Charles cleared the breakfast table while Anya went to the loo and Sarah went upstairs for her coat. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she whispered when she came down. ‘It won’t make things awkward to have me intervening?’

‘An inspired thought. You might be right. Akela might know something.’

‘Inspired mainly by the hope of keeping Deborah off my back, if I’m honest.’

Charles walked across Smith Square to Head Office. Intelligence services functioned twenty-four hours a day throughout the year but unless there was an emergency their routines were pretty much nine-to five, like the rest of public service. A few people would be in, catching up or responding to some local incident in Kabul or Mexico City or wherever. Apart from them it would be just the duty officer and a few – probably too few – guards. The one who greeted Charles had been in the Service at least as long as himself, an overweight, unsmiling man with an occasional flicker of morose humour.

‘Morning, sir. She’s beaten you to it.’

‘Who’s beaten me to what?’

‘Your lady-friend, your fellow conspirator. Arrived ten minutes ago.’

It could only be Sonia. Not for the first time, Charles marvelled at how much was known by ancillary staff. He should have realised. The Service had recruited them as agents often enough. Cleaners, guards, drivers, maintenance staff, cooks, window-cleaners, babysitters – especially babysitters – often had free access and a good idea of who came and went, when, where and with whom. He remembered the case of a dockyard laundryman who provided accurate and up-to-the-minute intelligence about the destinations and durations of warships and submarines.

He turned on his screen before ringing Sonia. The first item was a message the previous evening from Michael Dunton to the effect that police were about to arrest members of Daniel’s mosque committee and possibly also Akela. He rang Sarah but there was no answer; her Golf was not fitted with hands-free technology. He left a message summarising Michael’s and then rang Sonia.

She came to his office with a mug of mint tea and her usual clipboard. ‘What are you doing here?’ Charles asked. ‘The submission is cleared. You didn’t need to spend another weekend working. Are you just catching up on the day job?’

‘Working out where Gareth Horley might be. Much more interesting.’

‘And where’s that?’

‘Brussels. Possibly staying with Timber Wolf, or hidden by him. But more likely with his mistress since he doesn’t know we know about her.’

‘You didn’t need to come in to conclude that. It’s what I’ve been thinking, too.’

‘But I did need to come in to check passenger lists.’

‘How? We don’t have access—’

‘MI5 and GCHQ do, where there’s justifiable national security interest.’ She put her tea on his desk and sat. ‘Fortunately, my contacts with both continue to prove helpful.’

‘More so than mine at the moment.’