There was a small, waterproof freezer bag in the cavity below, resting on the plasterboard ceiling. Milton reached down and pulled it out. There were six USB flash drives inside. He put the drives into his pocket, replaced the boards, covered them with the carpet, collected his chisel and made his way back downstairs again. He lifted the vase out of the way, opened the door and stepped back into the front garden. The road was still quiet. The door drifted open behind him and Milton slammed it, the splintered wood grinding together and holding the door shut. He opened the gate, stepped through, and walked quickly back up the road and away.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Control’s driver was waiting for him next to the Cenotaph in Whitehall. It was a blustery, overcast day, the late afternoon turning into evening, and he paused in the shelter of the entrance to the Ministry building to turn up the collar of his overcoat and open his umbrella. The weather had been like this for a week, and now the gutters were swollen with run-off water and pedestrians hurried to their destinations as the rain lashed around them. Control stepped out from the shelter and a gust of wind caught the umbrella and turned it inside out. Cursing to himself, he hurried down the street, opened the door of the Jaguar and got inside.

The driver asked him where he would like to go.

“The flat,” Control said. “Don’t hang about.”

The driver put the car into gear, pulled into the traffic and headed towards the towers and minarets of the Houses of Parliament. Control looked up at the big Union Jack snapping from its flagpole high above, the pennant ripped back and forth by the gusting wind, and then at the purple-black of the glowering skies behind it. The forecasters were predicting another week of storms. Control’s country house was in a Wiltshire village that was bisected by a river that carved its course through the valley; he had been too busy to go home since last weekend, but his wife had reported that the water was in full spate, and there was some concern that it was close to bursting its banks. It would flood the orchard at the bottom of their garden. She had been very concerned when she had explained the situation. Control made all the right noises, but he had too much to think about in London to worry about that.

The meeting had been called on short notice. The Foreign Secretary had chaired it and he had been joined by the heads of MI5 and MI6. The mood had been pensive. They still had no idea what had happened to Number One. It had been five days now; protocol required them to assume the worst. The Foreign Secretary had been furious, but Control had anticipated his reaction and was not caught out by it. It was a risk that came with the territory in which the Group operated, he had explained. Agents were lost; that could not be avoided. Control was measured and calm and explained what might have happened and what would happen next with patience and tact. The Foreign Secretary was a civilian with no operational experience. That was the problem with politicians; they could not possibly begin to understand the exigencies of his work. The man needed careful handling. The whole Milton debacle had been a challenge to navigate and he had only just emerged on the other side of that, and this new setback would just be a question of educating him into the realities of life in the field.

The bottom line was brutally simple: these things happened.

Pope had been promoted to Number One after Milton had disappeared. The two of them had been friends. Control remembered that they had served together in Northern Ireland at the beginning of their careers. Despite that, he trusted Pope. He had led the team that he had sent to Mexico to bring Milton back and there was no suggestion that its failure had anything to do with his leadership.

The meeting had dragged on. The Foreign Secretary had asked what was likely to happen to Pope if he had been captured and they had debated the possibilities for a while but Control found the discussion tedious and otiose; he had already jettisoned him. He was dead. Even if he had been captured and even if he could have been exchanged for one of the Russian spies that they had swept up over the years he would still be useless to him. Pope was burnt: a busted flush. He was finished and, as such, he would waste no more time or effort on him. It was a difficult job that he did, he reminded himself, and there was no time for sentiment.

The Foreign Secretary had sat at the head of the table, an expression of supercilious disdain on his face and, when the discussion about Pope drew to its conclusion, he had removed his spectacles and tapped them on the table. “Of course,” he had said, “we understand that we are going to lose agents from time to time. Natural erosion, as you say. Can’t be helped. But this is the second time in a year. If it was just the once, well, we could accept that and move on. But it isn’t. What about Milton?”

Milton.

The thought of him had angered Control and now that anger returned like the echo of thunder. Pope’s loss was excusable. It was regrettable but, as he had made plain, it was a risk that went with the territory. But Milton was different. That was a loss that would stay on his resumé, a stain that would always be there to diminish his many other successes. He blamed himself for what had happened. There had been signs, plenty of signs, but Milton was such a brilliant agent that he had wilfully ignored all of them. That had been a critical mistake. He should have put the failsafes into motion as soon as he had entertained the first suspicion that he was breaking down. He should have issued a file on him, a file with red borders, and given it to one of the other agents to execute. Callan could have done it; the boy was keen. That would have put an end to months of blame and recrimination. That would have preserved his reputation.

He had only made one other mistake like that in the ten years that he had been in command of the Group and he had managed Beatrix Rose much more successfully than he had managed John Milton.

So far.

Pedestrians swilled around the car as the lights that faced the Houses of Parliament went to red.

Milton.

He felt his temper kindling.

He needed distraction. He opened his briefcase, taking out the latest files that had been assigned to the Group and spread them out on his lap. The Jaguar broke out of the jam that had gathered at the lights, turned left onto Westminster Bridge, and accelerated away.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Control owned a flat in Chelsea. He had purchased it ten years ago when he had started to spend more time in the city than at home. He was getting home later and later and it made sense to have a pied a terré where he could repair when long nights were necessary. The driver pulled up to the side of the road, got out and opened the door for him. Control bid him good night and crossed the pavement to the front door. He fumbled in his pocket for the key, pressed it into the lock and opened the door. The driver, who was armed, waited until he was inside and then drove away.

What a day! Control deactivated the alarm, took off his overcoat, hung his umbrella on the hatstand and removed his shoes. He massaged the soles of his aching feet and then stood before the mirror. He was dressed immaculately, as ever, in a well tailored suit that showed an inch of creamy white cuff. His regimental tie was fastened with a brass pin. He was of late middle age, of average height, a little overweight, his hair thinning at the crown. He was not the sort of man who would excite attention. He was as anonymous as a provincial accountant. Perfect for the job that he was asked to do. He rubbed his eyes. He had been up since five and he was tired.