He leaned his head around the pole, gripped the side of his hood with his fingers, and pulled it up as much as the tie around his neck would allow so that he might see out of the bottom, but the view was limited and strands of hessian got into his eyes. He could make out a pair of legs flat on the floor, in trousers but without socks or footwear. Seamus’s, he assumed.

The door opened and at least two people walked in.

‘What the fock you doin’?’ said a man. ‘Going for a walk, are we?’

Hank’s legs were kicked repeatedly until he dropped back down on to his backside.

‘For God’s sake,’ Hank cried out. ‘Why are you guys treating me this way? I haven’t given you any trouble. I’m a prisoner of war and I expect you to treat me like one.’

‘Shot the fock op,’ the man said and slapped Hank on the back of the head as if he were a naughty child. Hank had begun to say his piece as planned and received a whack for his troubles.The man’s shoes creaked as he crouched and Hank could hear his breathing close to his ear. ‘Ay, yev been a model prisoner for sure,’ said a man.

‘Then why don’t you treat me like one?’ Hank said, his voice betraying his anger.

‘Do yerself a favour,’ piped in Seamus. ‘The man you’re talking to is Brennan. Sure I told you about him. The Executioner? You’re wasting your focken breath.’

‘That wasn’t very nice, Seamus, tellin’ the man me name,’ said Brennan. ‘You might’ve just signed his death warrant. It could go against him at the tribunal . . . I s’pose you told him about our little package?’

‘Ay.The Yank’s not stupid. He knows he’s as dead as I am.’

This was news to Hank.

‘He may well be, but you’re first, Seamus,’ said Brennan. ‘Are you ready, or shall we play a game first?’

‘Fock you, ye sadistic bastard,’ Seamus said.

‘You’re the one who’s focked, Seamus me ole’ pal . . . Get his hood off.’

The men obeyed. Hank tried to visualise what he heard. Seamus hacked and groaned as they treated him roughly, and then their efforts stopped. The hood was obviously off and they were waiting for the next command. Then he heard a noise he knew very well - the double-de-clutch clunk of a pistol being cocked and then the snap and chink as the return spring threw the top slide forward to pick up a bullet and punch it into the breach where it settled snugly, ready to be exploded out of the barrel.

‘It’s a watery grave for you, Seamus,’ Brennan said. ‘You know what the Bible says goes well with water, don’t you? Fire. Fire goes well with water . . . There’s nothing I hate more’en a tout, Seamus.We’ll have some fun with you before we set you in the water.’

‘You’re focken mental, you know that, don’t you, Brennan.’

‘Take him away. Make sure you give his bollocks a good soaking in petrol before you loit him op.’

There was a great deal of shuffling and moaning as they hauled Seamus to the door. ‘Ya focken bastard, Brennan!’ he cried out. Then they were gone. Hank could hear Seamus’s shouts grow fainter as they carried him down the corridor.

It fell gradually silent as they climbed a stairwell.

Hank clenched his fingers to control the slight tremble in them. Nothing could prepare a person for this. No exercise the military could devise. He played Brennan’s words over in his head, trying to clarify them. Something about a tribunal, and Brennan’s name, and a package, obviously the virus. Hank was no longer confident about his survival.

‘Hank,’ a voice said inches from his face, making him flinch. It was Brennan. ‘Hank the Yank . . . I lied when I said there was nothing I hated more ’en a tout.There is one thing. A Pink. I hate Pinks more ’en anything . . . Rumour has it those were Pinks in Paris.Was it Pinks you were working with, Hank?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Hank said, which was true. He had never heard the term before.

‘Any friend of a Pink is an enemy of moine,’ said Brennan. ‘If I can’t have a Pink, I’ll have his friends.’

Brennan’s shoes creaked as he stood, turned and walked across the room and closed the door.

Hank could feel his heart pounding in his chest above the throb of the engines. He was more scared at that moment than at any other time in his life. Then came a sudden shriek of a human in utter agony. It was far away, up on deck, but so shrill it penetrated the very bowels of the ship. Hank tried to cover his ears and leaned his head into a shoulder to block one at least, but it was not enough. He could still hear Seamus as they set him on fire. It lasted only a few seconds but his mind kept replaying it, pure agony. And then it ended with a single gunshot. Hank realised his hands were aching where he had been squeezing the pole too tightly.

Stratton made his way out of the room and down a flight of stairs.

He walked across a hall and out through the main entrance, passed a large chunk of rock shipped all the way from Gibraltar - a memorial to fallen SBS operatives - and into the car park. He approached the men as they removed the last of their large kitbags from the van.

‘Lieutenant Stewart,’ Stratton said to the taller of the men, guessing he was the team leader.There was something about officers, Brit or American. Most of them looked like officers no matter what they wore. It took a long tour as an undercover operative to sand off the idiosyncrasies.This one had obviously not yet had that experience.

The man looked at him dryly. ‘You Stratton?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Stratton said, ignoring the sir out of habit, but aware offence might be taken. The Americans were big on rank respect, even in Special Forces.

Stewart let his eyes linger on Stratton’s long enough to convey his displeasure, but it was not just because of Stratton’s omission. The SEALs would have been briefed in detail about Hank’s fate and Stratton’s part in it.

‘Pete ’n’ Jasper,’ Stewart said, indicating the other two men, who reflected their boss’s attitude. Stewart would have offered his hand under other circumstances, being a well-bred Texan, but he wanted to convey his sentiments in no uncertain terms. Jasper released a long, brown streak of spit on to the ground as he stared at Stratton.

Stratton was not intimidated by the display. He understood. He might have felt the same, although personally he wouldn’t have made it so obvious under the circumstances. He had learned the wisdom of keeping his thoughts to himself and his options open, especially with strangers. ‘You have a good trip?’ he asked, acting as if he could not read the signs.

‘Great,’ said Stewart, wondering if Stratton was really that thick skinned.

Stratton took out his cell phone and dialled a number. He listened for a few seconds then answered a prompt. ‘Stratton.The SEALs are here . . . Okay, I’ll bring ’em down.’

He put away the phone. ‘We’re going straight into the brief,’ he said to Stewart, who nodded.

‘You can leave your kit there,’ Stratton continued, about to turn back towards the HQ.

‘We’re just gonna leave it here?’ asked Stewart.

‘The driver will stay with it until you come back.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Stewart said.

Stratton squared to him. ‘Why not?’ he asked.

‘Maybe we’ve got some sensitive equipment with us.’

‘What sensitive equipment?’ Stratton asked.

‘I can’t tell you.’

Stratton looked the officer in the eye and allowed his natural coldness to surface. ‘Three things,’ he said. ‘You can’t bring your equipment into the HQ building for security reasons. Second.You don’t bring anything on to this op that I don’t clear. Third. If you don’t trust us, get your fucking arses back in the van and the driver will take you back to the airport . . . sir.’

The two men stared at each other, weighing temperaments and options. Stewart was not easily rattled. He considered his alternatives in a logical manner and went for the simplest, considering the situation. ‘Lead on, Colour Sergeant,’ he said. Stratton turned on his heels and walked on towards HQ block. Stewart glanced at his men, flicked his eyebrows. ‘Attitude,’ he said for their ears only, and they followed.

In the SBS HQ anteroom an armed receptionist inspected the SEALs’ ID. Stratton led the way across the lobby, the walls of which were covered in memorabilia both old and recent: awards, photographs and plaques from various military related organisations from all over the world. Stratton opened a door leading to a staircase that went underground. The walls either side of the stairs also boasted the display of memorabilia, which the Americans snatched glances of as they passed.

At the foot of the stairs Stratton walked along a short corridor to a heavy steel door but the Americans had stopped to look at the last display. Hanging in a glass case was a pale blue ribbon with five tiny stars staggered along it, two on top, three below. It was the American Congressional Medal of Honour, presented to an SBS operative for valour in Afghanistan.

‘I didn’t know they got this,’ said Jasper.

‘He saved a CIA operative’s life at the prison breakout . . . Does that mean we’re even now?’ asked Pete dryly.

Stratton heard it clearly enough. ‘Don’t bury Hank just yet,’ he said.

Stewart eventually nodded in agreement.

Stratton punched a code into the lock and pushed open the steel door.

The Americans filed into the operations room, which was much larger than the narrow entranceway suggested.

Inside, the surrounding walls were covered from end to end and top to bottom in black roller blinds, all except two pulled down to hide what was behind them; one rolled-up blind exposed a map of Europe and another of the east side of England and Scotland. In the room were five other men, who turned their attention to the newcomers as they entered. The shortest and oldest of the five men, wearing a politician’s smile, stepped forward.

‘Colonel Hilliard, CO SBS. Lieutenant Stewart from Dev Group,’ Stratton said, introducing them.

Hilliard extended a hand that appeared, to just about everyone who ever took it, a little too large for the rest of his body. He was short but his weight was substantially above the average for a man several inches taller. It was the extreme length of his shoulders that implied his broadness of chest and back were not fat, and also somewhat forgave the size of his hands, although overall, it had to be said, he was unusual looking. Hilliard was of the old school and reputedly the finest hooker the corps had in his day. He was famously abrupt when he wanted to be, especially to those he had little or no respect for. More than once during his career he had been warned about his diplomacy, or lack of it. One of his more famous examples took place some months after the Falklands conflict when the camp was to be visited by the commanding officer of the Welsh Guards. Everyone knew the Welsh Guards were infamous for their shameless pilfering of Marines’ equipment on board various ships while the Marines were on the ground. Hilliard had the visit advertised on every company notice board under the heading ‘warning’, with a footnote advising all personnel to secure their equipment until the Welsh CO had departed. The sign did not go unnoticed by the visitor.

Hilliard extended his hand. ‘Good trip, Lieutenant?’

‘Fine, thank you, sir,’ Stewart said to the man a good twelve inches below him, noting the hand, possibly larger than his own.

Hilliard faced Jasper, who was suddenly uncertain as to whether he should extend his hand or salute. He chose the hand. ‘Chief Morris, sir,’ he said, wishing he’d dumped his chewing tobacco outside.

Pete took Hilliard’s hand last. ‘Chief Lexon,’ he said coolly.

‘Good to have you all here, I only wish it was under brighter circumstances. This is our intelligence officer,’ Hilliard said, introducing Sumners. ‘Captain Jardene, our ops officer Major Tanner, and Captain Singen, OC M squadron.’

All nodded on introduction.

‘Can I get anyone a cup of tea or coffee before we start?’ offered Jardene.

‘I’m fine,’ Stewart said. His men also declined.

‘A cup for you to spit in perhaps, Chief?’ Hilliard asked Jasper. Jasper shook his head and then swallowed the entire mouthful, aware he might well suffer for it later. ‘Sorry, sir. No thank you, sir.’

‘Right, well, let’s get you up to speed,’ Hilliard said. ‘Then you can get yourselves sorted in the mess.’

‘Before we kick off though,’ he said, addressing the room, ‘I would like to clarify some ground rules for the American presence here. As you know, an unusual step has been taken in “accepting” the US Navy SEALs offer to assist us in this operation on our home territory.There’s no need to emphasise the reasons for that.’

‘Our taking part would include the first wave assault, sir,’ Stewart said, eager to set some of his own ground rules sooner rather than later.

‘Yes, Lieutenant,’ Hilliard said. ‘And you understand that if you or any of your men suffer anything of a serious nature, even a fatality, the fact will be considered confidential. It will not have happened while working with British military forces within the United Kingdom or its waters.’

‘We’ve already been briefed and we understand, sir,’ said Stewart.

‘What you won’t have been told is that those risks have significantly increased since you and your men left Virginia, Lieutenant.’

Pete and Jasper glanced at each other, wondering what that could mean.

‘Recent developments have put this operation into a very high-risk category for the assault teams. In plain language, it is possible the entire assault team could be lost . . . You will seriously need to reconsider your position in the operation. ’

Hilliard then looked over at Sumners, indicating he could start his brief.

Sumners took a moment to gather his notes and thoughts and clear his throat.‘Up until recently the focus of this operation has been to locate and retrieve Chief Munro, either by force or negotiation. To that end we have been unsuccessful in locating his whereabouts, or bringing to the negotiating table those in a position to do so. We think we now know why the IRA, or Real IRA I should say, have been stalling . . . Some weeks ago we received a communiqué from a reliable tout. This tout is an arms dealer and services both the provisional IRA and the Real IRA. He has provided us with reliable information over the years. He informed us he had purchased a biological weapon for RIRA. Based on his previous method of operation, he would have sold the weapon to RIRA before offering to sell the information on its whereabouts to us.We should have heard back from him a week ago. We have not. We have reason to believe RIRA has discovered his identity, and perhaps his purpose, and disposed of him. That leaves us with a very serious situation: RIRA may have a biological weapon of mass destruction. We’re assuming this to be fact. We don’t know where it is. We know they have the will to use it. We can assume they know that we know they have it, and they will therefore be doubly cautious.

‘Three days ago the French Counter Intelligence service picked up the man responsible for Hank’s abduction, one Serjo Henri, in Tilburg, Holland.’

This was news to Stratton.

‘Here’s Tilburg,’ Sumners said, pointing to the map. ‘The French say they have known about Henri’s activities for some time. This could just be a face-saving comment since they appear to know nothing about Henri’s connection to RIRA other than the information he has given them in his recent interrogations. Henri has admitted to abducting Chief Munro and handing him over to Irish terrorists.

‘Now, why am I talking about Hank’s abduction and the procurement of a biological weapon of mass destruction in the same brief? Well, it appears, for the present at least, that their immediate futures are entwined. By that I mean their route or journey from mainland Europe to the British Isles or Ireland. I’ll explain why we suspect this may be true . . . Henri has admitted that he delivered Chief Munro to his RIRA contacts near Antwerp—’

‘Did Henri say anything about his RIRA contact?’ Stratton interrupted, aware he was jumping ahead; if Sumners wanted him to know, he would have said as much. Hilliard glanced at Stratton, conveying his irritation at the interruption, choosing not to vocalise it. But Stratton burned to know who the mole was and wanted to look into Sumners’s eyes as he answered the question.

‘No,’ Sumners said definitely.The Americans had not been told about an RIRA mole in MI5 and Stewart was aware something was being discussed above his head.

‘The CIA has told us they believe our tout purchased his consignment from sources in Kazakhstan. According to them the biological consignment was six fluid ounces of “Virus U”. Six ounces of Virus U is a considerable threat to hundreds of thousands of lives in a densely populated city such as London . . . Our tout’s message came from Holland; RIRA will want to move the weapon from Europe as soon as possible. Our conclusions? We believe the virus and Chief Munro could be on the same vessel. Other than putting all their eggs in one basket it would make sense since RIRA’s transport resources are limited and two separate operations would increase the risk of being found out.

‘Now. If RIRA wants to release the weapon in England it would also make sense to transport it directly to this country rather than to Ireland first, where they run an equal risk of being caught and would then have to repeat that risk when transporting it on to England. So. We will be acting on the assumption that a single vessel will transport Chief Munro and the biological weapon to England, that’s if it isn’t already on its way or has already arrived. However, our estimate of timings suggests it may not yet be on the British mainland . . . That’s all I have for now,’ Sumners concluded.

Hilliard looked over at Major Tanner, the operations officer. ‘Two teams from M squadron are on immediate standby to move,’ Tanner said. ‘Since we don’t know what part of England the boat will arrive at, if it does, we’ll remain in Poole ready to go. Lieutenant Stewart. We’ll go over our SOPs as soon as this briefing is concluded and decide your team’s role as and when the balloon goes up.’

‘We have no idea what this ship is?’ Stewart asked. ‘Assuming it is a ship,’ Sumners reminded him. ‘We are concentrating every available resource on that one task.’

‘Ideally we would like to take the ship at sea for a number of obvious reasons,’ Major Tanner said. ‘But we’re preparing for just about every scenario.’

‘Sir,’ Stratton said. ‘As a back-up, can I request a team from the Northern Ireland detachment? Since we could be dealing with Real IRA players known to them, and surveillance may be required, they could be a useful support.’

Hilliard looked at Sumners, unsure. Sumners thought on it a few seconds, then nodded. ‘I think that’s a good idea.’

‘Okay,’ Hilliard said. ‘Can you take care of that, Stratton?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Hilliard checked his watch. ‘Right. I have to get going . . . I don’t need to tell you that the priority now is the biological weapon. It’s beyond the lives of anyone aboard that vessel.’

Hilliard looked at Stewart to see if his words had sunk in. Stewart nodded. It was clear to him. ‘We’ll still be going along with you, sir,’ he said.

Hilliard nodded to him, then left the room with Jardene.

Stewart and his two chiefs joined Captain Singen and Major Tanner at a table. Stratton went into a glass office cubicle in a corner of the room, which contained a bank of various phones and communications devices. He reached for a red receiver, picked it up and dialled a number.

‘That you, Graham?’ Stratton asked.

Graham sat up immediately on hearing the familiar voice. ‘Stratton?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How’s it going? Didn’t think I’d hear your voice again.’

‘Can’t tear myself away from you,’ Stratton said. ‘Is Mike there?’

‘Yeah. One sec.’

Stratton looked through the glass at the Yanks discussing weapons and equipment. Sumners was making notes in a file and looked up at Stratton. They stared at each other a moment; it was as if they knew something about each other that no one else in the room was privy to.

‘Mike here,’ came the voice over Stratton’s receiver.

‘Mike?’ Stratton said, turning his back on Sumners.

‘Stratton. How’s life treating you?’

‘Not so bad.’

‘This isn’t a social call, I take it?’

‘Go secure,’ Stratton said.

‘There was a strange sound over the line, then when Mike’s voice returned there was a very slight metallic ping in the background. ‘I’m secure. Go ahead.’

‘You guys busy?’

‘No.’

‘I need a team,’ Stratton said. ‘Four will do.’

‘When for?’

‘By the time you get them to the standby chopper it will be waiting to fly them to the mainland.’

‘Where they going?’

‘Poole first, but that could change at any time. It might involve water.Tell them to bring their own comms. Channel 4 will work in UK.’

‘Understood,’ Mike said.

‘I might need a female op,’ Stratton continued. ‘Is Aggy around?’

‘She should be in London. She volunteered to take a car over for exchange. Be back tomorrow.’

‘I’ll give her a call. Soon as you can, Mike.’

‘Will do. Can you tell me what it’s about?’

‘The Yank that was kidnapped. We may have an in. Your ears only.’

‘Understood. Good luck.’

‘You too,’ Stratton said and put down the phone. He couldn’t tell anyone about the bio threat. That was going to be top secret as long as they could keep it that way. As for his request for a female operative, he didn’t really think he’d need one. It was a spontaneous request.As soon as he thought of the det he had thought about her.

A receptionist greeted her at the main desk with a broad smile. ‘How can I help you?’ she said.

‘I believe I have a room booked.’

‘What’s the name please?’

‘Mrs Munro.’

‘One moment.’ The receptionist checked her computer screen. ‘What’s your first name?’

‘Kathryn.’

The receptionist’s smile disappeared as she tried several options to find the name without any luck. ‘I’m sorry, but you don’t seem to be booked. Oh. Mrs Kathryn Munro. There’s someone here to see you.’ The receptionist pointed to a quiet reading area the far side of the lobby.

Kathryn looked towards it; plants and a partition obscured much of the area.

‘There are rooms available. Would you like one?’ the receptionist said, the professional smile back on her face.

‘One moment,’ Kathryn said.

She picked up her bag and walked over to the reading area. Only one person occupied it, a man seated in an armchair reading a newspaper. She walked up and stood in front of him. He ignored her and turned a page.

‘You want to see me?’ she asked him.

The man looked over his paper and studied her, confirming who she was. He was a hard-looking individual with a face that appeared unused to smiling. He folded the newspaper methodically and indicated the seat beside him. ‘Sit down,’ he said in a soft Irish accent.

She obeyed. Kathryn had thought of little else on the journey than about whom she was going to meet. She wondered if this was the all-important terrorist leader. Father Kinsella had told her she was not to speak to her contact unless asked.

She had felt quite calm about the whole thing during the flight, although she hadn’t slept, but since climbing into the taxi at Heathrow she had started to feel nervous. During the drive into London it crossed her mind that what she was doing, meeting with terrorists, was illegal. She toyed with the pros and cons, and finally reasoned that she could not know if the person she was to meet was actually a terrorist. They could be a representative, which was like meeting a criminal’s lawyer. Not that it mattered. She would meet the devil himself on this matter, even if just to prove to herself that she was a good wife and mother.

Whenever she thought of Hank she pictured him stuck in a dark and dirty cell, but in truth she remained as confused as ever about her feelings for him. They were tested a few days before when her mother asked her what insurance Hank had and if it covered abduction by terrorists. Kathryn found herself thinking about it on and off the rest of that day. She was pleased to be able to at least say she never actually tried to find out if she was covered and for how much; to do that before Hank’s fate was known would have been very low in her estimation. Her mother had also said a good lawyer could sue the US Navy for millions. Kathryn had done her best to rid her mind of such thoughts, but despite her best efforts they had helped dull her misery. In fact for one moment she saw herself moving into a big beautiful house on the water. She tore the thoughts from her mind, but could not help acknowledging that they did bring into question her true feelings for her husband. She was determined to do everything physically possible to save Hank if for no other reason than were something bad to happen to him she could look herself in the face without feeling guilt.

The man handed her an envelope.

‘Listen to me carefully,’ he said. ‘Inside that envelope are train tickets and a hundred pounds. Open it and check it.’

She put down her bag and opened the envelope. The contents were as he described and included an itinerary and instruction sheet.

‘Read and follow the instructions to yourself as I explain them to you.’

She unfolded the piece of paper.

‘The hundred pounds is for taxis and general expenses. You’ll catch a taxi outside this hotel to King’s Cross railway station. You’ll go straight to platform 9 and catch the first train to King’s Lynn. Platform 9b to be exact.

‘Make sure you’re on the right train. Ask someone. King’s Lynn. Go to the far end of the platform. Make sure you’re in one of the front four coaches or you might get left in Cambridge. The journey takes about an hour and three-quarters. Do you understand so far?’

‘Yes,’ she said, intimidated. She could feel his strength, his resolve.

‘King’s Lynn is the end of the line. The train doesn’t go any further. Get off the train, go outside, and get a taxi. The station has a taxi rank. If there are none left, wait for one. Don’t go anywhere else. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell the taxi driver you want to go to Burnham Market and a hotel called the Hoste Arms. He’ll know where it is. Read that back to me.’

‘The . . . Burn-ham Market, the Hoste Arms.’

‘Burnham. One word. The H is silent. Not burn ham.’

‘Burnham,’ she repeated correctly.

‘Go in the front door and find a seat in the bar. Someone will meet you there. They’ll say, what’s the weather like in Boston, Kathryn? Say that back to me.’

‘What’s the weather like in Boston, Kathryn?’

‘When your business is concluded, ask the hotel to call you a taxi and you will do the exact same journey in reverse. Is that clear?’

‘What business?’

‘Were you not told, don’t ask any questions?’

‘Yes. Sorry. It’s just that—’

‘I’m here to talk.You’re here to listen and do what you’re told. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘When you get back to King’s Cross, platform 9, you will walk directly out of the station. If the train does not stop at platform 9, you will walk to platform 9 as if it had, and then walk directly out of the station. When you are outside, that’s in the open air, as opposed to being under the roof of the station, you will turn right and move out of the flow of pedestrian traffic, just a few feet.That means you will still be by the entrance to platform 9. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Someone will meet you there. At the bottom of the instruction sheet is a number. It’s a mobile phone number. You will call that in the event of an emergency only. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s it then.’

‘Can I ask you one question?’

He sighed. ‘What is it?’

‘Am I staying in this hotel?’

‘No.’

‘Do I have time to freshen up, I—?’

‘No.’

‘But I didn’t sleep on the plane.’

‘No. You’ll leave your bag with me. You’ll get it back when you return to London tonight. Now go. Outside. Catch a taxi to King’s Cross railway station . . . Go,’ he said with finality, staring into her eyes.

Kathryn stood, looked at her bag, changed her mind about asking to get something from it, and turned and walked away.

She stepped out of the hotel and looked up and down the road for a taxi. She saw one and waved, then realised she was waving with the envelope and money in her hand. She folded them and put them into her coat pocket as the taxi pulled over to the kerb. She paused to look at the hotel; there was no sign of the man - or her bag. The level of her nervousness went up a notch as she climbed into the cab.

‘King’s Lynn railway station, please.’

‘King’s Lynn? You sure, luv?’

Kathryn had a flash of panic and quickly took the envelope from her pocket and checked the instructions. ‘Sorry. I mean King’s Cross.’

‘That’s more like it,’ the driver said as he pulled away and headed up the road. ‘King’s Lynn is bloody miles away. Nice place though, parts of it. It’s on the coast. Me an’ the misses used to keep a caravan up there. Up the coast a bit. Nice place. Ain’t been there for years though.Yeah, don’t you get King’s Cross mixed up with King’s Lynn for Christ’s sake. Cost you a pretty penny by taxi that would . . . ’

Kathryn hardly listened to a word he said.

She picked it up, removed the top, sprayed a little on her hand and smelled it for the umpteenth time. What the hell, she thought. Got to start sometime. She sprayed some on her wrists and rubbed them together then gave a little squirt to either side of her neck. She then had a mischievous thought, hiked up her skirt and sprayed some on her inner thighs, high up and close to her panties. She went to her bed, where she had laid out a selection of possible clothes to wear. She held up two blouses, looked from one to the other several times, and settled for the tighter one. She picked a bra up off the bed and tossed it into an open drawer and pulled off her shirt. She inspected her breasts in the mirror from one side and then the other, cupped them in her hands and pushed them up and then smoothed them over, as if putting them back into place gently. She pulled on the blouse and adjusted it. Sexy was definitely the word that came to mind.

Her door opened and her mother leaned in holding a cordless phone.

‘Call for you,’ she said, then put her hand over the phone and mouthed playfully, ‘It’s a man.’

Aggy smiled and took the phone as her mother raised an eyebrow at the blouse, suggesting it was cheeky. Aggy playfully shooed her out and closed the door.

‘This is Melissa,’ she said. There was only one man she was expecting a call from, and he knew her as Melissa. She was happy that he’d called even though she was due to meet him late that afternoon to spend the rest of the evening with him - and perhaps the night too.

‘Aggy,’ the voice said.

All cheery images of her and Bill Lawton together fled from her mind. She knew who it was and he was the last person in the world she had expected to call, even though for a long time he was the only man she hoped would. She had long since given up that daydream. Now here he was.

‘Stratton?’ she said.

‘How you doing?’ he asked.

‘Fine. You?’

‘Not bad. I asked your mum for Melissa by the way.’

She’d thought Bill was the only person in NI who knew her real name. But then, nothing about Stratton surprised her, except a telephone call from him.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

She couldn’t believe it. Now that she was seeing someone he was calling her. Nevertheless, she was torn. Bill had started to win her heart the past few weeks, but it was obvious Stratton still had a place in it.

She and Bill had somehow managed to cultivate their relationship secretly by meeting a few times in Ireland. The credit really went to Graham the bleep. Aggy was permitted to leave the compound to go out in the evenings only if someone from the det accompanied her. It was the same for all the operatives. But she could hardly meet Bill if she was with one of the others. But on one shopping trip in Lisburn with Graham, they had bumped into Bill. It all seemed coincidental but Aggy remained suspicious that Bill had engineered it. By the time all three had finished lunch together it was obvious to Graham there was something between Bill and Aggy. Instead of spilling the beans, Graham actually suggested how he might be of help; he and Aggy would leave the det together for an evening out and while Aggy spent the time with Bill, Graham would happily hang out in a bar and wait for them to be done.

Even though Aggy could not be disloyal to Bill, something deep within her hoped Stratton was finally making his move. She would not be able to accept, not now at least, but she would be pleased. But letting Bill go didn’t seem right either. Her heart was, in a word, confused. It was certainly not something that could be figured out right there and then anyway.

‘I was just about to go out,’ she said, aware that it was essentially deceptive not to admit it was with a boyfriend. She expected Stratton might suspect as much anyway and wondered how that might affect his interest. She would come clean if he asked, although she would not tell him who it was.

‘You’re going to have to cancel,’ he said. ‘You’re working. ’

‘I’ve got to go back?’ she asked, surprised as well as disappointed on several levels.

‘No. You’re on immediate standby to move. Sorry if it’s inconvenient . . . This is big, Aggy.’

Aggy’s heart sank. She had not for a second considered he might be calling about work, since he had left the detachment.

‘You don’t have a mobile, do you?’ he asked.

‘No.’

Stratton expected as much. She was on leave for a couple of days to take a car back to the mainland and therefore would not have been permitted to take any operational equipment with her such as communications or weaponry. It would also be highly unusual for an operative to have a personal cell phone since they were not permitted to carry one on the job for security reasons, and operatives were home little enough to warrant owning one.

‘Then you’re gonna have to stay home and wait for my call. Sorry.’

‘Is this happening in London?’

‘I’ll let you know soon as I do. Later,’ he said, and hung up.

Great, she thought. Not only did he not ask her out, he screwed up her evening to boot. The bastard. She sat back down at her dresser and looked at the phone in her hands. Despite the disappointment it had been nice to hear his voice. She began to wonder what the important job could be, then her thoughts went to Bill. Dear Bill.