Geraint began leafing through his massive collection of brochures. "I have a feeling he’s down as a teleconferencer: not attending seminars, just watching from his hotel room. It’s what the paranoids do if they don’t want a legion of trolls with automatic weapons around them every second of the day. But think it’s just possible that at some stage he might want a face-to-face with someone over a few drinks. Let me check this out and get back to you. Give me-no, not a couple of hours. Meet me here for lunch."

Geraint leaned forward and fixed the American with his steely gaze. “Don’t do anything crazy in the interim. If it is Kuranita, you won’t be able to get to him unless you’ve got a grenade launcher with you. And even that might not be enough. He may be booked into the Chiltern, but he’s probably staked out on the other side of the building.”

Serrin nodded his acquiescence. "Yeah, I guessed that. Every other room in the place has a barrier up, too. I tried just a tad of snooping last night, and had a pair of security mages show up within five minutes to gently warn me against further attempts. I think I’ll just get my pants pressed by valet service or something.”

“Trousers, boy, trousers! You’re not back home now. Speak bloody English.” They laughed as Geraint got up from the bony remains of his kippers, then pulled down the jacket sleeves to regulation half-past his shirt cuffs. Serrin smiled at the gesture, unseif-conscious as it was. The nobleman always was that cool and elegant, except just that one time all those years ago.

“Hear from Francesca at all?" Serrin asked, trying to make the question sound like a throwaway. Geraint had been waiting for it all along.

“She moved to London eighteen months ago. Flies out to Jersey a lot, likes the beaches there. One of the few places left where you can walk along without tripping over other people every step of the way. She’s doing fine. I had dinner with her a few days ago. Look her up, she’d like that."