We’re going straight to London. Since I’m not sure I won’t need to stay longer, we take our respective vehicles: me in my Cortina, Figg in his Porsche.
Once in the city, we go along the River Thames and we park at Woburn Place, near the Royal National Hotel. Sitting in a small rear-facing beer garden in The London Pub, we take stock while drinking a bitter-tasting ale.
“Why don’t you want us to split up the tasks, Larson?”
“We’ll have to smile and show conviction, Figg. We must go into the faculties and find the 1967 records and the ones that follow. We’ll begin with literary courses, but we may have to extend our research to related studies, such as philosophy, for example.”
“So what?”
“We’ll not be able to convince them with muscles or threats. We’ll have to be diplomatic.”
“And I’
