At Piccadilly he changed lines. The wait for the train was brief. As instructed, he got off at Marylebone and hurried through the long passageways. A line of commuters waited for the twin escalators that climbed to the surface. He dodged past them and took the stairs, attacking the steps two and three at a time. He reached the street a minute later, out of breath but calmer.

The Edgware Road was populated with block after block of cheap hotels with rent-by-the-hour rooms and run-down apartments. The area had always been popular with budget-minded tourists, newly arrived immigrants, and illicit couples. The tide of gentrification salvaging so many of London ’s scruffier neighborhoods had not yet reached this far north.

He found No. 61 on a leafy corner, across the street from a tobacconist and a Middle Eastern grocery. As promised, the door was open. The alcove smelled of roasted lamb and cigar smoke. Foreign voices fought behind cardboard walls. He climbed the stairs to the second floor. The key he’d been given slid into a well-oiled lock. Inside, the flat was dilapidated and mostly unfurnished. Damp rot ate at warped linoleum floors. Plywood took the place of the living room window. A naked bulb dangled from the ceiling. He turned it on, but it was dead.

In twenty seconds he’d ducked his head into every room and come back to the entry. The flat was empty except for a torn-up mattress, a few small tables, and an old black rotary dial telephone, circa 1960, sitting on the living room floor.

“Wait for our call,” Blackburn had said. “We have to make sure you’re clean.”

Jonathan picked up the receiver and heard a dial tone. He hoped their surveillance methods were more modern than the phone. He ran a hand over his mouth. Call, he whispered to himself. Tell me where I’m supposed to meet Emma. He checked his watch. It was almost seven p.m. The sun’s rays filtered through the soot-streaked windows, casting the flat in an antique light. He tried to open a window, only to find it had been nailed shut.

He waited five minutes, and another five. He looked down at the street. Evening traffic was a crawling, carbon-belching pageant. He paced until pacing grew unbearable, and then he sat, which was even worse. Back pressed to the wall, legs outstretched, he kept his eyes locked on the phone.

The room was hot and stuffy. The beer he’d drunk had kick-started his appetite, and now his stomach was moaning for something to eat. Suddenly he couldn’t stand the waiting. He jumped to his feet and tried the window again. He was sweating now, his back wet, his forehead beaded.

Finally the phone rang.

Jonathan put the receiver to his ear. “Hello.”

“And all these years I thought you liked it hot.”

It was her.

But the clipped English voice hadn’t come from the phone. It came from close behind him. He turned and saw Emma standing in the doorway, slipping her cell phone into her jeans.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi, yourself.”

“What brings you to London?”

“A guy I know’s visiting. I decided I might like to see him. Catch up on things. You know.”

“Yeah, I think I do.”

Emma tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and he could see that her eyes were wet. He walked slowly toward her, wanting at first only to look at her. She was dressed as he always imagined her. Tight jeans, black T-shirt, sandals, her auburn hair falling in ungoverned ringlets to her shoulders. She wore an elephant hair bracelet on her left wrist and around her neck was the jade choker he’d given her for her twenty-fifth birthday.

He put a hand to her cheek, gazing into her green, steadfast eyes. “It’s good to see-”

She kissed him before he could finish.

“I’ve missed you,” she said, drawing back just enough to nuzzle his cheek.

“Me, too.” Jonathan wrapped his arms around her, holding her close to him. “Been here long?”

“In London? A few days.”

“You look good. I mean, better than the last time I saw you.”

“The last time, you’d just yanked a bullet from my shoulder.”

“I’d prefer to think I deftly removed it.”

“Deftly or not, it hurt like hell.”

“You have a good memory.”

“Yeah, well, you know what they say-you never forget your first bullet.”

“I thought it was your first kiss.” Jonathan held her at arm’s length, thrilled by the sight of her, by the feel of her. “How’s the shoulder?”

Emma stepped back and demonstrated an admirable range of motion. “As good as new.”

Jonathan nodded his approval. Suddenly he looked toward the door. “Does this mean no one followed me?”

“For the moment. In case you’re interested, there’s two of them.”

“Two of who?”

“Two minders. One’s in a blue tracksuit, posing as an OBG-that’s an official bodyguard-for one of the poobahs staying at the hotel. The other was out front in his car. A tan Ford. Division always buys American. They had you until you reached the tube. I had to run some interference to get them off your tail.”

“Well, thanks, then.” He gazed around the beat-up flat, suddenly at a loss for something to say. “I hope you’re not staying here.”

“God, no,” Emma said, but her eyes moved from his and she didn’t elaborate.

“So what are you doing here, Em?”

“I told you I’d come when it was safe. I did some checking and found out you were traveling to London to attend this conference. It seemed like the right time.”

“What about the guys at the hotel who were supposed to be keeping an eye on me?”

Emma shrugged. “Occupational hazard. I decided you were worth the risk.”

Jonathan smiled. He suspected that there was something more, some reason that she was in London other than to see him. Emma gave her emotions short shrift. But he was too caught up in the moment to give it more than a passing thought. “I’m glad you came,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever see you again.”

“How are things at the camp?”

“Not bad, all things considered. We’re short a few pair of hands, but we have adequate supplies for once. That’s saying something.”

“Enough antibiotics?”

“The Red Cross airlifts a pallet of meds to us once a month. We’ve got enough to keep malaria and dengue down. Something crazy happened last week. I’ve got to tell you about it. A girl was playing down at the river and a croc got hold of her arm. Took it off below the elbow. The father was watching. He got so upset, he wrestled the croc out of the water and killed it. It was a monster, twelve feet at least. Anyway, he cut open that croc, and there was his daughter’s arm, intact, with barely a scratch. We were able to get the girl on the table less than an hour after the accident and reattach her arm. If we can stave off infection, I’m thinking she just might regain some use of her fingers.”

“You and those hands,” said Emma. “Magic.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your hands. You’re gifted. You’re the best surgeon I’ve ever met.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“I would. And I know from firsthand experience.” Emma took his right hand and spread the fingers one by one, kissing each playfully, and then not so playfully. “And not just on the operating table,” she whispered, stepping closer to him, so that their bodies pressed against each other and Jonathan could smell her scent. “As I recall, these hands are rather gifted in another department as well.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but they’re out of practice.”

“Hmm? Are they? We’ll have to see, now, won’t we?” She untucked his shirt and ran her own hands across his chest. Her hands changed direction, and Jonathan closed his eyes. “Doesn’t take you long, does it, mister?” she said. “Christ, I’d almost forgotten.”

Jonathan put his arms around her and lifted her up. “Forget the mattress.”

Afterward, Jonathan lay back, feeling warm and sated, and maybe even happy. “We have to figure out a way for you to come back with me…”