‘I don’t think I could have put it better myself,’ said Fifeshire.

‘We’ve been duped. Hook, line and sinker.’

He nodded. ‘That’s what it looks like, I’m afraid. Total red herring, the fuel business; and it’s worked a treat. God knows how many stations are going to blow up today. And where the hell do we begin?’

I sunk my head into my hands. ‘How the hell have we been so stupid?’

‘I don’t think you or I have been in the slightest bit stupid. We are gatherers of intelligence, not scientists. We can’t be expected to understand every aspect of modern science – but we are expected to use good advisors. Sir Isaac is this country’s number one expert in nuclear energy; we used his advice.’

‘Maybe we should have left him on the bloody plane. Where is he now?’

‘In with the brass. He’s trying to explain how you split an atom.’

‘This is one hell of a time for a science lesson. Maybe he should have explained it to them before the country ever built its first sodding power station. Can we get him out?’

‘Do you need him?’

‘I have a hunch,’ I said. ‘If I’m right, then I’m going to need him and a helicopter fast.’

‘What’s your hunch?’

‘A power station that’s got a black university student doing a work-study course at a nuclear power station that’s East of London. That’s what we’ve got to find. I think they’re going to do one power station only. I don’t think they have the manpower to do more. We need to speak to the heads of personnel at Hinkley Point, Inswork Point, Bugle and Huntspill Head.’

Fifeshire again disappeared behind a screen of smoke. When he emerged, he was holding the telephone in his hand. He barked down it. Within ten minutes the phone rang back. Ben Tsenong was at Huntspill Head. So was Horace Whalley.

As the helicopter hurtled down across Wales, the fog thinned, then vanished behind us. We clattered over the Bristol Channel and looked down on water that was thick with white horses. The wind was whipping up – a strong Westerly. The weather conditions for Operation Angel were absolutely perfect.