Scene: The Inferno Club, Soho, London — 11:47 PM

The Inferno Club was doing its level best to live up to its name. A five-piece band was assaulting a Beatles cover with fuzz-pedal abandon while a go-go dancer twisted inside a steel birdcage suspended from the ceiling, her silver boots catching the strobe light like shattered mirrors. Cigarette smoke hung low and thick, curling around the chrome-and-black vinyl booths, where deals were being made and undone over gin fizzes and underpaid informants.

Matt Helm was in the corner booth, nursing a bourbon that had gone warm fifteen minutes ago. He'd positioned himself so the strobe lights would hit anyone approaching before they saw him. Old habit. The Minox-14 “Dart Camera” sat on the table next to his drink, the lens cap off, patiently waiting for something worth photographing. For the past half hour, the most interesting thing in the room had been a sweating Russian attaché trying to dissolve a cyanide capsule in his martini without drawing attention to himself.

Helm lit a cigarette and exhaled smoke through his nose. Somewhere in Geneva, a madwoman was building a doomsday satellite, and here he was, watching a man fail to commit suicide properly.

Then the woman happened.

She slid into the booth across from him without asking, which already put her ahead of half the intelligence community. She wore a simple black shift dress that shimmered under the lights, a heavy gold necklace, and the kind of calm, amused expression that told Helm she'd been in this club before and probably owned the place by now.

“You've been staring at that drink for eleven minutes,” she said, nodding at his bourbon. “Either it's very interesting, or you're here to meet someone and they've stood you up.”

“Both,” Helm said. “I'm photographing the ambiance. The drink's my cover.”

“Amateur.” She gestured at a waiter who appeared with a perfectly chilled martini and a thin silver dish of olives. “A cover should be convincing. You look like a man who lost five hundred dollars at the tables and is trying to remember who he lent his car to.”

Helm almost smiled. “You've been reading my file.”

“I don't need to read files. I have eyes.” She lifted her martini. “Jane Goodbody. British Foreign Office. Special Liaison section.”

“Does that mean MI6, or the department that makes sure the Crown doesn't accidentally invade Switzerland?”

“It means I'm the person they send when they need someone competent.” She sipped. “You're Matt Helm. ICE. Cover: glamour photographer. Divorce final last April, alimony payments to two ex-wives in Los Angeles. You have a habit of breaking other people's cameras and a suspicious affection for televised golf.”

“Anyone ever tell you your bedside manner needs work?”

“Only my enemies.” Jane set her glass down and produced a manila envelope from somewhere — Helm would have sworn she hadn't been carrying one. She slid it across the table. “Operation Hera. The weather satellites everyone thinks are for farming.”

“I've heard of it.” Helm didn't touch the envelope. “I've also heard it's the most boring project since the Common Market.”

“The Common Market doesn't have a Swedish industrialist named Carl Petersen secretly funding it. And Petersen doesn't have a female partner called Sumuru who believes the world would be better off if men couldn't fight back.”

Helm raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a ladies' auxiliary meeting gone wrong.”

“It's worse than wrong. We think Sumuru has found a way to weaponize the platform. Not with bombs—with a chemical compound that turns men into… obedient house pets.” Jane's lip curled, not from distaste, but from the sheer audacity of the plot. “Imagine every general, every president, every head of state, suddenly unable to say no. For a year or two. Long enough to reshape the world.”

“Jesus.” Helm picked up his bourbon and drank it properly. “And you want me to stop her.”

“I want you to cooperate,” Jane corrected. “Her Majesty's Government has already contacted Commander Drummond. The Americans are leaning on Derek Flint, though Flint, of course, refuses to cooperate with anyone until the weather's to his liking.”

Helm grunted. “Drummond and Flint. That's my team? A bulldog with an antique pistol and a man who talks to his seagull?”

“They're the best we have,” Jane said. “And you're the only one who's scored a direct hit on an iceberg-infested ocean liner with a camera.” She tapped the envelope. “There's a microdot inside. It contains the names of three Hera engineers who are scheduled to disappear within the next seventy-two hours. They're being picked up by a man named Petersen's security detail. We need to get to one of them first.”

The music hit a screaming guitar solo. Helm scooped up the envelope and tucked it inside his jacket.

“Anything else?” he asked.

Jane smiled. “Yes. That waiter who's been pretending to wipe the same glass for six minutes. He's wearing a silenced Walther PPK in his jacket pocket, and he's been staring at the back of your head since I sat down.”

Helm slowly looked past Jane's shoulder. The waiter was indeed approaching, a towel draped over one arm, the other behind his back, a tense but practiced look on his face.

“His aim's good,” Helm said. “But his timing's terrible.”

He raised the Minox-14 and fired the flash attachment at the waiter's face. The powerful strobe erupted in a blinding, white-hot bloom, and the waiter staggered, one hand flying to his eyes, the other coming up with the pistol—already firing blindly.

Helm grabbed Jane by the wrist and pulled her down behind the booth. Bottles exploded somewhere behind them. The band stumbled into a jagged chord as screaming patrons scattered.

“Miss Goodbody,” Helm said, “do you have a weapon?”

“I was hoping you'd ask.”

Jane produced a small, flat Derringer from her garter, leaning around the edge of the booth and firing twice. The waiter went down with a grunt, his pistol clattering across the dance floor. A second man emerged from the shadows near the stage, raising a snub-nosed revolver, but Jane threw her martini—glass and all—into his face. He yelped and stumbled just long enough for Helm to vault the booth and slam him into the DJ's table.

The song died with a screech of feedback. Helm stood up, straightened his tie, and looked at the unconscious man at his feet, then at Jane, who was already sliding the Derringer back into her garter.

“You're rather good at this,” he admitted.

“I know.” Jane retrieved her purse from the booth. “And now you believe me about Sumuru.”

Helm looked back at the two bodies, the shattered bottles, the terrified patrons. “I believe something's going on. But you still haven't told me the best part.”

“What's that?”

“If I'm going to work with Drummond and Flint, I want top billing.” Helm smiled, picking up his camera. “Because one of us has to be the sensible one.”

Jane walked past him, trailing the faint scent of Chanel N°5 and cordite. “I wouldn't count on it, Mr. Helm. Rumor has it Flint once talked a nuclear reactor into shutting down by singing to it.”

Helm followed her out into the London rain, his grin widening despite himself.

Somewhere, a satellite winked in the dark sky, and the world got a little more dangerous.