On that first visit, Kane had been led down a few flights of stairs, past an underground road to the cavernous computer halls that made the offices on top seem like a thin disguise. They didn’t go down this time. He tried to remember the layout of the ground floor. There was a section devoted to math and cryptanalysis, a separate wing for activities that fell under the opaque banner of “Enterprise”—new technologies, biometrics, AI—and a busy department dedicated to linguistics and translation. But they went to none of these. Two more punch codes led them away from the natural light to an anonymous department with its own reception desk.

The guard stationed there lifted a receiver, called through, told them to wait one moment. Their guide departed with a smile. Daniel spoke to Taylor and took a seat at the side. It was the last time Kane would see him that day. Taylor turned to Kane.

“Elliot, before we go in, I need to tell you: Rory Bannatyne’s dead. That’s partly what this concerns. He killed himself.”

“Rory?”

“I didn’t want to speak in the car. I’m sorry.”

Rory Bannatyne was the officer who’d worked with them on that job. Kane recalled him more vividly now, a tall, ginger-haired man with intense green eyes—soft-spoken, watchful, gentle, charismatic. He was what they called a tailored access officer, which meant his background in the special forces had been put to use alongside advanced electronics and computing skills: that is, he could break into places and then understand the wiring inside them. He was housed in the National Technical Assistance Centre, a rarely sighted subunit of the intelligence service that worked on intercepting signals data. There was something else, Kane now remembered: a minor upset Taylor had covered up, involving a girl in his hotel room. This had never entirely fit with Kane’s direct experience of the man, but then, they hadn’t known each other well.

“Is this to do with Oman?”

“No, not exactly. They don’t know anything about that. For now.”

“What happened?”

“I want to see what you think. I don’t know what to make of it.”

“And I’m connected?”

“Not yet.”

The guard lifted his phone again, then pressed a button.

“Dominic’s waiting for you.”

The door opened. A small, bright-eyed man stood on the other side, clean-shaven in a tight white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He had a laptop and papers under his left arm. He shook Kane’s hand vigorously.

“Dominic Bower. Thanks for coming in. Please, this way—grab a seat.”