“Can you think of anything worse?” he asked. He told her to turn off the Old Kent Road at the next lights, twisting in his seat as she did so to check the road behind.

“Keep going.”

They continued through the back street of Bermondsey, then out of the estates toward the shiny towers of Surrey Quays. He told her to slow, checked the mirrors a final time.

“Here is fine.”

Taylor pulled up alongside the old docks. The residential towers were dark. Geese slept on the ornamental squares of water between them. When they were out of the car Fischer lit a cigarette and looked around. The street remained deserted.

“Follow me,” he said. They cut into a small side street, to the entrance of one of the glitzier blocks, where he dropped his cigarette, tapped a fob to the entry system and the door opened. He unlocked a mailbox in the foyer, put his phone inside, nodded to Taylor, and she did the same.

They ascended in a glass walled lift with London beneath them, neither speaking. The flat was on the seventeenth floor. Fischer switched the lights on and looked around. It was showroom plush, safe house cold: floor-length windows, slat blinds, slices of a London view. Fischer opened kitchen cupboards, then the fridge, studying the bottles inside. He took a sticker off two new wineglasses and rinsed them.

“Make yourself at home.”

He poured them both red wine. Taylor went to the window to gather her thoughts. In Geneva, Fischer had operated out of a comically vast but barely furnished apartment on the Quai du Seujet, with the Rhône out one window and the Jura Mountains out the other. She felt momentarily nostalgic thinking about it. Exciting times. Or just young times, with so much future ahead that small mistakes seemed sure to be washed away.

Fischer gave her one of the wines, then collapsed onto the sofa with an arm along the back, brogues up on the coffee table.

“So what took you to the event?” he said.

“You first.”

“I was working.” He said it with a slight smile. “You seemed to be getting on well with Geoffrey Payne.”

“Until you came along.”

“Spying on your own MPs?”

“Maybe there’s more to Payne than meets the eye.”

Fischer leaned back, watching her carefully.

“I suspect there’s plenty more. In fact, I thought you might be able to fill me in.”

“It’s not going to be that easy,” she said.

“But you’re here. You want something from me, don’t you, Kathryn.”

“I’d like to know about Quadrant.”

He stretched, studied her again.

“Quadrant, indeed. Majestic, mysterious Quadrant. Yes, I’d certainly like to know about Quadrant too. What have you heard so far?”

“They clear up junk.”