EGGIE CAMPION drove her ten-year-old dented Smart Car City-Coupé from her flat in London past Leavesden to the north and continued on for a few more kilometers. After meandering through narrow country roads she turned off onto a one-car-wide dirt lane, eventually passing through lichen-covered stone columns that bore the name “Harrowsfield,” which was the property she was now on. Her gaze then carried, as it usually did, up the twisty crushed gravel drive toward the old crumbling mansion.

Some claimed Rudyard Kipling had once leased the estate. Reggie doubted that, although she believed it would have appealed to an author who had created such marvelous, intrigue-laden adventure stories. It was a vast place, jury-rigged in parts, with secret doors and passages, stone turrets with cold chambers, an enormous library, corridors that ended in solid walls, an attic filled with equal parts museum-quality artifacts and junk, a rabbit warren of a cellar with musty bottles of mostly undrinkable wine, an antiquated kitchen with a leaky roof and exposed, sparking wiring, and enough outbuildings to house several army battalions on over a hundred hectares of neglected grounds. It was ancient, falling apart, smelly, mostly uninhabitable, and she loved it. If she’d had the money she would have purchased it. But Reggie would never have enough money for that.

She often stayed overnight here. A hopeless insomniac, she would wander the dark mansion for hours. It was then that she thought she could feel the presence of others who also called Harrowsfield home though they were no longer among the living. She would have preferred to stay out here full-time. Her flat was small, basic, in an undesirable part of the city, and was still more than she could afford. She had cut back on luxuries such as food and clothing in order to get by. She had certainly not chosen this career path for the income potential.

She parked the car in front of the old carriage house now turned into garages and a workshop and saw that several people were there ahead of her. She used her key to open the door into the mudroom of the mansion and a little chime was heard. An instant later a broad-shouldered muscular man a little under six feet and in his thirties emerged from an inner room. He was holding a cup of tea in one hand and a customized nine-millimeter pistol in the other, and that was pointed at Reggie’s chest. He was dressed in tight-fitting, snake-hipped corduroy pants, a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and slim black leather loafers with no socks despite the damp chill that was normal for Harrowsfield even in the heat of summer. His fierce dark eyebrows nearly met in the middle of his forehead and his shaggy brown hair hung down to them.

On seeing her he slipped the gun in his shoulder holster, grinned, and took a sip of his tea. Whit Beckham said, “Eh, Reg, you shoulda rung up when you hit the gateposts. Almost shot you. Be in a funk for weeks if I did that.” His robust Irish accent had softened over the last few years to where Regina could understand almost all of what he said without the services of a translator.

She slipped off her jacket and hung it on a wooden peg on the wall. She was dressed in faded jeans, a burgundy lightweight turtleneck sweater with the collar turned up, and black ankle boots. Her hair was returned to its original shade of rich dark brown and was secured at the nape of her neck with a tortoiseshell clip. She wore no makeup, and as she stepped into the light thrown through the windows, one could see, though she was only twenty-eight, the beginnings of a fine web of lines around her wide, intense eyes.

“My mobile never manages to work round here, Whit.”

“I reckon it’s time to get a new mobile service then,” he advised. “Tea?”

“Coffee, the stronger the better. It was a long flight and I didn’t sleep much.”

“Coming up.”

“Brilliant, thanks. Dom here? Didn’t see his motorbike.”

“I think he parked it in one of the garages. And it’s not a motorbike.”

“What then?”

“It’s a crotch rocket. Has to do with horsepower and such, see?”

“Right, interesting stuff, male toys.”

He gave her a look. “You doing okay?”

She feigned a smile. “Smashing. Never better. You do it once, it gets easier each time.”

His face creased into a frown. “That’s a crock of shit and you know it.”

“Do I?”

“Keep in mind that Huber killed a few hundred thousand people and got away with it for over sixty years.”

“I read the same briefing papers you did, Whit.”

He looked put off. “Well, maybe you need to take some time off then. Recharge.”

“I am recharged. Only took that long flight and a couple of drinks to do it. Colonel Huber is extinguished from my memory.”

Whit grinned. “You sure you’re not going mental on me?”

“No, but thanks for asking. So who’s here?”

“Usual suspects.”

She checked her watch. “Early start?”

“New job, everyone gets a bit giddy.”

“Including me.”

“You really sure about that?”

“Don’t be a prat. Just get me the damn coffee.”