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was getting cranky and paranoid and needed a good night's sleep.
    Groaning inwardly, Donovan did as the commissioner instructed. “A scotch, thank you, Commissioner.” Donovan nodded to the seated senator and pulled up an armchair opposite the man. He reached for his packet of cigarettes and realized, with a stifled curse, that he'd left them downstairs on his desk.
    Banks, grinning wolfishly, leaned forward and pulled a large, walnut cigar case from inside the folds of his jacket. He offered it to Donovan, who thanked him and took one gratefully. He didn't much like cigars, but he supposed it was better than nothing. He pulled the ignition patch and watched it flare.
    Montague talked as he set about fixing Donovan's drink, taking a decanter from a small mahogany dresser that stood against the far wall. “You don't know Senator Banks, Donovan?”
    Donovan smiled at the senator. “Only by reputation, I'm afraid.” He was careful to make it sound like a compliment. In reality, however, Donovan did only know the senator because of his reputation. His name had cropped up more than once during the investigation into the Roman's crime syndicate, connected to the cabal of corrupt individuals who had funded the crime boss's power station project down in the Battery.
    There hadn't been enough evidence to haul him in on a charge, however, and unlike the other members of that small group, Banks hadn't gone and gotten himself murdered by the Roman's goons. Whether that was because he really hadn't been involved or because he'd been so significantly involved that the Roman had chosen to keep him alive, Donovan couldn't be sure.
    Commissioner Montague, of course, had dismissed all notion of conspiracy, preferring to believe Banks was clean and that it was only to be expected that the condemned men would have had dealings with other, innocent members of the Senate. “Some of them had probably even met the president,” he had said loftily, “and we're not about to bring him in for questioning, are we?”
    Donovan had wanted to respond that, yes, if the president had been implicated in a plot to unleash a dangerous interdimensional beast on the city, he would have absolutely considered it his duty to bring the man in for questioning. Wisely, however, he had bitten his tongue.
    And now Banks was here, in the commissioner's office, and Donovan had to wonder what the hell Montague was getting them involved in.
    The commissioner crossed the room, handed Donovan his drink, and then took a seat in a chair beside the senator. Donovan felt like he was about to be interviewed for a job. Perhaps he was.
    “Well, here's to your health, gentlemen.” He saluted both men with his glass and then took a long slug, enjoying the sharp hit of alcohol, the long fingers of warmth that spread throughout his chest.
    The commissioner cleared his throat. “Felix, Senator Banks is here to discuss some urgent business with us, and I hope that you will listen carefully and give him your full attention.” Montague leaned forward in his chair, his gray mustache bristling. “It's a matter of national security.”
    Donovan blanched at the commissioner's patronizing tone but nodded heartily, sliding his drink onto the coffee table and meeting Banks's gaze. “Of course. How can I be of service, Senator?”
    Here it comes , he thought. About these abductions…They're making our figures look terrible.…
    “We have a spy in our midst, Inspector,” said Banks, his tone ominous. “A British spy. We have reason to believe he is in possession of information that could threaten our national security.” He leaned forward, chewing thoughtfully on the end of his cigar. “We're talking about the safety of the entire country, here, Inspector. We're talking about war with the British Empire.” He sat back, allowing his words to sink in.
    Donovan didn't know what to say. He took a long draw on his cigar. It tasted stale. A spy? “You mean here, in the police