He pointed at the sweating black wrap. “Frank’s chilling. You should too.”

“I’d say I wish I hadn’t called you, but it would be a lie. But I’m worried about you. Not just Frank.” She touched his face. “Sorry I left like that.”

He kissed her hand. Smiled. “I was glad you did. Didn’t like the way Pep was looking at you.”

“Neither did I. Didn’t like Pep.”

“Did me a good one in the Barrio Gotico once, Pep. Saved my bacon. Didn’t have to.”

“Pep is good, then.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. But if it has wheels and locked doors, he can open it faster than the owner ever did, and close and lock it as quickly. How’s my grocery van?”

“Upscale vegan. Shiny new.”

“Rental through a specialist agency in Shepperton, vehicles for film and television. Slow Foods haven’t taken delivery yet. Happy to let it for an art shoot, for a very handsome hourly fee.”

There was something on the bedside table. Part of the fuselage of a model plane: curved, streamlined, its upper surface yellow, dotted with brown. She bent for a closer look, saw a miniature leopard print, on plastic.

“Don’t touch. Stings.”

“What is it?”

“Taser.”

“A Taser?”

“Heidi’s. Brought it from Los Angeles by accident, in her bag of Airfix parts. Swept it blindly up with her model-building bumf, when she was well pissed.”

“TSA didn’t notice it?”

“I hate to break this to you,” he said, feigning grave seriousness, “but that’s actually been known to happen. TSA not noticing the odd thing. Shocking, I know…”

“But where would she even get it?”

“America? But contrary to the saying, what happens in Vegas evidently doesn’t always stay there. Someone in Las Vegas gave this to her husband. As a present for her, actually. Hence the leopard print. Lady’s model, you see. TSA didn’t spot it, Her Majesty’s Customs didn’t, but Ajay certainly did, this morning. She had no idea she had it. Packed it by mistake when drunk. Which is no defense, but has been known to get the odd thing handily across a border, now and again.”

“What do you want with it?”

“Not sure yet. ‘Follow the accident. Fear the set plan.’ ”

“I thought you loved plans.”

“Love planning. That’s different. But the right bit of improv makes the piece.”

“It shocks people?”

“Capacitor inside, enough juice to knock you on your handsome. Two barbed darts, from that, on fifteen feet of fine insulated cable. Propelled by captive gas.”

“Horrible.”

“Prefer it to being shot, any evening at all. Not that it’s nice.” He leaned over, picked the thing up, sat back against the pillows. Held it up between thumb and forefinger.

“Put it down. I don’t like it. I think you need to sleep.”

“Milgrim’s on his way. And a makeup artist hairdresser person. We’re getting together with Ajay. Makeover party.”

“Makeover?”

“Whiteface.” He flew the Taser behind the screen of his laptop. Up again. Pause at apogee. “We don’t want to leave Milgrim in Big End’s hands, once this starts.” He looked at her. “We want him with us, regardless of what Big End wants. I’ll need something for him to do, some excuse for keeping him with us.”

“Why?”

“If my scheme should fuck up, as you say in your country, and that’s always a possibility, your man will very badly want to pass Milgrim to Gracie, posthaste. Very badly. Excuses for our behavior. Impossibility of getting decent help these days. But here’s Milgrim, so we’ll take Chombo, thank you, and sorry again for the trouble. Or if Gracie should fuck up, for that matter…” The Taser swept down slowly, over the keyboard, in a silent strafing run.

“Fuck up how?”

“My little op’s bodged together with off-the-shelf parts. Basically I’ve had to build it as though Gracie’s going to play nice, do the prisoner exchange, then take Milgrim off for a nice waterboarding or toe-subtraction-”

“Don’t say that!”

“Sorry. But that would be playing by the rules as far as Big End is concerned. We know that nobody’s getting Milgrim, but Gracie doesn’t, yet. If things go according to my play, Gracie and company will have sufficient weight on them to not bother anyone. But if Gracie should decide not to play by the rules, I haven’t much in the way of extra fun to throw at him.” He held the Taser up again, squinted. “Wish she’d brought a few more, actually.”

Benny’s civilian bike, Milgrim now knew, was a 2006 Yamaha FZR1000, black and red. It was lowered, Fiona said, whatever that meant, and had something called a Spondon swing arm, allowing the wheelbase to be lengthened at the drag strip. “Quick off a light,” she said approvingly.

She was fully armored again, zipped and Velcro’d, the yellow helmet under her arm. Milgrim was armored too, in borrowed nylon and Kevlar, stiff and unfamiliar, over tweed and whipcord. The toes of Jun’s bright brown brogues looked wrong, below the black Cordura overpants. His bag, containing his laptop and the clothing he’d worn the night before, was strapped atop the Yahama’s tank, which looked as though it had been gathered to spring from between a rider’s thighs. A striking image, now, with those thighs about to be Fiona’s.

“Voytek is here, to fuck penguin.”

They turned, at the sound of his voice. He was walking toward them through the deserted bike yard. He carried a black Pelican case in either hand, and these, Milgrim saw, unlike his screening cases, looked heavy.

“ ‘With,’ ” corrected Fiona, “ ‘fuck with.’ ”

“ ‘I the pity poor immigrant.’ You do not. Is Bob Dylan.”

“Why are you bothering, then?” demanded Fiona. “The one in Paris was fine, and we’ve just gotten this one on the iPhone.”

“Order of Wilson. Commissar of all fuckings with.”

He brushed past them, into the Vegas cube, closing the door behind him.

“Is there another helmet?” asked Milgrim, eyeing Mrs. Benny’s black one, which sat on the Yamaha’s pillion seat.

“Sorry,” said Fiona, “no. And I’ll have to adjust the chinstrap. Had a safety lecture.”

“You did?”

“Wilson.” She put the black helmet on Milgrim’s head, adroitly adjusted and fastened his chinstrap. The hairspray seemed even stronger now, as if Mrs. Benny had been wearing it in the meantime. He wondered if he was developing an allergy.

Fiona pulled on gauntlets, straddled the shiny Yamaha. Milgrim got on behind her. The engine came to life. She walked them off Benny’s yard, and then the bike seemed to take over, a very different creature than Fiona’s big gray one. A tight but intricate circuit of Southwark streets, feeling, Milgrim assumed, for possible followers, and then over Blackfriars in a surge, working the gears, the red and white railings strobing past. He immediately lost track of direction, once they were on the other side, and when she finally stopped and parked, he hadn’t expected it.

He fumbled with the fastenings under his chin, got Mrs. Benny’s helmet off as quickly as possible. Looking up at this unfamiliar building. “Where are we?”

She removed the yellow helmet. “Cabinet. The rear.”

They were in a cobble-paved garden drive, behind a stone wall. She dismounted, Milgrim intrigued as always by the smooth flexibility this demonstrated. He got off as well, with no particular demonstration of grace, and watched as she hauled thick, snakelike anchor chains from the Yahama’s panniers, to secure it.

He followed her up the tidy cobbles to a porte cochere. Pinstripes was waiting, behind a very modern glass door. He admitted them without Fiona having to buzz.

“This way, please,” he said, and led them to a brushed stainless elevator door. Milgrim found that the armored oversuit made him feel strangely solid, larger. In the elevator, he felt he took up more space. Stood up straighter, holding Mrs. Benny’s helmet in front of him with a certain formality.