"Chief Sudbury," the Prime Minister said as soon as he entered the room.

"Sir," the woman replied curtly, but returned the warm handshake.

"And Agent Faust," he turned to the other woman. "It really is my pleasure to have you here. Would you like a drink?"

/\/\/\/\/\/\

Something hissed. Not like a snake, but much softer and quieter. Just on the verge of making you wonder whether or not you can actually hear it. But he was quite certain of it – and then it stopped.

Solomon Lane was standing in the middle of his small holding room, listening intently. He looked up at the grey strip that was his air vent. Was that it? He stepped closer, onto his narrow bed and sniffed, then recoiled immediately when the air stung on the inside of his nose. Something had glinted inside, like matte metal, but there was no time for that. He jumped back down, tried to get low, inhaled deeply, coughed, and for a moment he felt better before the invisible cloud descended on him. He smelled chlorine burning in his nose. His eyes were tearing up. The pain wasn't severe, but he felt it working its way into his mucose membranes.

He stumbled to the door and banged on it with all his strength.

/\/\/\/\/\/\

"My point is that since the incident with my wife two years ago I feel like you can't be overcautious what concerns security."

"Which incident, sir?" Faust asked.

Sudbury replied first. "She was attacked the night Solomon Lane was first apprehended. She was found and safely returned after just a few hours."

"By the late Alan Hunley, as a matter of fact. Regrettable business that, very regrettable..."

"In every way, sir," Faust said.

The Prime Minister let a second pass, then he continued, "Fortunately nothing happened to my wife, apart from the shock. But the security breach remains."

"We've taken additional steps since then," Sudbury added.

"For which I'm very grateful. My staff and I have drafted a few ideas about how to make the public get that same sense of security. I would like to hear your opinions..."

/\/\/\/\/\/\

"It's probably some minor irritation," Harris said. "Did you have a cold recently?"

The guard, who had gotten hold of the medic after the inmate's frantic knocking, bit back a grin. Lane didn't reply, just narrowed his face into a bitter mask. The smell of chlorine had dissipated in the few minutes it took her to get to his holding cell.

"Maybe it's the beginning of a flu. Happens to the best of us," she said drily. "I'm gonna give you some eye drops, that should do the trick for now. If you would be so kind to tilt your head back."

There was something about her voice he didn't like. On a different level than he hated everyone else. But his vision was still blurry and the burning didn't cease, so he leaned back and tried not to flinch when she held his eyelid open. He felt her inhuman rubber gloves on his temple.

The drop of clear liquid from the small plastic phial hit his pupil. First left, then right in quick succession.

Lane blinked, and for a moment he felt fine again. The burning sensation had stopped.

Then he felt it. What had been so soothing at first turned out to have been nothing but momentary numbness. His eyeballs felt as if they were on fire, sending that same excruciating impulse through his entire body, burning out every neural pathway. Lane squeezed his eyes shut after a last intake of blinding light. He shifted in his seat, tried to curl up, to sink his head into his lap – but the danger came from within, and his limbs wouldn't listen to him anymore. In an uncoordinated motion, his arms flared out and then collapsed down his sides.

Deep down, he already knew it was too late. Solomon Lane screamed.

"He's having a seizure," Harris said.

The guard at the door found she looked flustered, which didn't contribute to calming his own nerves.

"It could be a neurological event or an apoplectic insult, get me Skeffington, stat!"

"Yeah, yeah," he hurried to say and rushed down the corridor.

And then, as soon as the guard had left them alone, Lane realised his mistake when he heard the whisper close to his ear. The pleasant London accent had given way to something sharper, very clear and heavy on the S. This time Lane recognised it instantly, even though this was the first time they were directly face to face. He wanted to hit her, let her experience the pain he felt, tried to lash out, but he had no control over his body anymore, irreversible pain was all there was, ruled by the white-hot burning in his head.

"Remember, Lane," the woman said, deadly quiet. "The greater the suffering..."

He couldn't see anymore, but his hearing was perfect despite the static wheeze his screams had succumbed to.

"...the greater the peace," she finished.

This was how it was going to end - in the SIS building at Vauxhall Cross with a couple of eye drops.

Peace could not possibly be this great.

/\/\/\/\/\/\

The cells in the holding tract weren't cells in the classical sense, since this was an administrative building that officially had no business holding suspects when the police might as well do it. They looked almost homey. Like spartan bedrooms of people with no private life. In a way that was accurate.

There weren't many and at no point had every single one been in use at the same time, but tonight the guard on duty saw something that had never happened before.

One of the doors was open. Not just unlocked, but standing a crack ajar. As far as he knew the inmate of that one had just been brought in last night, the fairly cute French girl, or not French, but close, one of those small ones at the coast – none of that mattered right now.

He stepped closer, felt for the gun at his hip, unsure if it was too soon to call for back-up. He carefully nudged the door open all the way.

The cell was empty.