None of that is true.

It is the headquarters of Group Fifteen, a beyond top-secret, quasi-military organisation that is responsible for implementing the foreign policy of the United Kingdom when diplomacy and the more nuanced methods of the Secret Intelligence Service have failed. It is responsible, for example, for the liquidation and elimination of enemies of the state or those men and women who, for whatever reason, stand between Her Majesty’s Government and the pursuit of its global ambitions.

Captain Michael Pope, the new Control of Group Fifteen, parked his unremarkable Audi Q5 in the underground garage and stepped out. He was unremarkable himself: black hair, a rugged face, the build and bearing of a military man. He walked to the secure elevator, activated it with his thumbprint, faced the unblinking eye of the security camera so that his identity could be verified and then waited for it to carry him to his office.

The office floor was divided into cubicles, and it hummed with quiet industry. The staff were seconded from the internal and external security agencies, with others assigned from the Ministry of Defence. They monitored ongoing operations, vetted potential new recruits, researched targets and provided intelligence to agents in the field. Pope had benefitted from their professionalism when he had been on operation himself, and he still found it a little jarring to have been promoted into a position where he was responsible for them, rather than the other way around.

He crossed the floor and returned the greetings of the analysts who looked up from their work.

His office was on the side of the building that faced the water, and it boasted a spectacular view over the river and the skyline beyond.

Pope opened the door and went inside.

Sir Benjamin Stone, the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, which was more commonly known as MI6, was waiting for him.

“Oh,” he said. “Good afternoon, sir. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I know,” said Stone. He was in his late fifties, a little overweight, and dressed with the stuffy good taste that marked out the better shops on Savile Row. He was sitting on the sofa next to the fireplace. His legs were crossed, and he had a copy of the Telegraph spread out across his lap.

“How can I help you?” Pope said breezily as he turned away and took off his coat.

Stone folded the paper and shoved it into the case at his feet. “I wanted to know first-hand how it’s going.”

“With Rose?”

“Who else.”

Pope hung the coat and turned back to Stone. “I saw her yesterday.”

“And?”

“She’ll do it. Just as you asked.”

“Excellent,” Stone said. “Well done.”

Pope walked across the office to the fireplace. “I wish there was no need to bargain with her like this,” he said. “After what she’s been through? What Control and the others did? We should be doing everything we can to help her, not putting distractions in her way.”