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email and memorandum traffic between Taikon’s various global offices as every scenario was considered and played out to possible end games. Nothing would be left to chance. It occurred to me that George already knew my fate if my theory was proved wrong. In fact he was probably responsible for implementing any plans.
    â€˜I’m right, George, Superforce is the real deal, you can trust me.’
    â€˜Oh I do, Jack.’ He spoke with some menace to remind me of his authority.
    â€˜Now, George, enough of work. Are you going to introduce me to your friend?’
    Obviously, from the degree of his wince, he could think of nothing worse. He hopped from one foot to the other. After all, George knew better than anyone what went on backstage. ‘Of course, how rude of me.’ His voice was edged with fear. ‘Jack, let me introduce Lucy.’
    â€˜Lucy, delighted.’ I kissed her hand, an old-fashioned gesture I know, but one I felt she might appreciate. Poor George positively bristled. The perfume on her wrist was fresh and expensive. Her fingers lingered on mine as she slowly withdrew them. ‘Tell me, Lucy, who’s your favourite, John Lennon or Paul McCartney?’
    â€˜Sorry?’
    â€˜If you had the choice of either Lennon or McCartney, which one would you like to spend the evening with?’
    She giggled. ‘Oh, I see. I think it would be McCartney.’
    Pretending to catch the nod of someone across the room, I made my excuses, to the amazement of an open-mouthed Lucy and the relief of a sweating George, and left. Bebe replaced my empty glass with another filled with tequila and ice before I approached the second woman on my list. I swallowed half the drink in one long gulp. My head was entering a familiar grey zone and I was feeling mellow. She was standing alone. ‘Hi, my name is Jack Mitchell.’
    â€˜Angel.’ She dragged on a cigarette and blew smoke to the side as she discarded her name like a piece of rubbish. In contrast to Lucy, Angel’s make-up was heavy, hiding a row of spots on her chin.
    â€˜Pleased to meet you, Angel.’ Her face was pleasant enough with its frame of black hair, whereas her body positively simpered in her dress. ‘Tell me, who would you rather spend the night with, Lennon or McCartney?’
    â€˜Lennon,’ she said without hesitation.
    â€˜I thought so.’ I leant forward and whispered in her ear, to which she nodded and walked to Bebe, who stood at the side of the party watching. Together they left. I’d marked her with the smallest nod at Bebe, like a cat marking a favourite garden post.
    The party died an hour later. Near the end, Lucy left with George, glancing at me over her shoulder, pleading for an understanding. She knew Paul McCartney was the wrong answer and wanted—no, needed—to know why. Unfortunately I was in no mood to ease her despair. Once they left, only two groups of guests seated on opposite sides of the room remained, slouched in chairs, drinking wine straight from the bottle as they laughed at their silly slurred jokes. Bebe was in the doorway, hovering. He sought me out and casually told me he’d spoken to some people about Driesler and it was still looking good for me with the Nobel committee. I never asked Bebe how he knew these mysterious people: I just accepted that after all his years at Taikon it was natural. I thanked him with a stroke on the shoulder, which was warmly accepted with a grateful smile, and downed another tequila.
    Angel was waiting in my hotel room. She sat in the middle of a huge burgundy sofa, holding a cigarette aloft in one hand, a drink in the other and her legs crossed, jigging her airborne foot to a secret tune. The sofa cushions were soft and she’d sunk deep, pulling her already short skirt higher to reveal a stocking top. She acknowledged me with a professionally indifferent nod and took a long pull on her cigarette. Without speaking I pulled