Croon stirred awake, a little shocked. He took a quick glance out the window (green hills of Germany smudging themselves over the glass). The brother must have dozed off. <<Yeah, whatever>> he said sleepily. <<Just give me a paella.>>

<<Is that paella with fresh ingredients or synthetic?>> she asked.

What was this, a fucking interrogation? And from this gypsy waif! <<Ultra fresh, naturlich.>>

<<Farmed shellfish, or wild?>>

What the hell was this, one of Cathether's games? <<Whatever you like. But make sure they're Atlantic.>>

<<What: grown in the Atlantic, or an Atlantic species?>> she confirmed.

<<Grown in the Atlantic. And no bio-engineered products, thanks, I'm cutting down.>>

She tapped her ripcage, said <<Bass to the chest.>> Then sauntered off, all tall and prepubescent and gangly. Croon kind of liked her style.

<<A little too young for you, don't you think?>> said a voice. Croon started -- there was somebody sitting next to him! Where the hell had she sprung from -- must've materialised while he was asleep. And -- this took a second or two to sink in -- she was beautiful. <<That's what happens>> he said <<when you let business moguls start setting labour laws. I think it's appalling -- she should be in school.>> And meanwhile Croon was thinking: They always book me double seats, and Catheter ought to fucking know that. So who is she: a spy, or just another god-damned test? I have to be careful here.

<<Rupert Murdoch's the devil>> she said, and she rammed two chopsticks into her head to make a demonic profile. <<I didn't catch your name. Mine's Jenny -- Jenny Pyle.>>

An English name, but he couldn't help hinting a trace of French in that delicious accent -- years spent trawling the Riveria had given him the ear. So who was she fooling here? <<David Boon>> he said, the name of an extinct Australian sportsman -- he was sure she'd never heard of him. <<Nice to meet you, Jenny. Are you travelling on business, or is this a kind of pleasure trip.>> genitals.>>

Her pupils expanded in a silent <<Wow!>> Mim was an attractive woman, and this excessive flirtation was probably unnecessary... then again, they said the 1970s were back in style now. Brugmans felt one of her feet nuzzle up into his, and then Mim continued: <<Still, it's funny though. I would have thought there'd be... you know.>>

She smiled at him then naughtily and he knew it was going to end with with gooey sex under spinning fans and heaped monsoonal skies. But, before he had time to ditch his McPaella and lunge for her across the table she said, as if as an afront:

<<You know Gerald, you haven't mentioned your line of work?>> CASSIUS CROON OPENED his copy of Der Spiegel and looked out the window of his express train (green German hills blurred about 320kph). He signalled a hostess, asked in Sweet Deutsch if he could have a martini.

Cassius Croon was on the case, and what a dismal mission this one was destined to become! A man of his reputation window, 320kph and rolling. Croon ordered a martini. The newspaper article read:

Cassius Croon was something of a simulated lifeform himself, in that he spent his entire life pretending to be something other than what he was just so he could bust other lifesystems open. The PI had ditched his Jacky Brown simulcra in London about 12 hours ago and adopted more of a midEuro, Long Kiss Goodnight look: Tartan jacket and cap, bright green plastic pants, shiny red plastic thongs. All he needed was the seasonal PLO scarf wrapped around his neck and he’d look the perfect Berliner. It was an impressive disguise, one made all the more authentic by his total mastery of the German language. Complex disguises were nothing unusual for this Negro, however: blending into the furniture while maintaining a coffee table charisma was his true forte.

He'd worked for the CIA, MI5, Mossad, a host of industrial and corporate clients... and when Russia privatised its security apparatus he'd probably work for them. He was one of the most renowned agents in the world, a legend of deep surveillance... and now he was tracking down one lousy war criminal who'd probably die before he came to trial. No, it's not worth it he thought, his anger starting to rise. It's just not worth worrying about. The hostess returned with an access code for the train’s Net provider, so Croon opened his laptop and logged on. He was annoyed by the patchy briefing Catheter had given him and felt sure there was more info out there. After all, how could anyone live in a capital city and not trigger the occasional security camera? let alone a woman as supermundane as Bäbel Thorgarten? Something didn’t feel right. Pondering the suspicion he was being played, Croon was seized by a sudden idea: he quickly opened the AltaVista search engine and input Bäbel’s vital stats at the prompt. A moment of immobility, and then the results page whirred into screen: 360 listings, mostly references on art school enrolments, the odd overdue fine... and one official homepage. Croon whistled, amazed.

Christ he thought. That was poor even for the EC!

He doubleclicked on the said link, and the homepage came alive: