Stevenson was climbing the ranks of Counter Terrorism in Vauxhall. He had cultivated an ageless donnishness although he was only a couple of years older than me. There was a sense of succumbing to class, becoming the person fate had always had in store for him. But he was brilliant in his own self-deprecating way. I had met him in the library at Vauxhall Cross. I used to get in early – in through the double-airlock doors while it was still quiet. I enjoyed the place at that time of the morning: the courtyard with its fountain, the central atrium bathed in cool, green light from the triple-glazed windows – light that always reminded me of the interior of a mosque. I could imagine people removing their shoes upon entering, prostrating themselves towards the Union Jack.

The library was a gem, and underused. In those less digital days, it kept papers from around the world, along with academic publications and the less sensitive reports from rival agencies. It had lamps and leather seats that nodded towards private clubs or the archives of prestigious legal chambers. Stevenson was always there. We developed a friendship based on this convergence. He was curious about my work in the field. I could already see that he was going to rise through the ranks, and knew this would be useful. Also, we liked each other.

‘Heard you did pretty well out there,’ he said.

‘I’m not sure about that.’

‘Not your fault it got pulled.’

‘Pulled suddenly. Left people exposed.’

‘Ours is not to reason why.’

‘Fuck that.’

We lapsed into silence.

‘How’s Sunil?’ I asked, remembering his partner’s name.

‘Fine. Tired. Overworked.’

‘And Legoland?’ I asked, before he felt obliged to inquire into my own private life. ‘What’s news in Vauxhall?’

‘The current regime’s isolated pretty much everyone. Doyle’s in the Secretariat now, still obsessed with the Arctic Circle. Ann Swan went to Citibank. Did you hear Etienne had a flap of sorts in China?’

‘No.’

‘Triad-run billiard halls. The word is: don’t mess with them.’

‘I’m glad we’ve established that.’

I momentarily missed HQ: the gossip, the etiquette of careful eyes, locked doors and hushed corridors where you could nod at men and women who you saw every day, and if they didn’t know exactly what you did, at least they had an idea, and that was permitted.

‘I saw a review I thought would interest you.’ He extracted a folded clipping from his pocket: An Islamic Utopian: the life of Ali Shari’ati. ‘Islam, Marxism, revolution. I thought it sounded like you. Know it?’

‘I skimmed a copy when it was in hardback.’

‘Any good?’

‘Not bad. The usual line: CIA ruined the Middle East, etcetera. Everything’s our fault. The publishing house is Kremlin-sponsored.’

His silence made me conscious of my irritability.