Dining at Abe’s Kitchen Table

Agent Sargent — Abe, I believe you call him — is, as we speak being mailed in a package through every last British town with a vaguely dirty name, starting with Sussex, then Essex, then Wussex, and well, let’s not bog ourselves down in how clearly filthy-minded the British are. He’s in a large brown package, wrapped with string and tied with paper. And inside that package, my army of crack ninja pirates are extracting that final tidbit of information I need.