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Harvey, right? James Harvard Esquire. Lives in England, right?”
    “Right,” I said, trying to figure this out in my head.
    “He’s my brother.”
    I stared.
    “My twin brother,” he clarified.
    “But—”
    “You didn’t know he had a twin brother.”
    I shook my head, unable to think of anything else to say.
    He flicked ash off his cigarette onto the ground. “Well, here I am. I can show you ID if you want.”
    I nodded dumbly, and Harvey II got out a wallet and flicked it to a driving licence. Alexander Henry Harvard. State of Ohio.
    I peered at the birth date, but not knowing Harvey’s, it meant nothing to me. But I did know he was from Ohio. Shit.
    “If you’re Harvey’s brother,” I said, “what’s his girlfriend called?”
    “Angel. Sweet little thing. Tiny and blonde.” He studied me. “So who the hell are you?”
    “I—I’m Sophie. I’m a friend of Harvey’s. We sort of work together.”
    “Sort of, huh?” Alexander Henry said, and I wondered how much he knew about Harvey’s work for the CIA and SO17.
    He started walking, and I stumbled after him, wincing. These shoes might be pretty, but I wasn’t altogether sure I’d worked out the sizing right and they were pinching and rubbing like a bad Swedish massage.
    “So what’s your business with Shapiro? And what’s my bro got to do with him?”
    “Um,” I said, “I’d rather not talk about it.”
    “And who’s Luke?”
    “My boyfriend. Look—”
    “Where is he?”
    “England. Look, Alex—”
    “Xander.”
    “Xander, right—”
    “Is he cute?”
    “Who?” I was confused now.
    “Your boyfriend.”
    “Yeah, he’s gorgeous.”
    “Got a picture?”
    “What?”
    Xander stopped and turned to me. “Of your gorgeous boyfriend? Can I see him?”
    “Uh—” Completely thrown now, I reached in my bag for my wallet, thinking for a moment that this odd Harvey clone was going to mug me, but he just stood there, watching me.
    “I’m not going to take your wallet,” he said, “I just want to know if you’re after my brother.”
    I frowned, but pulled out a file photo of Luke looking moody. It’s not the best picture of him and he doesn’t even know I have it, because I printed it off the office computer once when he was out. He has his arms folded, he’s wearing a black shirt, his hair is tousled and he looks kind of sallow and hungover, as well he might, because I think it was taken the morning after a pretty bad night out. But he’s still damn fit.
    I watched anxiously as Xander scrutinised the photo in the dark. I was still at the stage where I desperately wanted everyone to approve of my boyfriend. I thought he was pretty damn stunning, but was I being deluded?
    “Nice,” was Xander’s verdict. “Looks pissed off, though.”
    I grabbed my precious photo back. “He always looks pissed off.”
    “Even with you?”
    I scowled at him, and Xander laughed, flicking away his cigarette. “So how far’s this hotel of yours?”
    “Erm, I don’t think—”
    “I’m not going to make a move on you,” Xander said firmly. “Trust me.”
    “Oh, cheers.”
    He grinned, and it was Harvey’s open, friendly grin. “Where are you staying?”
    I knew Macbeth was still in contact, so, feeling safer for having him as back up, I said, “Hotel Philadelphia, on Seventh.”
    Xander looked like he was considering this. “We’ll take the subway,” he said, and I followed after him slightly helplessly.
    My Metrocard was still valid, so I followed him down onto the platform. He seemed to know exactly where he was going.
    “Where exactly on Seventh?” he checked as we went down to the platform.
    “Between 32nd and 33rd.”
    He nodded and switched lines easily, me following along like a little hobbling dog.
    We got off at Penn Station and waited for the Walk sign to turn to our advantage. Xander hesitated outside a grocery, then went in and bought a bottle of vodka.
    “You want anything?”
    “Erm…” Getting drunk with a