"Hey, Tone."
"Josh, my man. Are you OK?"
"Always. Are you still in contact with Taffy C?"
"Is he still alive?"
"That'll be a no, then."
"Actually, I think he's in London. I'm surprised you want to see him, though."
"If you're talking about the time I interrupted him with three rent boys and a blindfolded donkey, I think he's forgiven me for that."
"And I thought Vikram was the potty-mouth round here."
"Call me back?"
"After I've washed that image from my mind."
"Cheers, mate."
A car cut in front, and Josh braked, slowing right down. He shook his head, continuing at reduced speed; and it was only when the idiot turned off at the exit that a memory returned: dragging a hapless suicide jockey out of his car and throwing away the key.
All I needed was something important to work on.
If the situation here were as bad as the not-so-United States, there would be nothing he could do about it. But for now, so long as general elections took place and public opinion mattered, he could spread the word about corruption in the prime minister's office, hopefully to more effect than some student vlogger trying to warn his fellow citizens about a near-silent coup among the upper echelons of government.
Tony's image popped back up. "Park in Sainsbury's in Richmond, walk out here" – a secondary pane flicked into existence, showing a map – "and Big Tel's taxi will pick you up. RV is seventeen hundred."
"Got it. Where's Taff?"
"Centre of London, Shaftesbury Avenue. Tel has drop-off details."
"OK. Thanks, Tony."
"Give Taff a kiss from me."
"Only if it's no tongues." He killed the comms.
He was in Richmond with nearly five hours to spare, so he parked as close to the great park as he could, changed his clothes in the car, and went running. The highlight was a magical face-to-face with three young deer, who watched him as he crept past, before continuing his run.
A sponge bath at the back of the car – when there was no one around to watch – and he was back inside the vehicle, working with the heads-up, poring through the schematics and interface definitions that Matt had pulled from the Barbican.
"You guys are paranoid," Josh said aloud. "I'm impressed. Unfortunately."
Finally, he shut everything down, and drove to the supermarket for the rendezvous. At seventeen hundred hours and two seconds, he climbed into Big Tel's taxi cab.
After the usual banter, he said: "You free for an op on the sixteenth? By free I mean available, because I'll pay you for it."
"What do I get, like?" Tel manoeuvred the taxi out onto the road. "Straight fee or percentage?"
"Your choice, pal."
"Well, how much are you earning for this gig?"
"Somewhere between zero and nothing."
In the driver's mirror, Tel smiled. "If we're in the big leagues like that, then I'm in for five per cent."
"You fool, you could have twisted my arm for twenty."
"Uh-huh. We're talking heavy duty logistics, are we?"
"Solo insertion, maybe some of Tony's crew for distraction purposes only. I'm working on the details. The infiltration is just me."
Tel navigated a junction, then: "And exfiltration afterwards?"
"Not needed."
"I don't like the sound of that."
"No, it's OK. If I do the job all right, I'll walk out on my own two feet."
"And Plan B?" asked Tel.
"I've reason to believe there'll be medics nearby. With luck, they might help me. Otherwise it's Plan D for dead, so it won't matter."
"Hmm." Tel drove on for a bit, then: "So where's the location, boss?"
"The Barbican."
"The-? You know, the big final's there on the twentieth."
"It is?" said Josh.
"Yeah. But security will be tighter than a duck's rectum, so if anyone was going to like sneak inside, they'd want to lay up early."
"I imagine so."
"Maybe four days in advance."
"Sounds good to me."
"So long as they wasn't thinking of going up against, like, thirty of the country's best professional knife fighters, that would probably be all right."
"Probably."
"Not to mention," said Tel, "close-protection teams with guns galore, on account of the PM visiting and all."
"Not to mention."
"Well." Tel swerved into a side street, one of his famous shortcuts. "You remember Mad Jock, right? Legend of the Regiment?"
"Sure."
"Wait'll I tell people I've had Mad Josh riding in my cab."
"Shit."
"That's what they'll do when I tell 'em."
Just before seven, Josh climbed out of the cab on Shaftesbury Avenue, directly by a side door of the old red-brick theatre. Big Tel drove off, and a male member of the theatre staff, dressed in black, opened the door from inside, and nodded to Josh.
"Alwyn is upstairs." The young man gestured to a narrow flight of wooden treads, darkened with age. "I'll lead the way."
He pushed the door shut – it would only open from inside – then started up the stairs.
"Don't you think this is a wonderful production?" he added. "It's the most fabulous I've worked on."
"Say what?" Josh kept pace as they ascended.
"Nine Princes in Amber. You must have seen it."
"I'm not really into musicals."
"But that's dreadful. Never mind."
At the top of the fourth flight, they turned left, and passed into a huge, high-ceilinged room ringed with dressing-tables and clothes racks… and some three dozen actresses who were naked or near-naked, changing into costume, or applying make-up while their pert, bare breasts bounced with the motion.
"Bloody hell."
Josh had twice known paralysis in the face of lethal danger. This was not quite the same but – there was the most perfect female arse he had ever seen, bending over to pull up her voluminous skirt from the floor. Awe and lust washed through him.
"Oh, dear fellow, do come on."
Looking back, Josh allowed himself to be led into a side room. When the door closed, hiding the beauties outside, he thought he might weep.
"Alwyn, I've brought your friend."
Blinking, Josh turned round. "Hey, Taff. How's it going?"
Taff rolled his eyes, then shrugged to the young man. "I apologise for my philistine friend."
"Oh, I find his rough edge rather a thrill. Or dare I say alluring?"
"Out with you, Freddy. I need to talk to my friend alone."
"Never mind. Ta-ta."
"Yeah," said Josh. "Cheers."
Once young Freddy was gone, Taff grinned at Josh.
"Did the ladies outside bring a lump to your throat? Or somewhere southwards?"
"How can you work here and not turn straight?"
"Dear Josh, you haven't seen the boys' dressingroom."
"Uh-huh." He looked around the shelves stacked with jars, the polystyrene heads on which rubber masks were draped, and empty gloves in the form of greyskinned hands bearing long, curved spurs. "From the show?"
"Of course. Demons, sort of. Makes for a rather nice dance number, their big fight in the first act."
"Er, right." Josh sometimes worked with the soundtrack of Bladefight 7 pounding in his earbeads. That was the nearest he came to associating blood and pain with music. "So I was looking for something to change my appearance."
"That's the only reason you lovely lads ever invite me to Hereford, isn't it?"
"How could we resist you?"
"Excuse me, but what makes you think everyone there rejected me?"
"This, I don't want to know."
"Ah, well." Taff waved at the shelves. "What are we talking about? Meeting up close and personal? Or just smiling for the spycams?"
Josh rubbed his face, trying not to think of perfect breasts. From next door, female laughter sounded.
"Er, mainly cameras, but I'll be in view for some time. I'd like not to be recognised later."
Assuming he survived so there would be a later.