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unmistakable as the prime minister came over to join Sir Monty.
     
    Everyone else on the course was busy greeting this important visitor, except Ben, who was watching Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen ease out of the Range Rover after the PM. The course trainer began to walk the group away toward the practise traps they’d set out over the hillside. Ben hung back. Soon enough, he was alone, standing with Nikolas. His boss was dressed, as ever, in an elegant suit, now covered by an expensive cashmere overcoat. Nikolas pushed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders to the cold. He glanced back at the Met officers who had stayed with the vehicles and were now opening thermoses and stamping around to keep warm, then turned back, catching Ben’s gaze. “Good morning, Benjamin.”
     
    Ben grinned. “Morning, sir. Moving in important circles now, huh?”
     
    Nikolas frowned. “You do remember that I am married to the queen’s cousin? I hardly think Dear Leader is going to make me pant with excitement just yet.”
     
    Ben had the immediate and disconcerting image of Nikolas a few days ago panting as he lay upon him, coming inside him. He groaned softly at the memory. “No fair.”
     
    Nikolas smiled. He appeared to have had the same thought. Then he sobered. “A packet of white powder was sent to the PM’s office yesterday. Obviously, it was intercepted and was actually harmless flour, but it disrupted government, and the PM is not happy. He is taking a personal interest in this course and its success, and thus here I am, also taking one. As if I wasn’t already, of course.”
     
    “I think I’ll be meeting the Maffertys tonight and possibly Watson, too.”
     
    Nikolas was silent, toeing the ground. He pouted for a while then pulled a photograph out of his pocket and handed it to Ben. It was of a bearded man kissing another man. The light was poor, and it had been taken with a telephoto lens, but it was unmistakable as Tim Watson and also pretty obvious that the kiss was more than casual. Both men were naked. “So? He’s gay.”
     
    “Yes, and therefore vulnerable and an easier target. It has been suggested to me that you exploit it. Actually, suggestion is the wrong word. It is an order.” He pouted again a little. “Exploit is probably the wrong word, too. Maybe something beginning with an ‘f’ would be more applicable. What do you think?”
     
    Ben dipped his head, caught Nikolas’s lowered gaze and forced him to raise it, not letting him look away. “You’re a cold fucking bastard. Do you know that, sir?”
     
    “Yes, actually, Benjamin, I do. I have my orders—I have had my fucking orders made very clear to me all morning—and now you have yours.”
     
    “I don’t—”
     
    Nikolas turned away and began to walk back to the car. Ben tilted his head up to the sky, willing himself to be calm. He felt a few snowflakes on his face and shivered. His phone buzzed. He pulled it out of an inner pocket, and it was warm in his freezing hand. Dead men cant b resurrected, no matter how much life u have running thru yr veins.
     

CHAPTER EIGHT
     
    By the time Ben got to the pub that night, he was feeling sick with anger and some indefinable emotion he refused to examine. He spotted the same crowd of protestors at the same table, and they called for him to come across and join them. He shook his head and took his beer to an empty table on the other side of the bar. Ironically, what suited his mood—to be alone and miserable—also suited his cover; he didn’t want to seem to be too eager to associate with the enemy. Then a man appeared at his table, carrying another beer and some crisps, and the idea of associating with the enemy suddenly became much more appealing. Ben’s immediate thought was to wish Sir Nikolas bloody Mikkelsen were here to see this.
     
    “Hi, I’m Tim. Tim Watson. I owe you a beer as I hear you bought everyone rounds yesterday.” He was about Ben’s age, late twenties, and