Uniforms appeared in Kane’s headlights as he drove through, a few aircraftmen writing on clipboards, gripping Maglites between their teeth. One officer was giving instructions to RAF Operations Support: dog handlers, communications engineers in short-sleeved blue shirts. Others were marking up maps or distributing torches and batteries out of a box. The sudden efficiency of it all created the impression that this was what the island had been waiting for.

When he was almost at the bungalow, Kane saw movement ahead: a small crowd centered on his accommodation. A dog barked. He slowed the car down and a torch was shined through his windscreen.

“It’s him.”

Suddenly there was a lot of weaponry pointed Kane’s way. Kane could see more men running over. The door of the bungalow was open.

“Step out slowly. Hands up.”

He stepped out of the car. The group by his bungalow included Lauren Carter’s father, peering anxiously at the doorway. As Kane watched, a man in RAF uniform appeared from inside, holding the pink hoodie that Lauren had been wearing when Kane saw her earlier in the day.

“Leave it,” Morrogh shouted, running over. “Don’t touch anything. Put it down where it was.”

Lauren’s father pushed past the RAF officer into the bungalow. Morrogh stopped, breathless, at the door.

“Is she in there?” he asked.

“No,” the man with the hoodie said.

Morrogh turned to Kane.

“Where is she?”

“I’ve no idea,” Kane said. “I just got back here.”

Lauren’s father reappeared.

“Where is she?” he screamed. He ran toward Kane. Three RAF men held him back. A throng of people had gathered across the road, staring at the bungalow and at Kane with his hands up. A military flight came in low, deafening, momentarily casting the whole scene as small and absurdly terrestrial. Then Morrogh nodded to the police station.

“Leave the car. Come with me.”

18

Taylor walked up the stairs to the chief’s office, his words ringing in her ears. Is it true that you worked with Rory Bannatyne in Oman, July 2015? When she arrived at the top floor she was surprised to see Skinner standing in the corridor. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been, Taylor thought. He wore his coat and scarf, still damp from a shower of rain. Taylor wondered where he’d come from, and what he’d just told Mackenzie. He didn’t say anything, just watched her walk in.

Sir Roland Mackenzie’s office was minimalist. He didn’t put on the stuffiness or pretensions of his predecessors. Taylor closed the door, took a seat as instructed. On the expanse of desk between Taylor and the chief of the Intelligence Service sat a single sheet of fax paper that spelled the end of her career in cramped and smudged Arabic.

“You paid this fine to the Omani police,” Mackenzie said.

“Yes.” She felt like a child, cornered. Events were moving too fast for her to regain any poise.