Loke Mun hadn’t been in London for a while. London was a great city, and it happened to be the one in which he had both gotten his certification as a dentist, and nurtured his love for all things espionage-related. He recalled feverish dreams blending the two: extracting a tooth only to discover some unfathomable device in it, handpieces with hidden mikes, on and on.

The Millenium bridge had been only a sparkle in somebody’s eyes in his student days. Now it was a thrumming metal thing thousands of people crossed every day. Loke Mun liked to stand in the middle and feel the vibrations under his feet. To his left, there was St. Paul’s Cathedral; to his right, Tate Modern, that hulk of a building. As he stood, his hands in his pockets, feet slightly apart, he scanned the crowd for faces.
After ten minutes, satisfied, he fluffed up his scarf and left.

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