Johnny fancied a cigar and a big snifter of Courvoisier. He strode down to Churchill’s, a new Itaewon gastropub with a North African menu and backroom humidor. The glassed-off antechamber was comfortably furnished with wing-tipped leather chairs and copies of the latest Financial Times on long wooden news grippers. Today it was empty; maybe the place was too new to have caught on yet. He’d savored three puffs of his Cuban leaf when his MoPho buzzed in his jacket pocket. Withheld number: that had been happening lately, calls he’d miss, and no left messages. He’d no time for games like that—but then again, it could be the lab. “Mr. Joh-nee?” A voice he hated whined in his ear. “Look. I said I’d call you.” “I sorry, very sorry, but emergency. You can talk? Private?” Johnny took a swig of his cognac. “Better make it snappy, Ratty.”
