The part he caught was about a particularly messy murder of a prostitute in the East End, hardened policeman turning white or green or similar implausible shades, blah blah, blah. Serrin reached for the remote and ran his fingers over the buttons to switch to trideo. The picture shimmered into focus instantly-not bad for an average hotel box-only to show some airhead prancing around a weather display that suggested Britain was doomed both to rain and garbage breakfast entertainment for some months to come. He eased his long legs over the edge of the bed and creaked to his feet.

"Message for you, Mr. Shamandar,” the telecom crackled with a cheerfulness utterly unsuited to such an hour of a British morning.

"Thanks, go ahead,” Serrin wheezed, spluttering back his thick, early-morning cough.

"Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones cordially invite you to a business breakfast in the Chippendale Suite at nine o’clock. They politely request that you be prompt. Thank you for taking this message." The voice squeaked into silence.

Serrin headed for the bathroom opposite the bed, and wrenched the tub’s brass hot-water tap into life. One of the few things he appreciated about Brits was the ambivalent quality of hotel baths: lots of towels, excellent, subtly perfumed soaps, and appalling plumbing and cold bathrooms. The chill guaranteed that you’d want to stay in the hot water of the bath purely to survive. The plumbing, however, guaranteed that every bathtime was something of an adventure; would you get enough hot water to fill the respectably large tubs before it ran lukewarm?

Francesca had told him that it was solely the principle of the thing that made Brits refuse to use decent chiptech in their hot-water systems. Baths, they seemed to think, shouldn’t be enjoyed too much. It offended their puritanical asceticism. At the time he’d assumed that it had more to do with plain, old-fashioned British inefficiency. Strange that thoughts of Francesca should cross his mind now. It had been five years since they had last met.