“Of course.” Callan stood and straightened his jacket. “Number One was in France, sir? The Iranian scientists?”

“That’s right.”

Callan nodded thoughtfully. “That was unfortunate.”

Control looked at him and knew that he would have followed the rules of engagement to the letter. He would not left any witnesses. He had the same single-minded ruthlessness as Milton when he joined. He had made a reputation for it in the SBS, that was the characteristic that had appealed to Control when he had recruited him.

“Daily reports, please, Number Twelve. Get started at once. You’re dismissed.”

He turned to face the window again, the door closing softly behind him. He gazed through the cloud of cigar smoke, through his pensive reflection and out into the darkness beyond. Traffic streamed along Millbank on the other side of the river, tail-lights leaving a red smear across the tarmac.

He thought of Milton.

Control was a craftsman, too. His agents were his tools. Sometimes, when they got old and unreliable, when their edge grew rusty and could no longer be whetted, they had to be replaced.

Perhaps it was time.

He wondered if that was what he would have to do.

7

Elijah Warriner was frightened as he waited for the train to pull into the station. They were at Homerton, sitting on one of the metal benches, the red paint peeling away to reveal the scabrous rust beneath, the air heavy with the scent of stale urine and the sweet tang of the joint that was being passed around. Elijah stared across the track at the side of a warehouse marked with the tag that indicated that this was their territory: LFB, in ten-foot high neon yellow and green letters, the black outline running where rain had mixed with it before it had dried.

LFB.

The London Fields Boys.

They ran things around here.

There were eight of them on the platform. Pops, the oldest and the biggest, was in charge of the little crew. The other boys were arrayed around him on the platform: Little Mark was smoking a joint with his back to the wall; Pinky had his headphones pressed against his head, the low drone of the new Plan B record leaking out; Kidz and Chips were eyeing up the girls from the Gascoyne Estate who were also waiting for the train. They were all dressed in the same way: a baseball cap, a hooded top, low-slung jeans and brand new pairs of Nikes or Reeboks. Some of them had their hoods pulled up, resting against the brim of their caps and casting their faces in dark shadow. They all wore bandanas tied around their necks.

It was just before half past five and rush hour was just beginning.

Pops put his around Elijah’s shoulders and squeezed him hard, using his other hand to scrub at his head. “JaJa, chill,” he said. “Nothing to worry about.”

Elijah managed to smile. Pops was wearing the same uniform as all the others, but he had a pair of diamond earrings, a chunky ring on each hand and a heavy golden chain around his neck. They denoted his position as an Elder, and, of course, the fact that he had more money than the rest of them. Elijah watched as Pops took out his bag of weed and his packet of papers. “My grandma taught me to build zoots, get me?” Pops spread a copy of the Metro across his lap and arranged his things: the bag of weed, his papers, his lighter. “This is penging high-grade,” he said, indicating the transparent bag and its green-brown contents. He unsealed it and tipped out a small pile. “You need to get yourself in the right state of mind before something like this. Can’t do no better than a good zoot, know what I’m saying?”

Elijah nodded.

“You blazed before?”

“Course,” Elijah said, trying to be disdainful. He had already been smoking for six months, ever since he had started hanging out with the young LFBs on the gangways and stairwells of Blissett House. That had frightened him, too, at first, and he had found that the first few drags made him retch, his eyes watering. But it was no big thing, though, and he had quickly got used to it. There was always a zoot being passed around, and he always made sure he had some.

Pops laughed at his indignant response. “Trust me, young ‘un, you ain’t blazed nothing like this.” He opened a paper and filled it with a thick line of weed. He inserted a roach, brought the packet to his lips, licked the gummed end and sealed it. He lit the end and took a long drag, smacking his lips in appreciation. He toked again and passed the joint to Elijah. “Go on, younger, get some.”

Elijah took the joint and, aware that Pops and the others were watching him, made sure that he didn’t show any nerves as he put it between his lips and sucked down deep. The smoke was acrid and strong and he spluttered helplessly. The other boys hooted at his discomfort.

“Look at the little joker,” Pinky exclaimed. “He’s gonna die from all that coughing.”

“Hush your gums,” Pops chided. “Let him enjoy himself. What you think, younger?”

“Buzzin’,” Elijah managed.

“Yeah, man — buzzin’. You know what makes it so fine?” Elijah shook his head, still dizzy. “Piss. The growers piss on the dirt. Makes it more potent, gives the skunk a kick.”

Elijah spluttered in disgust, and almost retched again.

Pops grinned at him as the train rolled towards them. “Get yourself together, younger, here it comes. This is it. You wanna be with us, you gotta do this. Everyone has to if they want to be man dem. You ready?”

“Yeah.”

Elijah felt a sudden blast of light-headedness. It added to his feeling of fright and he suddenly felt sick. He turned away from Pops, bent double and vomited the fried chicken he had eaten ten minutes early, half-digested slops splashing between his legs, splattering against the new trainers he had robbed from the shop in Mare Street the previous day.

The others hollered.

“He’s sicked up all over his creps!” Chips exclaimed.

“Come on,” Pops said. “Get yourself together. Train’s here.”

The line was one of the main routes into the Olympic Park and the trains had all been cleaned up for the Games. The doors opened and commuters working at the big new shopping centre, many still wearing their corporate uniforms, spilled out onto the platform. Pops pulled up his bandana and shrugged his hood up and over his cap until all of his face was obscured, save his eyes. The others did the same and, his hands shaking, so did Elijah. Pops was behind Elijah and he pushed him into the crowded carriage, the others following behind.

Elijah had seen a train get steamed before and he knew what to expect. Pushing him further into the carriage, Pops and the others started to hoot and holler, surging down the aisle between the seats. The noise was disorientating, and frightening, and none of the passengers seemed able to react. Pops barged into the space between two benches that faced each other and ripped the mobile phone from the hand of a man in a suit. The others did the same, taking phones and tablets, dipping purses from handbags, removing wallets from the inside pockets of jackets and coats, yanking necklaces until they snapped and came free. Elijah followed behind Pops and, as they went from passenger to passenger, he took the items that Pops handed back to him and dropped them into his rucksack. His fright melted away as the adrenaline burned through his body, the thrill of what they were doing; robbing and stealing and no-one was doing a damned thing to stop them.

A young man in a suit stared at them as they advanced along the carriage. He had a Blackberry in his hand.

“What you looking at?” Pops said. “You wanna get slapped up?”

The man didn’t reply.

“You wanna get shanked?” Chips reached out into his pocket and took out a knife with a six-inch blade.

Still the man was silent. Elijah looked at him and recognised the fear in his eyes. He wasn’t defying them, he was just too scared to do anything.