FOSTER TOOK THE Eurostar from St Pancras and arrived at the embassy just before midday. It was a grand sandstone building with polished brass signs and wrought-iron balustrades. Inside, a middle-aged woman in a security uniform eyed him suspiciously as he placed his passport, phone and wallet into a plastic box. The woman ran the box through an X-ray machine and handed it back to Foster, just as Tom Abbot arrived down a curved marble staircase.

‘You’ve landed on your feet,’ Foster said, looking around at the marble floors and the high ceilings. His gaze came to rest on Tom Abbot. He looked the same, but different. Longer hair, smarter suit, but his smile and slightly hunched frame were unchanged.

‘You came. Thank you.’

‘I’m intrigued,’ Foster replied as they walked further into the building. At a panelled wooden door marked ‘Private’, Abbot paused and nodded.

‘It should be pretty straightforward.’

Foster doubted that.

Inside the room two women sat behind a highly polished antique mahogany table. The curtains were drawn against large windows, and a bottle of water sat untouched between them.

Foster recognised Kirsten Keller straight away. She looked smaller sitting down, but as she rose in greeting he realised that her height was all from her legs. She wore a smart black tracksuit, and without make-up she looked young and vulnerable.

Next to Kirsten was a dark-haired woman who barely met Foster’s eyes and didn’t shift an inch from her chair. She was dressed in training gear, too, but Foster knew from his research that her playing days were behind her. Her years of training had toughened her body, and she had compensated for this with polished nails and a delicate silver chain, which fell just below the hollow of her neck.

‘This is Kirsten and her coach Maria Rosario,’ Abbot explained as he quietly shut the door behind them and indicated to a seat. ‘Chris was my boss in London,’ he told the women. ‘He knows what he’s doing.’

‘Does he?’ Rosario asked. ‘He hasn’t done anything yet.’

Foster turned to get a better view of her. She wore her straight dark hair loose and consequently it fell over fiery dark-brown eyes. Every few seconds she brushed the hair back with her fingers, and Foster wondered why she didn’t just tie it back.

‘You haven’t asked me to do anything yet,’ Foster replied. Their eyes locked for a moment, neither of them aggressive and neither friendly. Just two confident people evaluating each other.

Foster wasn’t a huge tennis fan, but he knew Maria Rosario had been a decent player until her late twenties. Never a champion, but always a contender. And now she was coaching the hottest talent on the tour. Although at that moment it didn’t seem to be making her very happy.