Petra was a careful planner. If she were going to invite him over for dinner which had never happened before it would have been two weeks in advance, with detailed interrogation about allergies and preferences. But if he were to pick a list of places likely to be hardened against eavesdropping, her flat would be in the top ten.

"So you're coming, then?"

"I guess so. Can't speak for Suzanne, though."

"Come anyway. Bring her if she's free."

"I'll do my best. See you later."

"Later."

One of the barges sounded electronic chimes, for no reason he could see. He watched it move across the darkening water, against a backdrop of golden-orange radiance and the ornate silhouette of Parliament. Then he called Suzanne.

"Oh, hi, Josh. I was expecting another call. Good to see you."

"Sorry, is this a bad time?"

"I've a client coming this is my late night at Elliptical House. Evening appointments, once a week."

"I didn't realise."

"So, if you want to talk in person, be here at eight, when my seven o'clock leaves."

"Petra's invited us to her place. For supper. And her, uh, partner will be there. Yukiko."

"You want to go?"

"I think we should."

An eavesdropper might think they were a couple, the way they were talking. He had emphasised should as a way of suggesting they had things to talk about, but only offline. He thought Suzanne understood.

"So you want to come here, and we can go together?"

"Sure."

"See you in a bit, then."

"Yeah. See you."

He sighed when her image winked out.

A night-time receptionist at Elliptical House made him sign in, just to wait downstairs. He hoped that Suzanne was equally security conscious. If she started to say anything untoward, he would have to stop her. As the lift door dinged open, he felt his breathing stop, and perhaps his mouth drifted open, because her presence was as amazing as he had remembered.

Her kiss on his cheek was acetylene fire, or maybe sheet lightning.

"Josh. Hey. So we're off to visit Petra. That'll be nice."

"Well, I'm hungry and she promised us supper."

"Bad Josh." To the receptionist: "Night, Bill. Regards to Shannon."

"I'll pa.s.s it on. Night, Suzanne."

Josh smiled at the guy, because if he was on a firstname basis with Suzanne, he must be all right. So how do I know that? But he just did, that was all. As they exited, he took hold of Suzanne's hand, her skin so electric, and she allowed it to happen without flinching, just like a pro, making no mention of the hard object in his palm. When their hands disengaged it was quite natural, and she waited until they stopped at the kerb on Victoria Street before pushing at her hair, a covering gesture as she inserted the earbead he had pa.s.sed her.

With the traffic noise, it was easier to form the words in his throat like humming, not opening his mouth: "If you have a throat mic, the bead will tune in to it, without your phone. Otherwise, you'll just have to listen."

They reached the entrance to the Tube, and began to descend, the mag-escalator sc.r.a.ping, though it was supposed to be silent. Suzanne looped her throat cord in place, started to attach her phone, then shook her head as though changing her mind. A disconnected throat mic, though it had a tiny processor, would normally be useless without a phone; but the earbead would already be hooking in by infrared, acting as transceiver, its signal firmware-encrypted.

"Josh?" Her neck muscles moved. "How's this?"

"Good. Petra said there was a watch on query attempts, for anyone searching for Richard Broomhall."

"Yes, I remember."

"Petra's never invited me to her place. She worded the invite as if it were natural, you know? Like she's always doing it."

"She's being watched?"

They were on the platform now, and a train was whooshing in.

"Nice timing," Josh said aloud, then subvocalised: "Her or us. It takes official sanction for Broomhall to be on a watch list."

There was a vacant seat and she took it, while Josh turned to stand by the door. As the train slid into the tunnel and the windows went black, he stared, hoping to look lost in thought.

"OK," subvocalised Suzanne. "What about the Brezhinski family?"

Josh blinked. The injured boy Marek, and his parents in Swindon. He had forgotten. "You called them?"

"We talked, and I think I can help them. Where do you want me to do it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Isn't this part of the search for Richard?"

She didn't know about Sophie. "Um, not really. I just thought you could help."

"Then it doesn't matter whether they come to London or I travel to Swindon."

"No. Except"

He shut down his mind. Except I have to go see Maria, Except I have to go see Maria, and the only reason she wants to see me is to make it official, and the only reason she wants to see me is to make it official, because she's leaving me for good. I'm sure that's it. because she's leaving me for good. I'm sure that's it.

In her seat, Suzanne twitched her head, grew still. Had she heard? The problem with subvocalising was that sometimes you transmitted too much. He clucked his tongue, deactivating the mike. b.a.l.l.s b.a.l.l.s. When he looked again, Suzanne was staring at the advert screens, with the bored expression of any other traveller.

She knows.

Or maybe he was wrong, because she was impossible to read and totally intriguing; and how could he be thinking like this? Petra's supper invitation was a signal to be careful, and his attention needed to be out in the world, not wrapped up in his own head. Among the other pa.s.sengers, no one betrayed the signs of trained watchers: the use of geometry and reflection, or a toodeliberate attempt to ignore him.

One missing boy. That's all we're after.

But the real world was more complicated and nastier than simple missions. And it always threw surprises, his being Sophie, and the end of the future he had always imagined.

Petra grinned at them, ushering them inside her flat. Josh checked the short hallway droplet-lensed cameras, spyb.a.l.l.s, beaded the interior and stopped at the edge of the lounge. It was far bigger than expected, with a sunken square in the middle, and black leather couches running along the edges. The floor was polished wood. And as part of the effect, the other occupant was beautiful, dressed in trousers and threequarter-sleeve shirt.

"I'm Yukiko." Her voice was beautifully pitched. "Come in."

"Josh. And this is Suzanne."

"Great to meet you both. And we've got something to show you." Yukiko gestured at the blank screens on three walls. "But Petra's too squeamish, so she's going to check on the food."

"Uh, right." Petra smiled. "What she said. And the place is hardened, so we can say what we like."

"Hardened?" asked Suzanne.

"No bugs," said Josh.

"She understands." Yukiko shook hands with Suzanne, then Josh. "Make yourselves comfortable."

They settled on the couches. Yukiko pointed her phone, and a picture flicked into life: a transparent cage, scarcely visible, in which two bloodied, half-armoured fighters stood with a referee between them, holding each by the wrist, waiting for the verdict. End of a fight, going to a judges' decision. Both fighters wore fast-stick wound-dressings; the larger fighter's arm and torso were wrapped in them. This had been the rule since Switchblade Saxon died while waiting for the result: walking wounded now received emergency dressings as soon as the final klaxon blared.

The referee raised the smaller fighter's arm, as the crowd howled.

"That's a Knife Edge Knife Edge tournament," said Josh. "The guy who won is Manning. Trains with Hatchet Dawkins." tournament," said Josh. "The guy who won is Manning. Trains with Hatchet Dawkins."

There were other promoters, smaller fight circuits, but they used different styles of cage.

"So you're a fan?" Yukiko thumbed her phone, and a lean, bearded man appeared on screen. "You'll know Zak Tyndall, then. He owns the whole show."

Suzanne, Josh realised, was looking at him and Yukiko, not the screen.

"Tyndall," he said. "Zak, son of Zebediah. Rich b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

"Entrepreneurial geniuses. The father is a real political power in the land, without ever holding office."

Josh stood up, turning away from the screen.

"This isn't about Knife Edge Knife Edge, is it?"

"Not really," said Yukiko. "Apart from the coincidence that the big knife-fighting final is on the night of the general election, right before online voting commences. And that Fat Billy Church has his name linked to the programme."

"Uh-huh. Thing is," said Josh, "my diary's fully booked. Washing my hair, picking my nose, important stuff like that. Maybe we can do changing the world next week? Or how about never?"

"Or you could pick your a.r.s.e" Yukiko's tone remained as elegant as cut gla.s.s "if your head wasn't stuffed right up it."

"Whoa." Petra came out of the kitchen, salad bowl in hand. "Ding, ding, time out. Fighters, return to your positions. Suzanne, would you lend me a hand?"

"So long as you protect me from these two."

Josh spread his hands. "Sorry, Yukiko. Sometimes my mouth runs away by itself."

"Are you kidding?" Yukiko nodded toward Petra. "How often do I get to win an argument round here? I need the practise."

"Ouch," said Josh. "Also, I surrender."

"Before we eat" Yukiko tapped her phone "look at this. See how healthy he is?"

The screen showed Zebediah Tyndall, the father, face lined but his hair still black, his stance erect.

"Eats right, keeps fit," said Josh. "Can afford the best doctors."

"Actually, he's never been reported as athletic."

"He must be doing something right. Or is that your point?"

"Hmm." Yukiko called out in the direction of the kitchen: "There's hope for the man yet."

"Good," answered Suzanne, while Petra said: "Are you sure?"

"Jesus Christ."

Yukiko was working her phone again. A sequence of panes spread across the screen, each running a five-second loop, showing fighters in action or just afterward.

"Fireman Carlsen." Josh pointed at the first pane, then the second. "Him, I forget his name, but he's good. And that one is Serpent Sam, aka Captain Cut."

"And how healthy would you say they look in the pictures?"

"Pretty fit."

More panes opened, showing b.l.o.o.d.y wounds, fighters spinning away from flashing blades or simply falling. Date-and-timestamps popped up, labelling every picture.

"Take your time," said Yukiko.

Josh had been injured before. He knew how long and hard rehab could be.

"That's not right."

No one could recover that fast.

"The dates are correct." Yukiko dipped her head. "But yes, something isn't right."