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funds from
     her savings account to her checking account.
    “Expecting some major expenditure, Miss Heidler?” the cashier enquired.
    “Mmm, something like that,” she replied in what she hoped was a non-committal tone
     that would discourage further chat.
    Second, Diane cashed a cheque for twenty-thousand dollars. The cashier raised one
     eyebrow but made no comment. Diane stuffed the bills into her knapsack.
    Third, she arranged to close her safety deposit box. She was shown into the room off
     the rear of the banking hall that contained small curtained cubicles where deposit
     boxes could be opened in privacy. Her box was brought to her by a smiling clerk who
     placed it on the table in a cubicle and drew the curtain closed as he left her alone.
    Diane withdrew a small brass key from a pocket of her jeans and inserted it into the
     lock on the front of the box. She turned it and lifted the lid.
    There was only one item inside: a silvery, metallic canister, a little like a thermos
     flask.
    Diane hefted the canister in one hand, considering its weight. About the same as a
     bag of sugar, she guessed. Then she placed it in her knapsack on top of the money,
     turned and walked out.
    She didn’t bother closing the lid of the safety deposit box or removing the key.
    * * * * *
    Similar scenarios played themselves out in almost five thousand towns and cities throughout
     the world. From Reykjavik to Wellington, Beijing to Cape Town, St Petersburg to Mumbai,
     an e-mail was received and replied to. The recipients recovered from their places
     of safe-keeping silvery metallic canisters resembling thermos flasks. Then, canisters
     or just their creamy, powdery contents in their possession, the recipients left their
     places of abode and went to work.
    All except one.

Chapter Three
    I n a village west of Cardiff, at the edge of the South Wales coal field, less than
     five miles from the village where Tom Evans was tidying his classroom ready for the
     weekend, a mobile phone played a jingle that signified the receipt of an e-mail.
    The phone sat on top of an old oak dresser in the main living area of the tiny miner’s
     cottage. Two doorways led off the living area: the peeling front door that opened
     directly onto the street; a curtained doorway at the rear that led into a small kitchenette.
     A ramshackle staircase led from the living area to the basic bathroom and bedroom
     large enough for a single bed and slim wardrobe.
    Aside from the dresser, the only other furniture in the downstairs living area was
     a threadbare two-seater settee, a basic television stand and, upon it, an incongruous,
     state-of-the-art 36-inch plasma television.
    Peter Ronstadt, who occupied the sagging settee, could afford something—almost anything—much
     grander, but the cottage suited him. He had rented it three months previously complete
     with furniture. The only change he had made was to add the television and satellite
     box that sat on the lower shelf of the TV stand.
    He picked up the remote lying on the settee next to him and switched off the television.
     He had been enjoying an afternoon quiz show, but forgot about it the moment the phone
     sounded.
    For a few moments he sat where he was. In the silence created by switching off the
     television, other noises started to intrude: chattering children walking past the
     window on their way home from school; car engines straining as they climbed the steep
     hill; the drip drip drip of the kitchen tap; the sizzle and crack of the log fire
     in the grate opposite the settee.
    Peter didn’t leap to his feet to read the e-mail. He knew who it was from—only one
     person knew his telephone number—and he had a fair idea what it would say. His gaze
     flickered involuntarily to the ceiling. Above, crammed under his bed, was a battered
     suitcase. Inside the case, wrapped in an old flannelette shirt, was a silvery canister.
    It was already growing dark. The neighbouring houses in the street