"The end is nigh, the end is nigh..."The chant was familiar, but he was not the billboard-wearing caricature: old bearded man in long dirty raincoat. He was young, clean-shaven and neatly dressed. He said the words in a tired monotone voice as he stamped his well-oiled leather boots on the pavement at the street corner. A small speech-bubble of fog opened with each word. His accent was distinctly local and his looks did not distinguish him from thousands of other Londoners. One hand was dug tightly in a corduroy pocket while the other held a pole on which a sign was mounted. Neatly painted in red it said: Golf Equipment, Sale Ends Friday, The End is Nigh. An arrow pointed north-west along Oxford Street.Nearby, a woman sat strumming a guitar and singing through long matted hair that obscured the left half of her face like a torn veil. What could be seen of her skin was fashionably pale. She sounded like an American, as singers of popular songs often do. Beside her on the ground a black hat contained three coins she had placed there herself.Across the road, a department store display-window paved the ground in yellow light. Pedestrians in heavy coats walked quickly. Many carried plastic bags with brand names crumpled by gloved hands.It was January 1999. The start of a year and the end of a millennium. Where were you?Maliphant Dee's spy thriller takes us back to a year the world dreaded as much as celebrated.As the months tick down so do the seconds.It would all end at midnight: Time Zero.