And now River almost jumped out of his: what the—
Just a tap on the glass, but he hadn’t seen anyone approaching. Whoever it was bent, and peered into the car.
“River?” she mouthed.
Jesus, he thought. Sid Baker. He opened the door. She slid inside, pulled it shut, then shook her head free of her hood. She was carrying a pair of take-out coffees.
“Sid? What the hell are you doing?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“Have you been following me?”
“You’d better hope not, hadn’t you?”
She handed him one of the coffees, and he was helpless to do anything but accept it. Peeling the polystyrene lid from her own released a gust of steam.
“Because that would mean I’d tracked you halfway across London without you noticing.” She blew softly on the liquid’s surface, and the steam flurried. “On foot. Which would make me pretty special.”
— Slow Horses (Mick Herron), Loc. 2595-2605