Chapter 1
The Gulfstream kissed the runway at Heathrow without a bounce or a squeak and Colin Wren took off his headset, pleased with
how he had set her down, aglow from six hours above the Atlantic, no one but him and his cute little copilot, Ron, a twenty-nine-year-old
with bubblegum-pink lipstick and a mess of curly brown hair. Ronnie, he knew, was debating with a couple of friends whether
or not Colin was down to F. He knew because he had read the last six weeks of her text messages that morning. Colin didn’t
go anywhere with anyone without reviewing their emails and messages and call history, even if he had known them for years.
I could pretend I dropped something on the floor of the cockpit and then blow him at 30,000 feet what do you think y/y? was one message.
Y! I still think he’s gay but he can shut his eyes and pretend you’re a dude, replied her friend. He probably loves you have a boy’s name and no tits.
Colin had to laugh at that. Ronnie’s friends were as spunky as she was. As for finding out whether or not he was gay, Ron
would have to wait a few days while he took care of some business in the southwest of England.
They had a Mercedes with black-tinted windows waiting for him on the runway. It drove him six hundred feet to a VIP entrance.
That was all it did, drove people like him from their private planes to their private entrance. He felt a little sad for it,
a hundred thousand dollars of brand-new CL-Class Benz, with black leather seats and a massive twelve-cylinder under the hood,
condemned to ferry wealthy fat-asses across a distance they could’ve walked. A young man used a scanner on his passport in
the small room where people like him passed through border control without waiting in line.
“What are you going to do in London for three days, Ron?” Colin asked her, while they rolled their baggage down a sterile white hallway that would lead them to the main lobby in Terminal 5.
He was being polite, he already knew her plans.
High Tea at Fortnum an afternoon shopping at Harrods; shopping for lingerie at Agent Provocateur that she hoped but was not sure she would get to use before the weekend was out.
“I’ve got a hotel room at the Savoy,” she said, “with a view of Big Ben. Do I have to do anything? Can’t I stay in bed and
have men with sexy English accents bring me mimosas?”
He noted how she made sure he knew where she was staying. Not that he didn’t already know. He didn’t need spyware on her phone
for that . . . it was right on the company credit card.
“You should stop by if you get a chance,” she said. “They have an amazing bar. They imported a bartender from Scandinavia
to make special Scandi drinks you can only get there.”
“What’s in a special Scandi drink? Ground-up, fermented gnomes?”
“You’ll have to stop by and find out, d-doll,” she said, and blushed. “Damn it, I can’t believe I tried to call you ‘doll.’
I’m so bad at this. Guys usually make passes at me. Did you hear me stammer just now? I used to stammer as a kid—I was a hopeless case until sixth grade.” She gave him an affectionate,
embarrassed look—her cheeks were flaming—and he grinned and touched her elbow.
“You’re talking to a man who is allergic to his own hair,” Colin said. “No apology required. Let’s see how things look when
I’m back in London.”
When they passed through the door and into the reception area on the other side of customs, she was swinging her overnight
bag and looking like she wanted to whistle.
Arthur sat at a table for two in Café Nero, beardy and professorial in a woolly Fair Isle cardigan and shabby corduroys, his
smooth head capped by his brightly colored Nepalese smoking hat. He rose and took Colin into a hug, both of them as physically
comfortable with the other as brothers.
When Arthur loosened his embrace, though, his brow was furrowed with worry. “Are you ready for this? Where we’re going—it’s dangerous. I’ve taken every precaution, but it could all go sideways very quickly.”
Colin patted Arthur’s stomach. “You haven’t taken every precaution or you wouldn’t have let your gym membership lapse. What’s this, Paddington? Can’t resist the donuts in the teacher’s
lounge?”
Arthur stepped back, considered his podge, lifted his chin proudly, and said, “A certain girth is only natural for a man of
wisdom and education. History is littered with rotund fellows that contributed greatly to the world’s store of knowledge.
Think of Chesterton. Orson Welles. Jonathan Belushi, PhD of brewskis. I could go on.”
“You know why history is littered with ’em? Cause they fell dead on their fat asses.” They turned toward the exits, Colin
rolling his carbon-steel suitcase behind him. “Besides, I don’t recall you had the option of leaving me out. I don’t want
to brag, but I only needed six weeks to solve a problem you’ve been working on for most of a decade. You knew what it was
going to cost you.”
“I do. It’s what it might cost you—that’s what I’m worried about.”
Arthur led him out into a concrete courtyard and a spitting rain. He flipped up the hood of his parka and stuck his hands
together so they disappeared into the sleeves.
He looked more than ever, Colin thought, like a grave and friendless monk. It was impossible to imagine him throwing back
popcorn and laughing in a movie with a girl—even with Gwen—but easy to imagine him lighting candles for vespers and looking
forward to a nice private scourging in a cold cell later.
“You can sleep on the ride if you like,” Arthur said. “Personally I think it’s mad to go south tonight.”
“I’m not tired. I’m energized. I’ve never seen a troll before. I’ve dealt with hundreds of them online, but this is the first
one I’ll be meeting in person.”
“Trolls online,” Arthur mused. “What a thought.”
“It’s the second age of the trolls. They’ve returned from a ten-thousand-year sleep in Mirkwood to post dick pics on the internet.”
“You think you’re being funny, but some of them probably are trolls . . . and I’m not speaking euphemistically. I have reliable information that the Russians are farming them. They grow
trolls like potatoes in the permafrost of Siberia,” said Arthur.
They had stopped at a car, a vile Austin Mini Metro, mustard yellow, a little cube of a thing sitting on comically small tires.
Going from the Gulfstream to Arthur’s Mini was like stepping from a bullet train onto someone’s toboggan.
“Arthur, are you fucking with me? Because that would be very out of character for you.”
Arthur had a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth, but only threw open the driver’s-side door and told him to stow
his stuff in the back.