. He opened a gray folder and started separating the handwritten sheets. There were photographs there, too. “But you have your suspicions?”

“Surely.”

“CWC?”

“It’s feasible.”

“Oh, it’s feasible all right. Who’s Dulwater?”

“He works for me.”

“Why did you have me followed?”

“I wanted to know about you, Mr. Reeve.”

“Why?”

“To see what Kosigin was up against.”

“Kosigin?”

“You’re reading his file.”

Reeve picked up one of the photographs. It showed a boyish young man with steel-rimmed glasses and salt-and-pepper hair. He turned the photo towards Allerdyce, who nodded slowly.

Marie Villambard had spoken about Kosigin, how he’d set up the rigged investigation involving Preece and the others. Reeve had expected him to be older.