“Sure. They’ve brought some pretty ruthless minds on board: former property lawyers, aerospace lawyers, a lot of individuals with a background in maritime law. The thinking seems to be that if you can draw lines in the sea you can draw them in space, carve out ownership. Last month Geoffrey Payne got them an audience with the attorney general.”

“To do what?”

“Get on the front foot. Space is going to be a trillion-dollar economy. Someone’s going to have to establish law up there. Who owns the moon? According to the UN Space Treaty of 1967, everyone and no one. So, do you need a license to operate there? Who’s going to give you a license? Anyone want to tax it? A lot of the existing treaties date back to the Cold War. It’s more about stopping people from putting nukes in orbit than establishing a competitive free-market environment. Space, the province of all mankind: That’s great, but not very commercially viable. According to the treaty, astronauts should be treated as envoys of humanity. What does that mean? All of them? There’s a hell of a lot of people heading into space in the next few years who really aren’t envoys of humanity. So who polices them?”

“And Quadrant are pushing this discussion.”

“So it seems. But why? A year ago, they were just another small startup chasing the New Space dollar. Where’s their power from? Why are they suddenly steering the UK’s space strategy?” Fischer let silence fall as if it might coax her. “You haven’t touched your wine,” he said, finally.

“I don’t drink.”

Now he looked at her with renewed curiosity.

“It has been a long time, hasn’t it, Kat.”

“You seemed to know Payne well.”

“Turns out we’re members of the same London club.” Fischer smiled. “What are the chances?”

“Does he know someone called Gabriel Skinner?”

Fischer hesitated. “Payne met with a man called Gabriel Skinner the day before flying to Brussels.”

“Where?”

“At a private address in Central London. It’s not the first time they’ve met. Skinner’s a colleague of yours, I believe.”

Taylor stood up and went to the floor-length window. The sparkling lights of the city twinkled beneath her. She admired the darkness of the Isle of Dogs, then the towers of Canary Wharf behind it, pointing up at the stars.

“There’s an island in the South Atlantic,” she said. “Called Ascension. Has it come up in connection with any of this?”

“Not as far as I’m aware.”

“A girl went missing there a couple of weeks ago. Heard about that?”

“On Ascension? No, I don’t believe so. Why?”

“Something’s not right about it. Someone on the island has been doing surveillance on one of my officers. I traced the activity back to Nine Russell Square. That’s the only connection I have so far.”

Fischer frowned, scratched his jaw.