‘Can you wrap this?’

‘Of course.’ She wrapped it, tied a ribbon and offered me a choice of message tags.

‘Just a blank one, thanks.’

Doors of dark carved wood led between potted palms into the Royal Jordanian Crown Lounge. No familiar faces. At the back was a disabled toilet that had served me well over the years. I changed, tore and flushed my receipts, checked my paperwork was in order. Then I took a condom wrapper from my wallet, removed a pouch of duct tape and prised it apart. Inside was a small key, the key to my own life. I rinsed off the glue and transferred it to my pocket.

I shaved, used the corner of my boarding pass to get the dirt from beneath my fingernails. Finally, I tried looking into my own eyes. I was thirty-five, 5’11”, 170 pounds, ash-brown hair faded by the Middle Eastern sun. I started operations looking well: groomed, trim but not so worked out that I could be mistaken for military. I ended them haggard, bloodshot, with an edginess that triggered attention.

I eased the tape off the new wrapping paper and removed the gift box, took out the watch, then tucked the diamond into the velvet lining and rewrapped it. I found the tag and wrote: Let’s quit.

At the boarding gate, the usual sunburnt crew gripped their Western passports as if they might try to wriggle away. The flight took off at 10.30 a.m. I stayed awake over Lebanon, trying to see how much power was on, caught a glimpse of western Turkey, slept through Europe.

Heathrow was unusually quiet. No issues at the border. I walked into the UK, part of me hoping that there was no one to meet me, but I was out of luck.

TWO

My driver held an agreed name. You could almost believe he was a standard chauffeur if it wasn’t for the eyes that scanned the people around me as he took my bag. Square-jawed, broad-shouldered; an army physique at odds with the grey suit.

‘How was the journey?’

‘Very smooth, thank you.’

The car was convincing too: black Audi, authentic TFL private hire licence in the window. Its bulletproof glass and run-flat tyres weren’t easily identifiable to untrained eyes. The sky above was grey, the bite of English winter refreshing.

‘Alastair Undercroft apologises for not being here in person to welcome you home,’ my driver said, when we were inside. ‘We’re to proceed directly to the meeting.’

‘That’s fine.’

He kept his eyes on the mirrors as we drove, watching security and police. After several years living the life of Christopher Bohren, the most likely source of trouble was New Scotland Yard. I let him get going before leaning forward.

‘I’d like to go via Marylebone High Street.’

‘Sir?’

‘I have something to pick up.’

‘I’ve been asked to take you straight there.’

‘We have time.’

‘Okay.’