When she opened her eyes she was lying on her side, in the recovery position, and all she could see was a large Sicilian Sumac which she recognised from a trip to the Mediterranean with Monty, a hundred years ago. . . . ."Monty?" she pushed herself up, though still woozy and acedious, and looked around and there he was, a concerned look on his long, narrow face, "it is you, then, Monty?" she asked, but Tavish answered, "mistaken identity, I'm afraid, Carmen, this is the friend I told you about, Sam Smiles," and she stared hard at the lumpy, misshapen head, "it is you, Monty," she spoke firmly, "Monty Modlyn, tell him, or I will," and Monty turned to Tavish, "that's the name she knows me as, Tav, old boy, that was my cover in the early days, we were running parallel, us and the French and someone thought it would be cheaper if we doubled up, Entente Cordial, eh, Geneviève?" and with their help, she managed to get onto her knees, then stand and take a step over to the seat she had fallen from, "but what are you doing here?" and he laughed, "overberg? well, the Cheviots may not be up to the Alps or Pyrenees but they are a useful Border, and as for me? this is home, my bailiwick, well, mine and Tavish's really, we're the successors to the old Laird's o the Marches, we keep the riff-raff out, actually, we're Spycatchers, Officers of the Scottish Secret Service," he turned to Tavish, "she was working for The Deuxième Bureau at the time, although Geneviève's provenance goes back further than that, doesn't it sweetheart?"