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up in the UK with a character like Garcia?’
    He got no answer. Until the absent-minded PA forgot herself completely and said, ‘The Feds know why your baby is here. Phil had a chat with the FBI guy in Los Angeles earlier on Skype. They know all about it . . . You’re beautiful! Yes, you are! Yes, you are!’
    Mac could feel his temper rising steadily through his chest and up towards his tongue. He took a deep breath and forced it back down. ‘What do they know?’
    Shazia suddenly seemed to remember her instructions from her boss. ‘I don’t know – you’d have to ask Phil or Agent Tom Bracken from the FBI in LA.’
    In the car as they returned to the office, Shazia was pensive and silent. When they pulled up, she turned to Mac. ‘I shouldn’t have told you that about the mother and Tom Bracken. You won’t say anything to anyone will you?’
    Mac squeezed her arm. ‘You haven’t told me anything and I’m off the Garcia case now so it wouldn’t matter if you had.’ He looked up at Phil Delaney’s office. ‘Besides, what could I do with that information anyway?’

Six
    The following morning, on his way to work, Mac bought a pay-as-you-go mobile from a 24-hour shop that supplied everything but didn’t do receipts or returns. He called Stephen Foster. It was still only 7.30 a.m. but the lawyer sounded as if he’d been at work for hours.
    He was curt. ‘Meet me at my club at 2.00 p.m. Bring a passport-sized photo with you.’ Then Foster rang off.
    It was eight when he got to the office; he went to see Shazia and asked if Phil was in yet. She avoided his eyes but told him Phil had texted her to say he was stuck in traffic but he would be there shortly.
    ‘How long’s shortly?’
    ‘How long’s a piece of string?’
    ‘Can I wait?’
    She was still avoiding his eyes. ‘Sure.’
    ‘In his office?’
    She abruptly made eye contact. ‘Of course not.’
    Shazia went back to work while Mac took a chair that was placed between her desk and the door to Phil’s office so he could see inside. He peered in through the glass partition and noticed the window was ajar. The PA sat with her back to the office door guarding its entrance. The room was sound-proofed so no one outside could hear what was going on within. It was midnight in Los Angeles.
    The plan Mac decided on was a ludicrous risk but it was all he had.
    ‘I’ll tell you what Shazia – can you bell me when Phil gets in? I’ll be in my office.’
    ‘Sure, no problem.’
    Mac hurried down to the ground floor and went to the stores. He asked the supervisor if he had a length of the black and red rope that the police use to cordon areas off and a pair of rubber gloves. When they were produced, Mac refused to sign for them, telling the super, ‘Come on mate, it’s me and I’m in a hurry. I’m a cop; I’m not going to steal them am I?’
    As causally as a man with a length of red and black rope can be, Mac took the lift up to the fifth floor and went into an empty meeting room. He dropped the rope on the floor and put on the rubber gloves before flinging open the window. Below, the street was crowded with commuters going to work. But that, Mac reflected, was the great thing about London commuters. They never look up. Even if the sky goes green, they don’t look up.
    He measured off enough rope to take him to the floor below and then secured the remainder around a leg of the table that dominated the room, paying out the rest of the rope down to the window on the next floor. Then he felt the rope with his gloved hands, established a good grip and climbed onto the sill. He tugged on the rope one more time to m ake sure it secured tightly and then began to climb down the outside wall to Phil’s office.
    As he kicked against the wall and wound his hands down the rope, he felt a surge of triumph in his veins. This again was the undercover work where he’d made his name. Dangerous work: against the clock and with the ever-present threat of