Rose had played her part well. An hour earlier I’d stalked across the freezing parking lot at Ashford International in a shirt, shoes and coat she’d filched from a cupboard downstairs in the Emergency Department. In the back pocket of my jeans, the passport and driver’s licence she’d lifted – albeit reluctantly – from the bag she allowed the eager junior doctor who’d done my initial assessment to keep in her office. I had no phone, and didn’t want one. As for money, I had a hundred-dollar bill – and five hundred pounds in cash courtesy of Rose’s bank card. She had a promise of repayment from a terse Glaswegian.

And Grumpy Jock – Regimental Sergeant Major Jack Nazzar – was as terse, and as tough, as they came. Legendary Special Forces old-timer, he was the founding father of the Wing – or the SAS’s Revolutionary Warfare Wing – a Dirty Dozen of Hereford’s most experienced operators. MI6 called them ‘the Increment’. I called them when I was in trouble. I’d relied on them for overwatch on dozens of UKN operations, and spent more weeks in the field with Nazzar than I could remember. I wasn’t sure if I was still operational or not. And with Frank out of the picture, there was no one to report to, or receive orders from. I couldn’t call Whitehall even if I wanted to. As far as the Establishment was concerned, I didn’t exist: Director Special Forces didn’t take phone calls from a ghost. Frank was my only link to the offices of state and backchannels of diplomacy that ultimately determined every operator’s fate; Jack Nazzar was my only remaining connection to the off-the-books world of warcraft that supported them. I’d counted on him being a friend. He hadn’t let me down.

And neither had Doctor Mann.

‘Thank you, sir. Have a nice trip.’

I took back the passport and stood in line for the X-ray at security, wondering how outlandish my appearance would have to be before someone questioned my identity. I filtered my way through French customs – who barely looked at the photograph – picked up a cup of coffee and a croissant and crossed over the steel and glass footbridge that dropped me down on to the platform. I’d booked myself on to the 0655 to Paris, Gare du Nord. A small clutch of other passengers braved the icy morning as if by their perseverance they might conjure the train from St Pancras a few minutes early. A stiff breeze picked up from the south-east. Anyone with any sense clung to the warmth of the waiting room upstairs for as long as possible. It was an hour before sunrise. My wounds ached, and I remembered that I wanted to smoke. I tried not to think about either and watched the clock instead. My breath steamed in the frigid air.

Ten minutes to departure.