Now. I got out of the SUV and walked toward one of the two guards standing outside the lengthy driveway that curved up toward Hera’s mansion in St. John’s Wood. The large metal gates, and a nearly ten-foot, red-brick wall with spikes on top, stopped people from gaining easy entry to the property; the guards were just a nuisance, albeit, if their jackets were any indication, an armed one. I stood well back while Olivia spoke to them, showing her credentials. One of the guards, a large man with a South African accent, made a call on the radio and nodded as the reply came back in his earpiece. “You can go in,” he told us and opened the gate without another word. We walked up the drive to the massive white house that sat in an elevated position above the main road we’d pulled up on, as if the owners wished to be able to look down on everyone around them. A lofty goal in a place with as many million-pound properties as St.
