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mug.’
    ‘Do you want me to make it a double? That’s longer.’
    ‘No. I find espresso too strong. Look-‘
    He scanned the menu board for the appropriate description. Latte. Mocha. Espresso. Ristretto. Mochaccino. Cappuccino. Iced Mochachino Latte…
    ‘It must be Americano,’ he said eventually. ‘That looks the closest.’
    ‘Americano!’ the girl shouted to her colleague and, given that there were four or five people queueing up behind him, Taploe felt that he could not now change his order.
    ‘Is that a shot of espresso with plenty of boiling water?’he asked.
    ‘That’s right, sir,’ she said, pointing to the counter on her left. ‘Your order’ll be ready in a few minutes. Can I help anyone please?’
    Taploe had found a small round table at the rear of the basement where any conversation would be drowned out by the tapping of computer keyboards, the quack and beep of the World Wide Web. Twenty or thirty people, mostly students, were crowding up the seating area.
    Taploe sensed Keen before he saw him, a sudden intimation of good taste and disdain moving through the room. He was wearing a long, darkovercoat and carrying a small white cup of espresso in his right hand. Taploe was reminded of a Tory grandee.
    ‘Christopher,’ he said.
    ‘Stephen.’ Taploe’s view of his joe was already coloured by the basic antipathy that existed between the organizations to which both men had dedicated the bulk of their working lives. But the sense Keen gave off of living in an infallible bubble of privilege added a particular hostility to his contempt.
    ‘Did you find the place all right?’ he asked.
    ‘No problem at all. But it’s bloody cold outside. They say it might snow.’
    ‘Well, thankyou for agreeing to the meeting at such short notice.’ Taploe sipped at his coffee but found that it was still too hot to drink. ‘I hope we didn’t put you out.’
    ‘Not at all. I have a dinner engagement in the West End at nine o’clock. The timing was rather convenient.’
    Slowly, Taploe drew the tips of his fingers across the wooden surface of the table. It was an unconscious manifestation of his anxiety, and he was irritated with himself for showing it.
    ‘Can I get you anything from upstairs?’
    Taploe could not think why he had asked the question. Keen simply lowered his eyes and indicated his espresso with a downward nod of the head.
    ‘Oh yes, of course.’
    There was an embarrassed silence that Taploe eventually broke.
    ‘This shouldn’t take long,’ he said. ‘It was just to find out about your enquiries.’
    Keen could see a Japanese student poring over notes held in a loose-leaf folder to the right of his chair. If Taploe considered this a secure environment in which to talk, he would take that on trust, but keep his remarks general to the point of being obtuse. Christian names. No specifics. Operational shorthands.
    ‘My view is very straightforward,’ he said. ‘If the lawyer is involved to any extent with the Russian organization then my son knows nothing about it. That would indicate to me that this is something that is happening only at the very highest level within the company. That is to say, only Thomas and perhaps Sebastian know anything about it.’
    ‘What makes you so sure?’
    ‘Body language. A certain openness about the way he answered my questions. No obvious nerves. As our American friends might put it, Mark is out of the loop.’
    By his expression, Taploe seemed unconvinced.
    ‘What did he say about the lawyer?’ he asked.
    ‘Nothing that you won’t already know. Bit of a chancer, man about town. Taste for what certain people regard as the finer things in life. Champagne, oysters, bliads .’
    Keen assumed correctly that Taploe would recognize the Russian slang for prostitute.
    ‘Is that right?’ He pursed out his lips. ‘To what extent is he involved in that when he’s in Russia?’
    ‘Happens mostly in Moscow, by the sound of it. You know the form. They hang