The Polish sergeant, Milosz, who was one of the first to gatecrash the table, had hauled out a stash of Cuban cigars as his calling card. One of the worst hangovers Caitlin could ever recall, from her college years – and she could only dimly recall it – involved whiskey and cigars. It had been her first and last two-day hangover. An experience she was more than happy to avoid repeating by bailing early and taking a shower to wash the smell of alcohol and smoke out of her skin and hair. Tired, not just from work and travel, but from the constant strain of maintaining cover, she fell asleep soon after pulling up the covers, and before her thoughts could turn to home.

Outside now, she could hear a platoon of Rangers going through their morning physical training, shouting cadence without the usual level of enthusiasm. A glance out the window revealed more than a few of last night’s revellers struggling to go through the routine of side-straddle hops, squat thrusts and the hello dolly punctuated by frequent commands to drop into the front leaning rest for another round of push-ups.

‘So glad I didn’t chose the army for my cover,’ she said to herself. It was just the type of pointless, dumb-ass physical training she hated. They’d probably follow it up with a ten-mile run to sober up all the alcoholics. No doubt, out at Fort Hood at this very instant, the same ritual was taking place. Or maybe not. As Musso said, it wasn’t the regular army anymore.

She’d woken up feeling refreshed, at least, but hungry. There had been a promise of dinner with Musso and McCutcheon, she remembered, but after a few drinks that promise turned into an untidy pile of corn chips and peanuts. An orgy of trashy carbs and additives she’d decided to skip.

After changing into exercise clothes and hitting the gym, she logged a long session of high-intensity cardio intervals, strength training and the Tensho and Saiha kata of the Kyokushin ryu, before searching out breakfast. Returning to the hotel bar, she found the whole area had been thoroughly cleared of the debris de partay before the caterers set up the morning buffet. She wasn’t surprised to see a lot of fried meat on offer, most of it the fruit of the pig. Caitlin indulged herself in one half-rasher of bacon, but stuck to her usual breakfast of oatmeal with berries, two eggs on a piece of wholemeal toast and a cup of black coffee. She would have liked some citrus, but there was none to be found.

‘Impressive effort, Colonel. I wouldn’t have imagined any human being could face poached eggs the morning after besting a bottle of single malt in close-quarter combat.’