Ayesha glowered at the pub door, her hopes sinking. She checked her phone. Nothing. She sent a text to Zilinsky: Where are you? Eight minutes passed—she timed them. She finished her martini. No reply came to her text. No one came through the door. She rose from her booth, slipped her black leather jacket on over her black tube top. These, together with skinny jeans, leather ankle boots, and a silk bandanna—all black—constituted her uniform. That’s what her best friend, Lady Madrigal Carey, always called it.

Outside the pub, a low hum caused Ayesha to look up. A long cigar shape blotted out the waning crescent moon. One of the new Zeppelins operated by British Airways. She’d been elated when the news was announced that a group of German entrepreneurs funded by an Australian billionaire had revived the Zeppelin company—keeping the name because it was more resonant than airship, or dirigible.

Ayesha had always regretted that airships had come to an end with the Hindenburg disaster, in 1937. They shouldn’t have. The Hindenburg had only been using hydrogen because of U.S. embargoes on the sale of helium to Hitler’s government. That was hardly a problem these days. And with the new synthetic gas mixtures and lightweight metal aeronautical construction compounds, Zeppelins made more sense than ever. The ship overhead had all the lifting power of the Hindenburg, but, at about three hundred feet in length, it was less than a third of its size. She watched the airship until it passed out of sight.

Ayesha scanned the street hopefully. She sighed. No Zilinsky. Or anyone, for that matter. This time of night in the City that was hardly surprising. A lot of people worked there, but not many lived in the area. She hesitated. Go home, to St. John’s Wood? She tapped her foot. She wasn’t in the least tired. Maddy? Ayesha’s closest friend, Lady Madrigal Carey, was nearing a hundred years old, but she hardly slept; Ayesha was welcome at any time of the day or night. But Maddy’s flat was in Mayfair, whereas Ayesha’s place of work, the Walsingham Institute for Oriental Studies, was only a short walk away, in Seething Lane. If she went there she’d be nearby if Zilinsky got in touch.

Her mind made up, Ayesha strode toward Seething Lane, the click of her heels on the pavement echoing from the buildings in the silent street. Gaza. Her sister. The Maltese Falcon. Her thoughts ricocheted at random. She tried to focus on the contents of her inbox—requests for position papers on Syria, the Islamic State, the Libyan situation. Important, certainly. Interesting . . . not.

She was passing the narrow alley on the far side of Trelawney’s Bank when she felt something snatch at her ankle. Shocked out of her reverie, she jerked back and whirled toward the alley, all her old instincts kicking in. Then she froze.

Huddled against the wall of the bank, in the shadows at the entrance of the alley, was a man. At first she thought he was a vagrant, finding shelter for the night. Then she made out his clothing. He was well dressed; his graying hair neatly cut.

“Ryder?” The man’s voice was a hoarse whisper.

Ayesha recoiled at the sound of her own name. Then she stared at the man’s face. She’d only seen a photograph. “Zilinsky?”

“Ja.”

“Where are you hurt? Let me see.”

“No time.” Zilinsky lifted a shaking hand; he held something out to her—a piece of paper. She leaned closer to take it. Zilinksy sagged against her; she lowered him gently to the pavement. She bent over him. His breathing was slow and ragged. The pulse in his neck was faint.

“Ryder.” Zilinsky’s voice was a murmur.

“I’m going to call an ambulance.” She groped for her phone.

“No.” Zilinsky plucked feebly at her sleeve. “The Falcon.”

“Yes?”

“He wants it.”

“Noel Malcolm? I know. He asked me to find it.”

“No . . .” Zilinsky’s grasp tightened on her arm. “. . . Malcolm . . . mustn’t—” His grip loosened. He tried again, struggling to get the words out. “Don’t let . . .”

“Zilinsky?” She felt for his pulse. Nothing. She ran her hands over his upper body. She peered at her fingers in the dim light. Not that there was any need. The smell had already told her it was blood. She rose, reaching for her phone once more.

A car—a black Range Rover—glided along the street toward her. She half raised her hand to hail it; ask its occupants for help. She lowered her hand. Someone in the car was shining a flashlight into the pools of darkness where the streetlamps didn’t reach. Whoever was in the car was looking for something—or somebody.

Suddenly the flashlight was pointed in her direction. The car sped up.

Ayesha waited no longer. Turning, she dived into the alley. She raced to the back of Trelawney’s Bank. Swiveling on her heel, she looked back. A man, very tall, with the build of an athlete, bald head gleaming under the streetlights, stood over Zilinsky’s body. Her eyes narrowed. She’d seen him before. Where? Something in the man’s hand. A gun. Another man joined the bald one, then two more. Bad odds. She knew when to stand and fight, and when to run. Tonight, for now, valor must give way to discretion.

The alley was in near-total darkness but Ayesha knew it well, and where it led. Her pursuers—Zilinsky’s killers she was sure—wouldn’t find her. Not until she was ready to fight back. As she ran, one thought was uppermost in her mind—the hunt for the Maltese Falcon had been fascinating. But that had been a tame affair; lacking excitement. It seemed things had picked up a notch or two. In the darkness no one saw her smile.