Knox left Laing with a doctor he knew at Guy’s hospital who was used to doing favours for MI5 without asking questions. Laing had wanted to go straight to Leconfield House and either argue the case that Wilson and Kosygin’s summit should be cancelled or start rounding up Watchers along with any men the Met could spare. But Knox had assured him that he could handle Holland, and there probably wasn’t anything they could do to increase security that he hadn’t already thought of, and if there was then Knox would take care of it while he was getting his leg stitched back together.

However, as he followed the traffic across the Thames, Knox struggled to work out how he was going to explain the events of the day to the director general. His job had been simple, but instead of keeping Williams out of harm’s way, he’d let him be kidnapped, along with Bennett.

Knox was headed to Highgate, but he stopped in Soho first. He parked the Jaguar half on the pavement in the narrow street that ran along the back of Kemp House. He wasn’t sure if he needed a gin or a coffee before he saw Holland and tried to persuade him to authorise a rescue mission for two people who had vanished without a trace, but he found his legs carrying him past Berwick Street and along Old Compton Street to Bar Italia.

The place was quiet, it was the early-evening rush hour again, and more people were walking past its large windows than going inside for a quick caffeine fix.

Knox ordered an espresso from one of the barmen in a perfectly pressed white shirt and maroon waistcoat, and took his coffee to one of the stools that faced out onto Frith Street.

As he settled into his seat he finally succumbed to his frustration. Frustration that he’d lost Williams before he’d been able to really get through to him. Frustration over the cruel things he and Bennett had said to each other. And frustration at his growing fear that when he did go to see Holland and tell him what had happened, the response would be a mix of disappointment and inaction.

He stared into the small cup in front of him, trying to decide his next move. He needed to get both Williams and Bennett back. But he also didn’t. Because, as he took his first sip of his espresso and glanced out of the window he saw both of them looking at him from the other side of the street.

Five minutes later, the three of them were gathered round the island counter in Knox’s kitchen.