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front seat at his luggage. “You here for a visit?”
    â€œNo, business.”
    The cabby handed a card over the back seat. “Well, if you want to see the town, just look up ’Appy ’Arry.”
    Kenyon read the card. “Happy Harry,” it said. Underneath was cell phone number, then “Chauffeur Services, Guided Tours. Don’t start the party without me.”
    â€œThanks, I’ll keep it in mind.” Kenyon tucked the card into his wallet. He wondered what “Don’t start the party without me” included.
    As Kenyon settled into the back of the cab, Harry glanced into the rearview mirror. “This your first time in London, guv?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œYou in a big rush to get to this here address?”
    Kenyon shook his head. “Not really.”
    â€œWell, why don’t I take you by some of the sights, like? Won’t cost but a few quid more.”
    â€œGo for it,” said Kenyon.
    Harry turned a corner and headed south, bumping down a cobble stoned lane. The cabby pointed to a series of low, ivy-covered brownstone buildings. “This here’s the Temple, where all the barristers have offices,” he said. “Dates back almost eight hundred years, it does, to the time when the Knights Templar owned it.”
    The cabby drove past several historical ships docked by the bank of the Thames River, then turned down another side street. “Scotland Yard started out here in the 19th century,” he explained, pointing to a large, nondescript building. “They moved to new quarters a few years back.”
    The mention of Scotland Yard reminded Kenyon that he should call the office in San Francisco. He glanced at his watch. It was almost four local time, which meant it was about eight in the morning on the west coast.
    Harry entered a wide boulevard that was jammed with tour buses. Hordes of tourists crowded the sidewalks, taking pictures, and gawking at the buildings. “Look up to your left, way up,” said the cabby.
    Kenyon strained his neck to look out the window. High above him stood the famous face of Big Ben, the clock that marked time over the Houses of Parliament.
    The cab circled a large square. “That’s Westminster Abbey on the right, where they had Diana’s funeral.”
    Kenyon peered at the ancient cathedral, finely decorated with statues and stained-glass windows. “It’s beautiful,” he exclaimed.
    â€œYou think that’s something—let me show you where Her Majesty lives.”
    Harry angled his car through several side streets, before emerging beside a large park. Buckingham Palace was an immense building bordered by a high, wrought-iron gate. In front of the palace was a memorial to Queen Victoria; the gold-covered statue of the monarch sat regally on a throne, surrounded by marble acolytes.
    â€œThat’s about it, guv,” said Harry. “We should be gettin’ along, before the traffic builds too much.”
    â€œFine by me,” replied Kenyon. It was time to call San Francisco, anyway. He reached into his jacket and took out his cell phone. Within a few seconds, he was talking to the FBI ’s main switchboard. “Hey, Sally? It’s Jack.”
    â€œHow’s England?” asked the receptionist.
    â€œJolly and old. Can I speak to Marge?”
    There was a pause before Sally came back on the line. “No, she’s not in yet. Do you want to talk to Jasmine?”
    â€œYeah, put me through.”
    His partner answered after two rings. “Leroi here.”
    â€œHey, Jazz; it’s Jack.”
    â€œJack! How’s everything going in London?”
    Kenyon shifted Lydia’s ashes in his arm. “Well, there’s been a few surprises, but otherwise, pretty good. How’s the Cyberworm investigation going?”
    Leroi lowered her voice. “Not good.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWe couldn’t hold Dahg. He walked