Conscious of the ironic smirk behind his back as he feebly hauled on Double-A’s padded door, Jake slipped outside into the sanctuary of the quiet corridor. Gripped tightly in his left hand, he bore the sheet of notepaper on which his boss had obligingly written a name and contact number. As with other unusual entreaties he had made to his employer, Sir Clive had fielded this one with familiar aplomb.
An appeal for ‘a competent psychic medium, not one of those charlatans,’ had to rank high on a hypothetical chart of quirky requests. Nonetheless, he had emerged from his chief’s office with what he wanted and without having to account for why he needed to contact Abigail Phoenix-Mace. That a spymaster should refrain from being inquisitive struck Jake as an honourable display of faith in his
