"I’ve just realized that we only have nine days." Michael said glumly. He sat looking out over the quiet London Street, absently noting the handful of overdressed and over-wealthy socialites and their attendant lackeys staggering down the sidewalk with bags filled with the fruits of overindulgent shopping expeditions. In his hands was a Copious listing of every documented decker with a Leonardo-fixation from the last twenty years. He’d decided that going back five might not be enough, but that hadn’t helped much. Scanning the names and data told him what he expected, they were mediocrities trying to puff up inadequate self-esteem by taking on the mantle of the genius, rather like suburban housewives convinced by some two-bit charlatan hypnotist and conman that they’d been Cleopatra or Catherine the Great in a previous life.