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nothing.
    He’d have been tempted to believe there was a serious malfunction somewhere in his equipment, had it not been for the peripheral noises in Simon’s flat—the unmistakable sounds of someone pouring himself a stiff drink, having a shower, drying his hair.
    There was the sound of a motor on the roadway outside, and Ian got up to have a look. A tall woman with shoulder-length black hair was climbing out of a taxi. She paid the driver, then let herself in through Simon’s front door.
    Wife , Ian noted on his log. 18:45 .
    The recorders on the dressing table began to whirr. Mrs. Darrow was in a conversational mood: renovations to the cottage in Epsom, a neighbour’s marital troubles, Simon’s upcoming appearance at a charity benefit, Mrs. Darrow’s recent picture in a glossy magazine, their plans for the evening.
    Everything but Simon’s meeting with Evan at Tower Bridge.
    Simon had switched on the television in one of the rooms. Ian listened as footage of armoured personnel carriers and tanks in the streets of Moscow was shown, with comments supplied by CNN reporters…as the voice of Boris Yeltsin was broadcast, denouncing the coup…and a source close to the State Committee on the State of Emergency denied rumours that Gorbachev was dead.
    Checking his watch, Ian rang his father on the mobile phone he’d brought in from the van.
    “I don’t think this is working,” he said. “Simon’s either totally unconcerned or so totally terrified he can’t even bring himself to ask his wife for advice.”
    “She probably doesn’t know anything about his previous career, old son. After all, there are things I routinely kept from your mother. The day is young. What are his plans?”
    “They’re doing a play tonight and then they’re going back to Epsom.”
    “Which play?”
    “ When She Danced ,” Ian said, consulting his notepad. “It’s got Vanessa Redgrave in it.”
    “Hang on.”
    There was a moment of silence while his father paged through an Evening Standard . “Globe Theatre, W1, eight o’clock,” he said. “One day in the life of Isadora Duncan.”
    “Don’t drive fast in an open car if you’re wearing a long scarf,” Ian said, humorously.
    Evan didn’t say anything.
    “I’ll let you take over from me as soon as they leave,” Ian said. “I’m going to Epsom. And by the way, you got the story wrong.”
    “Which story’s that?”
    “ Hansel and Gretel . The crumbs and the gingerbread house. The children drop pebbles as they’re being led into the forest, and they follow the pebbles back to their own house. The next time they’re taken into the forest they drop breadcrumbs, but the crumbs are all eaten up by the birds. So they wander around lost until they hear a little white bird in a tree singing a beautiful song, and they follow the bird, and it’s the bird that leads them to the gingerbread house. Not breadcrumbs.”
    There was another long silence on the other end of the telephone.
    “I just thought you’d want to know,” Ian said.
    “Go to Epsom,” his father advised.

Chapter Five
    Wednesday, 21 August 1991
    If, Evan thought, Simon Darrow had felt any need to consult with a third party over his dilemma, he certainly hadn’t exercised the option while they’d been listening. In fact, the two days that had passed between the time of their first encounter and now had been remarkably humdrum, the only highlight being the telephone call Simon had made to Evan to confirm an agreed-upon time and place for their second meeting.
    Evan scrutinized the studio he had appropriated for the afternoon. It belonged to the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, and was located in an unpretentious office building in Great Titchfield Street, several blocks north of Oxford Circus.
    The studio was small and windowless, furnished with a desk and a PC, an array of overhead TV lights on a track, a remotely-controlled camera fitted with an overhead teleprompter that was linked to the screen of the