The real identities of UKN operators at Raven Hill were a mystery even to Colonel Ellard. Only Frank knew who we were. He hand-picked potential recruits. No one was told what they were training for until they passed – and less than one per cent did. Some of the failures went to MI6, most went to pieces. Anyone selected for UKN went out into the world to join the unsung Three Hundred who stood alone at whichever Hot Gates Commander Frank Knight sent us to.

And there was no commander more loyal than Frank. He was accountable directly to the Crown. And his job was to watch the watchmen. Under him we formed an analogue, off-grid failsafe – an impenetrable fifth column carrying out discreet, deniable operations abroad, and a supposedly incorruptible praetorian guard keeping a weather eye on the security services at home. We might have enjoyed overwatch from the Wing and briefings by MI6, but we were fundamentally separate from them – civilians, not soldiers, who had no existence outside the frame of a passport photo. We could be captured, tortured and broken and all we could give anyone was the handful of magic beans that were Frank’s name, rank and tailor.

Everyone except me.

Although I didn’t know a single other UKN operative’s true identity – or even if ‘Frank’ was Knight’s real name – I knew enough to unmask him. Over the years I’d become embedded at Raven Hill, groomed to take over the barracks from Colonel Ellard. I knew where the bodies were buried. Maybe Frank figured that, sooner or later, I’d turn my hand to grave digging. Maybe releasing my photo was his way of breaking my shovel.

Fucking maybes.

The photograph in The Times had been taken for an as yet unused British passport issued in the name of Gordon Sim – a fictional car mechanic from south London. Suspect, the caption underneath the picture read: Irish Police want to question Max McLean, a British citizen named in connection with the attack.

Looking at it made me feel sick.

Whoever released the photo knew how to link it to me, personally. To do that, they’d have needed to know my name, my assigned alias, recognize my face, have the security clearance to access the server the image was stored on and the motive to go public with it all in the press. That specific photograph captioned with the name of Max McLean narrowed down the usual suspects to a line-up of one.