Harry downshifted as the 4x4 went up a steep ridge. Shiny new leaves covered the vegetation on either side of the roadway, and pinkish white buds on the cherry trees would bloom within a week.

They hit a bump and one of the bags in the backseat slipped to the floor, spilling its contents—video games and a console. Elise twisted her upper torso and placed them back inside the bag.

“Thanks,” Harry said.

“I assume those are for your son?” Elise asked.

“I picked up a few items this afternoon before I swung by your flat.” Several agents at SIS had updated him on which games were popular with boys Sammy’s age.

“How old is he now?” Elise asked.

“Eight.”

“It must be nice to be a father.” A hint of wistfulness laced her tone.

Funny that. Harry had never taken Elise as a woman with strong nesting instincts. Her earlier response about Nick and Catherine’s baby had driven home that fact.

“Sammy’s a happy, well-adjusted child. I have my parents to thank for that. Vanessa offloaded Sammy on them while I was in the Middle East.”

“Offloaded, as in abandoned? Does she visit?”

“Sammy receives an occasional video call from her.” Harry tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but his divorce still rankled.

He’d married a sweet, clingy ball of fluff. Because Vanessa needed him so desperately, Harry had expected her to stand by him when he’d deployed. More fool him. Within three months of his departure, Vanessa had dumped Sammy on Harry’s parents’ doorstep and had taken off to Ibiza with a Spaniard.

Harry tugged on his collar as guilt assailed him about his aborted camping trip with his boy. When he’d stopped by a toy shop that afternoon, it occurred to him, as he had scanned the shelves, that he had no idea what his son enjoyed.

The remorse ate at him like acid on metal. In some ways, his long absences weren’t much better than Vanessa’s behavior. The end result was the same: neither parent was there for Sammy.

Harry switched on the radio—anything to take his mind off his abysmal failures.

Anders Gilmont, former Oxford professor, sat at the rickety kitchen table with a round top that tilted every time he lifted his elbow. Blackout draperies at the two basement windows remained closed, and the overhead fixture spilled its feeble light on the room. A roach scuttled across the tile floor. Gilmont smashed it with his heel, barely registering his action.

Typing on his keyboard, he entered the final figures in his spreadsheet, then leaned back in his chair while the numbers updated themselves. Warmth filled him, and a smile spread across his face. Finally—vindication.

Two months past, the meth lab he had set up via several former students in Camden had made a massive profit, so he had created a second one, this time in Southwark.