DÉTENTE The boy resembled the Descended Christ. A Regnault, perhaps, the crisp white underwear in place of a loincloth. Tick-tock, baby. Tick-tock. My mind buzzed. What the hell was going on? The masked figure returned to Kum’s prone form. He held something in his hand. Some instrument of torture, I imagined, but the angle of the plate glass and the glare of the huge surgical lamps conspired to obscure it from my view. I gazed down at the youth, noticing the tiny handful of wiry hairs scattered over the hard, flat pads of his chest muscles. In my mind, conflicting thoughts tumbled over one another. He’d been in at the death of Vyvyan Hooplah. Then, on the train, he’d tried unsuccessfully to warn me off. Finally, he’d shot dead Whitley’s contact in the Hagia Sophia. So what had he done to displease his masters? Why was he lying there, presumably about to suffer some unspeakable agony? The lad lay completely still, leather straps binding him tightly to the operating table. Was he already unconscious, I wondered, or merely sleeping?
