My name is Old Mule and I'm an addict. It's been one day since my last story…

Okay, having blagged from Aristotle and Shakespeare, my next admission is that it's now Elton John. Just listening to a song … (it'll be pretty obvious which one) and it's forced this into my head. So in order to wean me off the habit for a while here's a wee one, in 2 or 3 chapters.

"Any sign Alpha One?"

"Negative."

"Alpha Two."

"Clear."

"We've been played," Harry announced.

"Looks like it." Adam muttered, taking out his earpiece.

"Question is, why?"

"You think it's a decoy?"

"Could be. Or it could just be false intel. Either way I don't like it. It gives me an uncomfortable feeling."

Harry tugged at his dickie bow, which was feeling annoyingly tight. It wasn't, he was just getting irritable.

"You and Ros get back to the grid and keep your ears open."

Adam nodded, "What about Zaf and Ruth?"

Harry glanced behind them to see Zaf charmingly proffering a tray of champagne.

"Leave him, just in case."

He searched the rest of the great hall. It dripped with decadence and money, old and new. His eyes tried to pick her out but he could not. He'd not seen her all evening.

"Where's, Ruth?"

"With the Chinese delegation, they're still in the ante room with the Foreign Secretary. Bet she's parched."

"Well, there's not a lot she can do. Leave her, at least she can manage one glass of something obscenely expensive to make some part of this bloody night worthwhile."

Harry repatriated himself to the bar intent on indulging in the oldest malt he could find.

Zaf worked the room, a sentinel, eyes and ears poised.

Ruth, finally released from translating the singularly most tedious debate about free trade and import duties, accompanied the Chinese delegation into the hall and seeing Zaf beckoned him over, relieving him of the sparkling contents of his tray.

"Anything happening?" she whispered.

He shook his head and moved on.

Harry was systematically working his way through the pleasures of the Highlands but as much as he relished the burn it hadn't relieved him of his ill humour.

A wild goose chase, loose ends and black-tie boredom. He had better things to do.

And then he looked up.

In the least well lit corner the room, near the terrace window, amidst a sea of black dinner jackets floated an image that stopped the glass at his lips, the breath in his lungs and the beat in his chest.