She sighs and looks round. Not a tremor of excitement in her manner. Not a flicker of adrenaline. She moves out to the corridor then up towards the doors to the main room. She came here two nights ago. Roland brought her while everyone was asleep. She saw the bunker and listened to what he said. She showed no reaction. She told Roland to go home and stay away. Then she worked out, as Ben did, how to use the tablet to operate the device. She went home and got the charges she had stored. She also got the nine-mill pistol now held on her hip in the holster. She came back and spent the rest of her time monitoring and assessing. She wanted to see for herself. It is always best to see for yourself. What she saw did not impress her. She was not appalled, as to be appalled you have to have an emotional range, which, after the life she has led, she does not have. She prepared and made ready. It was obvious what was going to happen. Using one staging area was a ridiculous idea, but at least that entry point is now negated.

In the main room she nods at Doctor Watson and heads to the big table, where she takes an apple and bites down. She chews methodically as the doctor stares wide-eyed and shocked.

‘They awake?’ she asks.

He nods. He spots the pistol on her hip and wonders if he should do something, say something.

She clocks what he sees and swallows the mouthful. ‘On your side,’ she says, her voice deep and very American. Doctor Watson nods quickly. Rendered silent by the sight of her. She is of average height and average build. She looks tanned and healthy but jaded and worn. She could be anywhere from fifty to sixty-five years old. Dark blonde hair streaked with grey pulled back in a simple ponytail away from a face lined from a life lived. Cold grey eyes stare out, but the intelligence is deep.

‘You the doc?’ she asks.

He nods again. Still unable to find his voice.

‘Sciatica,’ she says, patting her hip. ‘Shrapnel . . .’

He lifts his head. ‘Right,’ he says.

‘Age is a state of mind,’ she says, more to herself, as she moves to the door. ‘That’s what they told me.’

She goes through to the corridor and up towards the door, following the sound of their voices. She goes slow, listening to absorb the conversation. When she gets near she stops.

‘Are you sure?’ Safa asks.

‘Yes,’ Ben says. ‘From the supermarket. Genetically modified, steroid-injected, DNA something fruit . . .’

‘Urgh.’ Safa’s voice carries from the room. ‘Don’t know if I still like it now.’

‘And the water we thought was super-nice?’ Ben says.

‘Oh, don’t tell me,’ Safa moans.

‘Tap water. They run a pipe and fill tanks.’

They did, the woman muses to herself, taking another bite of the apple.

‘German tap water?’