Evan had spent the last two hours getting into character. He’d listened to Gunnar Einarsson’s favorite Scandinavian death-metal bands—on earphones, so as not to scare Trent—while applying his neatly trimmed beard, inch by inch, using an advanced silicon-based adhesive that wouldn’t dissolve even in this morning’s drizzle.

Yet despite Gunnar’s sympathy for the British Values Party, when Evan arrived at their “Value our Britishness” anti-immigration rally, he was relieved to see they were far outnumbered by pro-immigrant counter-protesters.

He stopped for a moment on the street corner, pretending to answer his phone.

“All stations from Zero Two,” he said into the microphone on his jacket cuff. “Eyes on Backspace and Alt-Tab. Visual signals only, going forward.”

Detective Sergeant Fowles’s radio crackled. “Copy that, Zero Two,” she said. “Good luck. Zero One out.”

Evan tugged down his knit cap to be sure the earpiece was covered, then pushed through a group of protesters, hoping that none of them knew him in real life. At least Ben was halfway across the city preparing for a wedding.

At the march’s gathering point, Jordan stood near the unfurling BVP banner. He brightened when he spied Evan.

Jordan clomped over in his combat boots, beaming like a kid whose best friend had just showed up at his birthday party. “Thanks for coming!” he said, as always speaking loudly and slowly, as though Gunnar wasn’t fluent in English like most Norwegians.

“Thanks for inviting me.” Evan waved a dismissive hand at the counter-protesters. “Who are all these people who hate free speech?”

“Och, they always show up—and more of ’em each time. These leftists reproduce like rats, just like the people they think they’re helping. Here, sign.” He handed Evan the clipboard. “Fill in my name where it asks how you heard of us.”

Do you get a free autographed Mussolini poster for every ten referrals? Evan flipped up the plastic sheet protector and wrote Gunnar’s information. “Who did you mean, ‘the people they think they’re helping’?”

“Immigrants,” Jordan said. “They’re better off going back where they come fae. Some of those countries are pure shite, but at least they fit in there. Everyone’s got a place in the world, and Britain can’t be that place for everyone, know what I mean?” His eyes widened. “Nah, I don’t mean you, mate. I’m not against, like, all immigration. Just for the yins who cannae…you know.”

“Assimilate?”

“Aye. It’s about values.” He pointed to the word on the BVP banner. “How do you say, ‘value’ in Norwegian?”

“Moral.” Evan emphasized the second syllable. “Spelled like in English.”

“That’s brilliant, man.” He took back the clipboard and flapped it like a wing. “I pure love how many words are the same in both languages. It proves our ancestors were badass Vikings.”

Instead of delving into linguistic history, Evan pointed to the tall, blandly good-looking blond standing behind Jordan speaking into a radio. “Who’s that?” he asked, though he already knew.

“That’s the yin started all this. Oi, David, here’s the Norwegian lad I telt you about.”

“Base out,” the man said into the radio, then tucked it under his arm and extended a hand to Evan. “David Wallace. Gunnar Einarsson, right?” As they shook, he tugged Evan closer and spoke in a low voice. “I confess I looked you up to be sure you are who you say. Impressive history.”

“Mmm.” Evan gave the standard Norwegian modesty shrug. He knew the BVP had already checked up on him, according to the agents who’d been put in place to reinforce his cover. Gunnar’s “impressive history” included a loose association with a right-wing fringe group, as well as an egregious lapse in child-maintenance payments for his three-year-old son—whose mother was the girlfriend who’d left him for another woman.

David turned to Jordan. “Be a good lad and pass around the signs, would you?”

Jordan’s smile faded, but he did as he was asked, scooping up a pile of the placards and making his way toward the marchers.

“I’ve been dying to meet you,” David said to Evan. “Making international connections is crucial to our long-term vision.” Despite the Scottish surname, Wallace hailed from Birmingham in the English Midlands, though he had but a moderate “Brummie” accent, with just a hint of the singsongy quality.

“How so?” Evan asked.

“It’s all about bringing our ideas into the mainstream. We’ll be more accepted if regular folk can see we’re part of a global movement. Gotta trade boots for suits, know what I mean?”

Evan knew what he meant but wanted to hear and record more, so he put a hand to his ear. “Heh? Sometimes I hear English wrong in loud places.”

“Sorry, mate.” Wallace spoke more slowly. “We need fewer guys who look like that.” He tilted his head toward a cluster of Jordan’s leather-clad skinhead friends, their thick, bare arms adorned with fascist-coded tattoos. “And more guys who look like you and me.”

Evan mirrored his smirk, hiding his own dismay. Wallace was more dangerous than he’d thought. While Jordan fitted the neo-Nazi stereotype, Wallace looked like he’d just stepped off a Marks & Spencer business-casualwear display. No doubt this media-friendly “everyman” would soon be on TV making seemingly civilized arguments for mass deportations.

“Look at these protesters, Gunnar,” David said. “What do you see?”

Evan scanned the crowd, which seemed composed mostly of university students. “I see a lot of naive young fools.”

“And I see potential.” David’s clear green eyes took on a faraway look. “Any one of them could join us tomorrow.”

Right, because they’re white.

David pointed to the ground they stood on. “Mark my words, mate. This is where it starts.”

“Gunnar!” Jordan was waving at him. “Come and meet my pals from the lodge.”

Evan wanted to know what Wallace meant by “This is where it starts,” but one of his assigned priorities was to collect names of Orange Order members involved with the BVP. Mingling with Jordan’s Orange associates—who were much more vanilla-looking than his skinhead mates—Evan tried to gain as much information and take as many photos with his lapel camera as he could without looking suspicious.

Finally the march began, moving up Buchanan Street. The throng of counter-protesters grew in size and passion, overflowing the pavement despite police efforts to corral them.

A few marchers bailed in the face of opposition, worried their pictures might be posted online and lose them jobs, customers, or friends. Jordan railed at each deserter, calling them cowards, while Evan envied their escape. The humid air was making his fake facial hair itch even more than usual. He longed to yank it off and go home—or better yet, join the protesters.

They neared the rally point at the top of Buchanan Street, where a podium had been set up for the BVP speakers. Here the crowd of counter-protesters was at its thickest and fiercest, forced to stay on one side of the street so the BVPers could take the other side.

Tucking his chin to hide his face as much as possible, Evan scanned the participants. At this end of the road, the protesters were a more diverse group of all ages and ethnicities. They were modern-day Scotland—or at least modern-day Glasgow.

His gaze froze on one face, towering above the others. You’ve got to be kidding me.

Standing across the street, holding a sign reading Immigrants Make Us Great, was none other than Evan’s ex-boyfriend Fergus. Beside him stood his husband, John, waving a sign and chanting at the top of his voice.

Evan pulled out his phone and frowned at it. “It’s my boss,” he told Jordan.

The lad’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “You’re not going to work, are you? We’re outnumbered here.”

“No, it’s about a job tonight. I’ll be right back.”

Evan ducked into an alleyway and put the phone to his ear. “Zero One, do you read? Zero Two,” he said, identifying himself into the police radio transmitter.

“Go ahead,” said DS Fowles.

“Just spotted a close associate. Highly likely I’ll be recognized. Require strategic extraction.”

“Roger that,” DS Fowles replied. “Zero Two, can you make an excuse and leave?”

“Negative,” Evan replied, thinking of Jordan’s fury at the others who’d abandoned the rally. “Can you arrest me? Forcibly, if possible?” He recited his exact position.

“Zero Two, I’d be delighted. Heading your way now with a two-man tactical team who know the score. Once I’m in position, come at me and pretend you’re going for a weapon. Then I’ll…”

Evan waited for her to finish the sentence. “Zero One, I did not copy that. You’ll what?”

“I’ll stop you,” she said. “Forcibly.”

“Take me down fast, before anyone can get a photo of me. And don’t use a baton.”

“I wouldnae hit you for real,” Deirdre said, sounding insulted.

“I know.” Still, the BVP guys would lose respect for him if he got battered by a woman, even one as formidably built as DS Fowles. More importantly, Evan wasn’t sure he could stop himself fighting back. “No baton.”

Deirdre sighed. “Copy that. Apologies in advance, and I promise you’ll be feeling better in no time. Zero One out.”

Evan scowled at his phone as he returned to Jordan and David. “My boss, she’s such a…how do you say, bawfaced cow?”

They laughed, then Jordan asked, “How do you say ‘bawfaced cow,’ like in Norwegian?”

Evan thought a moment. “Literal translation would be something like pungtryne ku, but a closer equivalent would be jævla hore, which means ‘fucking whore.’”

They dutifully repeated the slur to themselves. Gunnar basked in their admiration while Evan silently apologized to women everywhere.

Deirdre arrived, flanked by a pair of uniformed officers. As she stopped in the middle of the street, the cops positioned themselves on either side, taking wide stances to look more intimidating.

“Right, then.” DS Fowles and one officer turned to face the BVP folk while the other faced the counter-protesters. “I need you all to please take ten steps back.”

Evan stepped forward and gestured to the opposition. “Why do we have to move and they don’t? There’s more of them.”

Jordan stepped up beside him, to Evan’s dismay. “Aye, and we’re the ones with the permit.”

“Sirs, would you please move back?” Deirdre’s voice was low and calming, honed through her years on the street.

Meeting Deirdre’s gaze, Evan took another long step forward, hoping Fergus was too far away to see through his disguise.

“Last warning, sir.” Deirdre held out her left palm as her right hand moved to her belt.

Evan gauged the distance between them. One more step and he’d be inside her reaction gap, where she’d have to defend herself.

“C’mon, mate,” Jordan said behind him. “She’s not worth—”

“This is your last warning,” Evan told Deirdre as he moved forward, reaching inside his jacket.

Her right hand came up.

“Mate!” Jordan shouted.

Evan didn’t see the spear-thin blast of chemical spray before it hit his face. But the sudden, blinding fire stopped him in his tracks.

“Fuuuuuuuuuaaaaaaaeeeenn!” Somehow he managed to switch languages mid-scream. “Faen! Faaaaaaen!”

His knees went suddenly weak. He dropped onto the stone pavement, wishing he could claw his own face off. Despite his spectacles, his eyes gushed tears so hot and thick they felt like blood.

“Din jævla hore!” he shrieked. “Brenn i helvete, din jævla hore!”

“Sir, you’re suffering the temporary effects of PAVA spray,” Deirdre said as she handcuffed him. “Keep your eyes closed and try to breathe normally. We’re gonnae put you in the police van, and you’ll be feeling better in about twenty minutes.”

Behind him, the BVP guys were now chanting, “Jævla hore! Jævla hore!” at the top of their voices.

As the cops helped Evan to his feet, Deirdre recited the reason for his arrest and the fact his words could be used in evidence. “Do you understand?” she concluded.

Evan nodded, wondering whether she secretly enjoyed bringing an MI5 officer to his knees. Surely DI Hayward would have a laugh when he found out.

When they were alone in the back of the police van with the door shut, Deirdre uncuffed him and pushed a box of tissues into his hands. “Sorry, mate, but you did say no baton. Mind, don’t wipe your face.”

“Thanks for the rescue.” Keeping his eyes shut, he blew his nose, careful not to rub his skin. “Also, I hate you forever.”

“That’s fair.” There was the sound of paper rustling, then the click of a pen. “Now tell me the names of everyone you met and anything else you can remember about them.”

Good idea. Evan had planned to write the information in a report once he got back to the office today, but recounting it now would take his mind off the pain.

When they finished the list, Deirdre asked, “By the way, what did you call me? In Norwegian, after I sprayed you?”

He couldn’t bring himself to translate jævla hore—his gran would have definitely disapproved. “Brenn i helvete means, ‘Burn in hell.’”

“Before that, I mean,” Deirdre said, now in banter mode. “Cos it kinda sounded like you called me a whore.”

“Technically, Gunnar called you a whore.” His voice was still clogged with tears. “And those fascists loved it, so, mission accomplished.”

“Huzzah.” Deirdre was silent for a moment. “It’s great they were outnumbered by counter-protesters, but that can’t make us complacent. For every dunderhead who showed up at this rally, there’s dozens more at home spreading lies online.”

“More like thousands.” Evan coughed hard, his throat spasming at the spray’s residual fumes. “This is only the beginning.”

Clyde House was nearly empty when Evan stepped out of the security capsule into the MI5 office. During his hour-long stay at the police station, his eyes had stopped burning, as Deirdre had promised, but his cheeks still felt raw from the spray-induced tears and the subsequent removal of his fake beard.

Ned got up from his desk to greet him. “Och, the state of your face.” He tugged the sleeve of the baggy flannel shirt the police had given Evan after removing his PAVA-contaminated jacket and top. “The lumberjack look’s not bad, though.”

“Thanks, I think.” He drew a hand through his damp hair, where he felt a few remnants of Gunnar’s gel. “I’ll need another shower when I get home. First, though…” Evan looked toward his own desk.

“Write a report.” Ned patted his arm. “I just made coffee. You want some?”

“More than anything in the world.” Evan started toward his desk, then caught sight of the three monitors at Ned’s work station. One of the screens was showing the news. He wandered over to see if his altercation at the rally had been documented by a journalist. He hoped not.

Instead the BBC featured the same disturbing report Evan had first seen this morning. He’d been too focused on becoming Gunnar for it to sink in at the time.

Ned approached with their coffees. “Sad about Boris Nemtsov.”

“Not to mention suspicious.” Evan took his cup and gestured to the shot of Moscow’s Moskvoretsky Bridge, where a prominent opponent of the Russian president had been assassinated the previous night. “Directly in front of the Kremlin, just to show they can get away with it.”

“And the CCTV cameras there just happened to be offline for servicing.” Ned sank into his creaking chair and folded his arms over his tea-stained tan cardigan. “Remember the good old days when we all thought Nemtsov would become President?”

“Sort of. I was ten at the time.”

“Thanks, now I feel old.”

“I remember because in December 1999 it was my mum’s turn to have me and my sister for Christmas, but we begged to spend the holidays with our dad so we could be in London for the big Y2K celebration.”

Ned laughed. “And Boris Yeltsin ruined it by stepping down on New Year’s Eve.”

“Exactly. My father lost his mind, like, ‘Why is this absolute nobody, Putin, suddenly president of Russia?’ Justine and I were left watching fireworks on TV while Dad ran off to Thames House for an emergency meeting.”

No doubt that’s exactly where Hugh Hollister was right now, trying to work out what Nemtsov’s murder could mean for Russian activities on British soil. Putin had dozens of friends and enemies in the UK, and several of the latter had already died of mysterious causes.

Evan went to his desk, where he switched on his computer and both monitors. Ned’s mention of CCTV cameras had given him an idea. Within a minute he was watching a live shot of the street outside St. Andrew’s in the Square, the eighteenth-century classical-style former church where Ben’s wedding would soon take place.

Fortunately, Glasgow’s CCTV network had been upgraded before last summer’s Commonwealth Games. Unfortunately, coverage of the city was still spotty, with the lion’s share of cameras mounted in the central shopping districts or on streets packed with nightclubs and pubs. Near St. Andrew’s Square, there was but one CCTV lookout, and its pair of cameras pointed only up and down the pavement, not at the building itself.

He left the two viewpoints up on his second monitor, then began writing his report of the day’s events.

Gunnar’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

Jordan: u ok?

Evan looked at the clock. Enough time had passed that he could have realistically been released by the police.

Gunnar: Fine now. No charges just a caution since I didn’t have a weapon. How was the rally?

Jordan: David gave a brilliant speech could barely hear him over the rockets screaming

Evan calculated whether Gunnar would recognize the slang.

Gunnar: rockets???

Jordan: Sorry rocket means idiot. Talking about the protesters. None of them got arrested obvs

Jordan: obvs means obviously

Gunnar: I know. Anyway the rally was great. Can I have David’s number to thank him for making me feel welcome?

After a minute’s pause:

Jordan: you can talk to him thru me

Evan smirked. The lad was jealous, probably worried about being cut out of the loop. Classwise, Gunnar had more common with the BVP chairman than Jordan did.

Gunnar: I’ll say good things about you.

Jordan immediately texted back with David’s number, which Evan in turn entered into a warrant-request form for phone surveillance.

Boom. A good day’s work.

By the time he’d finished requesting the warrant, the CCTVs on his second monitor showed wedding guests arriving at St. Andrew’s. Evan turned his full attention to the images.

Directly in front of the former church was a bus lane, part of which served as the venue’s loading bay, in which vehicles could stop but not park. Soon two white luxury cars appeared there, a Rolls Royce and a sleek Jaguar. A bride stepped out of each car, their views of each other blocked by huge black umbrellas. Evan smiled, imagining the umbrellas were Ben’s clever idea to keep the brides from seeing each other before the ceremony.

Shortly after the nuptials began at two o’clock, the street outside St. Andrew’s was empty apart from regular traffic and stray pedestrians. Evan took note of each car, confirming it continued on its way and didn’t return for a second pass.

At a quarter past two, a small white SUV pulled into the loading bay where the brides’ cars had been. An entire minute passed, and no one got out. Evan strained to see how many people were inside, but the tinted windscreen obscured his view.

“Ned, have you got a second?”

“Barely.” Ned looked at his watch as he strolled over. “My daughter’s match is at three, and it’s a half hour from here. She’s starting in goal for the first time today.”

“Well done, her.” Evan took a screen grab and zoomed in on the SUV’s yellow registration plate. “I need to identify this, but the image is too fuzzy at this distance.” He knew that unlike on TV, a photo’s resolution couldn’t be “enhanced,” as no fancy program could add pixels that weren’t there to begin with. But he also knew that Ned had software which could interpret letters and numerals from much vaguer patterns than the human eye could discern. “Can we get a reasonable guess?”

Ned bent over, putting on his glasses to peer at the image. “Ooft, that’s a rough one, but I might be able to give you a list of permutations—a long list—which you can then try to match to that vehicle.” He straightened up. “Does Kay know you’re doing live surveillance on your own?”

“Well, I’m not really on my own, am I?” When Ned harrumphed, Evan said, “C’mon, mate. Just this once, for my peace of mind.” After a pause he added, “I’ll give wee Lindsay an hour of goalkeeper drills.”

Ned sighed. “Make it two hours and I’ll run the reg plate myself.” He headed for his desk. “Send me the image.”

While Ned worked his magic—with his much faster computer—Evan watched the SUV do absolutely nothing. With every motionless minute, his pulse sped up another notch, as he wondered what sort of weapon the vehicle might contain and whether Ben might soon be on the receiving end of it.

To make matters worse, the sky was clearing. According to Evan’s research, the wedding party and guests had to leave the main room after the ceremony so the St. Andrew’s staff could set it up for the reception. During rain or cold, everyone gathered in the downstairs cafe; but when the weather was fine, people ventured out front for photos upon the picturesque portico featuring the city’s crest and motto, Let Glasgow Flourish, upon the tympanum at its peak.

The portico barely twenty feet from that SUV.