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Now he was fully professional, a thief who understood that any misstep would likely be his last. Jimmy wished for more light than was provided by the single torch he had brought along. |
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The King struggled to see who was speaking. His eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment, then became clear. Who is speaking? The magician? Yes, Borric's magician. |
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Quite possibly no human being could have understood. Kenmuir shoved the question aside. His flyer was slanting downward. Santa Monica perched neat above the ocean, several hundred three- or four-story viviendas ringing their cloister parks, intermingled with bubblehouses, red-tiled Spanish Revival casas, and occasional eccentrics. |
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He crossed to Ellen's door, and knocked on it. The only sound from inside was a moan. It's me, he said. Grillo. Can I come in? Without waiting for a reply he turned the handle. |
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A Jet Ski cuts across the view on a wall of spray. I put the glasses down and let them hang from my neck while I light another Silk Cut. I'm standing on the roof of an empty freight container on a bit of waste ground near the shore in a village called Roseneath, looking out over the Gare Loch, watching the Vanguard arrive. |
