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Lion," replied Davenport. "I could do with the walk. Just been with Commissioner Hutton for the past two hours. The Yard, as usual, is a bloody madhouse."
    "Something domestic, Sir?" asked Morgan.
    "A little," Davenport replied evasively. "Let's say, he's owed me favours for years and I've called them in. I just dropped in to check on progress."
    "How's the leg?" asked Morgan, as he strode along beside his boss. "This cold weather's no bloody help, I can tell you," he grumbled in response. For almost 20 years he had lived with a piece of Iraqi shrapnel embedded within his right knee, the result of a near miss that had ended his career with the Special Air Service. A string of surgeons had been consulted over it and, despite the pain and endless irritation, the unanimous decision had been reached by the medicos that the shrapnel was best left where it was, rather than risking amputation of his leg. As a result, Davenport lived with the metal embedded in his knee and over the years, had developed a limp. On cold days, like today, the limp became pronounced and the General notoriously ill tempered. "You could do with a haircut, by the way. You were supposed to be out in Australia working. Not on a bloody holiday," growled the older man.
    Morgan simply nodded with a grin in response, as the two of them strode past Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. They crossed over into Whitehall just as Big Ben chimed twelve. The London Eye, or 'that bloody abomination', as the General routinely referred to it, looked on from across the Thames as they walked into the Red Lion.
    To spare the General's knee, rather than going upstairs to the restaurant, they chose to order lunch at the bar. The Lion was sufficiently busy enough for them to discuss what they'd come to discuss, albeit guardedly, without fear of being overheard. Morgan bought drinks and Davenport found a ledge near a window looking out onto Whitehall. Under the watchful gaze of Lord Stanley's modestly sized portrait that hung above them, Davenport, half-standing, half-sitting against a stool, stretched his long legs out in the hope that they would thaw and give him some respite from the pain.
    "So what's the score?" asked Morgan returning, handing over a glass of whisky to Davenport. He slipped onto a stool opposite his boss, sipping a pint of Guinness. "You haven't given much away so far."
    "There's been a development while you were in Australia, a significant one and the reason I dragged you back here so quickly. You did very well out there, Alex. So, I'm going to throw you in the deep end."
    'Im all ears," Morgan quipped. He had wondered at the rapid turnaround on that last assignment. The HMAS Albany had barely come alongside in Darwin, before he was recalled to London, leaving the Aussie navy to deal with the weapons haul from the Marengo. Whatever casualness the Director-General of INTREPID had been evincing evaporated as he drew in his outstretched legs and began formally briefing his agent.
    "Two British SIS agents operating in Malfajiri recently disappeared. They were involved with a British private military company. An outfit called Chiltonford. You've heard of them?"
    "I know them, Sir," said Morgan with a slight nod. "Good crew by all accounts."
    "That's consistent with most views on them, mine included," Davenport said. "Britain has opted not to make any formal military commitment to Malfajiri, so the Foreign Office sanctioned Chiltonford to provide security and training support to the Malfajirian government. Training advisers, vehicle convoy escorts, protection of expats involved in the country's mining operations. Exactly the tasks they've conducted in other parts of the world for years, and still are. They have an exemplary record. SIS were supposed to be babysitting; keeping an eye on things." He held Morgan's eyes momentarily. "All of the expected tasks were apparently going along nicely until the first SIS agent disappeared, followed in reasonably