I thought it might be, and I thought this had to be the reason that Caradoc Gwynion had brought him here, to my Academy of Traditional European Martial Arts.
Yes, it was obvious. Nizar and I were destined to cross swords.
As the final chords of the Toccata faded, and their echoes died inside the stone edifice of the church, I began to play the opening bars of William Walton’s Crown Imperial march.
It was almost midnight before I left. The minicabs and people carriers were long gone, back to their own part of town. The unlovely stripe of the Commercial Road was nothing but streetlamps and brake lights, noisy vehicles and neon signs. But even here, in the tainted metropolis, you could sense the seasons changing. Summer was coming, when all the pent-up tensions of winter would be released.
I pulled on my helmet and mounted the Triumph Tiger.
I usually check the bike over when it’s been left unattended - in my line of work, you can never be too careful - but for some reason, that night I did not. And since the bike was garaged overnight, I didn’t check it in the morning either. It was only when Tom Buchan came into my office at 9.05 with a sheepish look on his face that I knew something was wrong.
What I didn’t know was that it was the beginning of a week that would change my life entirely.
