"What else do ya remember, Ms Feinstein?"

"Nothing much," she lamented. "I've told you all of what I can recall already."

"Right," his voice gravel, the itch for a cigarette growing. "Let's go over it one more time then."

One more time, then a smoke is on the cards.

Mr Crawley did enjoy cigarettes, an imported brand being the preference. He smoked prodigiously and was a man of many vices and attachments. An aficionado of trenchcoats. A connoisseur of fedoras. A lover of single-malt, though on occasion an aged bourbon was acceptable. A driver of Cadillacs. Big on cynicism, wearing sunglasses when not required, pork sandwiches and connecting the occult to the mundane. Not a fan of alimony, his first ex-wife, his second ex-wife, alligators, reptiles in general and heights. Of medium verticality, average rotundity, erratic profundity and questionable morality, he had dark hair, appreciable cheekbones and a natural grimace that would scare small children. Private investigator by trade, Crawley was every bit the hardboiled, noir fool he imagined himself, catapulted from 80 years ago into present day. Yet, no longer a PI, because, well, it was Agent Crawley once more, was it not?

Duty, patriotism and all that other complete nonsense they used to earbash an honest man with -- that was to blame.

Sadly, the ploy had worked.

Save the country, save the world.

"Six feet, one or two inches. Strong, like maybe he worked out some. Short dark brown hair, swept back from the temples. An angry look, though he didn't act that way."

"Mmm," grunted Crawley, "and yammerin' about the Fear."

"Yeah." She nodded, tearful. "I feel terrible that I couldn't do anything."

"Don't worry yerself, Ms Feinstein. Those bastards are cunning as they are mean. Not much you could've done." He patted her shoulder awkwardly and stood. "Thanks for yer time."

The guard at the door buzzed him out, and he strode into the warm street air. Exiting the Order premises, he leaned against his ride, a black Cadillac 61. Tapping the packet ends, he tore the wrapper off and withdrew one. A flick of the lighter and then he inhaled deeply, the tip glowing. The packet was stowed and an old flip cellphone came out.

Four keypresses later it was ringing.

She picked up on the third tone.

"Afternoon Celeste."

"Yep. Saw the security tapes. Had a jaw with the poor gal. Got her statement."

"Nah, no doubts. Has to be Nero. Slippery bugger has a true name. I'll learn it."

"Not yet, ma'am. Got some clues though. Jus' keep yer watch. Call ya when I know more."

"That'll work. Ciao."

He snapped the phone closed and put it away. It was going to be a trying few weeks, months. He really didn't want to be involved with all this high drama. Sighing, he took a long drag on the cigarette and looked at his watch. Is it too early for a drink?

Already, he felt like he needed one.