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was, it emerged, engaged to be married. The ring, which he’d noted immediately, was a deceptive ruby.
    So, that settled that.
    Philly now looked up with an infectious smile. “James, hello! . . . Why are you looking at me like that?”
    “I need you.”
    She tucked back a loose strand of hair. “Delighted to help if I could but I’ve got something on for John. He’s in Sudan. They’re about to start shooting.”
    The Sudanese had been fighting the British, the Egyptians, other nearby African nations—and themselves—for more than a hundred years. The Eastern Alliance, several Sudanese states near the Red Sea, wanted to secede and form a moderate secular country. The regime in Khartoum, still buffeted by the recent independence movement in the south, was not pleased by this initiative.
    Bond said, “I know. I was the one going originally. I drew Belgrade instead.”
    “The food’s better,” she said, with studied gravity. “If you like plums.”
    “It’s just that I collected some things in Serbia that should be looked into.”
    “It’s never ‘just’ with you, James.”
    Her mobile buzzed. She frowned, peering at the screen. As she took the call, her piercing hazel eyes swung his way and regarded him with some humor. She said, into the phone, “I see.” When she had disconnected, she said, “You pulled in some favors. Or bullied someone.”
    “Me? Never.”
    “It seems that war in Africa will have to soldier on without me. So to speak.” She went to another workstation and handed the Khartoum baton to a fellow spook.
    Bond sat down. There seemed to be something different about her space but he couldn’t work out what it was. Perhaps she’d tidied it or rearranged the furniture—as far as anyone could in the tiny area.
    When she came back she focused her eyes on him. “Right, then. I’m all yours. What do we have?”
    “Incident Twenty.”
    “Ah, that. I wasn’t on the hot list so you’d better brief me.”
    Like Bond, Ophelia Maidenstone was Developed Vetting Cleared by the Defense Vetting Agency, the FCO and Scotland Yard, which permitted virtually unlimited access to top secret material, short of the most classified nuclear-arms data. He briefed her on Noah, the Irishman, the threat on Friday and the incident in Serbia. She took careful notes.
    “I need you to play detective inspector. This is all we have to go on.” He handed her the carrier bag containing the slips of paper he’d snatched from the burning car outside Novi Sad and his own sunglasses. “I’ll need identification fast—very fast—and anything else you dig up.”
    She lifted her phone and requested collection of the materials for analysis at the MI6 laboratory or, if that proved insufficient, Scotland Yard’s extensive forensic operation in Specialist Crimes. She rang off. “Runner’s on his way.” She found a pair of tweezers in her handbag and extracted the two slips of paper. One was a bill from a pub near Cambridge, the date recent. It had been settled in cash, unfortunately.
    The other slip of paper read: Boots—March. 17. No later than that. Was it code or merely a reminder from two months ago to pick up something at the chemist?
    “And the Oakleys?” She was gazing down into the bag.
    “There’s a fingerprint in the middle of the right lens. The Irishman’s partner. There was no pocket litter.”
    She made copies of the two documents, handed him a set, kept one for herself and replaced the originals in the bag with the glasses.
    Bond then explained about the hazardous material that the Irishman was trying to spill into the Danube. “I need to know what it was. And what kind of damage it could have caused. Afraid I’ve ruffled some feathers among the Serbs. They won’t want to cooperate.”
    “We’ll see about that.”
    Just then his mobile buzzed. He looked at the screen, though he knew this distinctive chirp quite well. He answered. “Moneypenny.”
    The woman’s low voice said, “Hello,