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international affairs, of news programs and documentaries, newspaper reports, magazine articles and books. The impressive database that was Mike Hollis' mind was far-reaching and it threw up several possibilities: all political, all abroad.
    'You didn't catch any hints? Even what part of the world he's on about?'
    'Nothin' at all,' Gojo shook his head. 'Mind you, he's no very talkative at the best of times!' Gojo and Jordan had never met: the London connection had always been just a gruff voice on the telephone line. Taciturn to a fault, but then under the circumstances it was hardly surprising.
    Hollis glanced up at the gray and threatening April sky. They could debate the thing at leisure later but for now–– 'You'd better get your stuff in from the bike before it gets soaked.'
    Gojo scowled at the gathering clouds. 'Fuckin' place, rains every day!' he grunted, making for the door.
    'Use the same room you had last time, no-one's been in it since.' Hollis called after him.
    'Right.’
    Two days later, the Range Rover crossed the Tomnahurich Bridge over the Caledonian Canal into the outskirts of Inverness, braking to maintain a safe distance behind the rusty and battered Ford Granada which had slowed drastically before negotiating the bridge. 'Stupid bastard!', muttered Hollis. 'How much would a new pair of shocks cost you, f'r chrissake.' He watched the Granada's front end wiggle unevenly over a drainage manhole cover in the roadway, waiting for two vans and a motorcycle to pass before pulling out and past the elderly Ford.
    Passing the County Buildings he turned left into Montague Row with a dog-leg at the far end and a sharp left turn into Kenneth Street. The manoeuvre missing out a busy and always frustrating traffic junction. Less than a hundred metres along he turned right into Celt Street and found a space well down, right beside the River Ness; running high and fast today, filled with melt water from snow on the upper slopes of countless mountains. Parking was always at a premium here and totally hopeless in the town centre outside the two large multi-level carparks. Hollis hated these concrete monstrosities, they reminded him of prisons.
    He turned the key, hearing the central locking buzz, before walking briskly round the corner and onto the old-fashioned pedestrian suspension bridge over the river. He shrugged into his coat in the gusty wind, watching the traffic queuing as the evening rush-hour got going. If Jordan wasn't answering his phone he would have something to eat before calling back. Maybe the steak-house at the corner along there, or his other favourite, a small hotel in the Kingsmill area of the town.
    Only one of the four phone booths outside the Post Office was occupied, Hollis chose the end one furthest away from the doors, feeding coins into the box, leaning on the glass and dialling.
    Ringing tone. Two. Three.
    'Lo?'
    'Roosevelt'.
    'Thatcher. How ya doin' old buddy?' The voice was lazy, almost bored, but Hollis knew better. Both men listened for bugs. It was all right to talk; if Jordan had company he would have said Nobody called that here, bud , and hung up.
    'God knows. The Glasgow man says you've been looking for me.'
    ‘Jesus, that's for sure! Some people are very keen to get in touch with you. A salesman called on me a few days ago, representing some foreign buyers. They're looking for a full set of plans, but there's a strict deadline. Very strict.' It was different every time: trucker, shopkeeper, builder; whatever Jordan took a fancy to. He knew Mike Hollis would follow any lead he gave without comment; they were both well versed in this type of speech-code.
    Hollis watched the reflection in a shop window: the man in the dark gray overcoat. He was banging his gloved hands together, walking back and forth, adjusting his hat, one hand in a pocket now and looking this way and then the face opening in greeting as she came out of the Post Office and walked prettily across to meet him. Relax