“Friday NICK STRETCHED HIS SPYGLASS TO ITS FULL LENGTH, BALANCING its end on the window frame of his fourth-floor perch. With a sense of satisfaction, he adjusted the brass tube slowly, pulling and pushing the slide until the image came into focus. There it was; the front of the tailoring shop on Old Bond Street, the tidy facade washed in spring afternoon sunlight. The street ambled through the West End—the section of London that was home to the finest shops, gentlemen’s clubs, and fashionable r...esidences. A steady stream of carriages and pedestrians passed up and down the avenues, but it was a leisurely sort of bustle, and one with lots of coin at its beck and call. Looking down on the scene, focusing in on his quarry, Nick had a flash of kinship with a hawk spying a flock of lazy, overfed pigeons. Lucky for them he was there to watch, not to hunt. His vantage point was perfect. He crouched in an empty room in an empty building across the street and down from the tailor’s. It looked like it had been Disconnected.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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