‘And if the rebels decide to come for the palace first?’

‘That’s a risk we’ll have to take,’ Mallet said.

‘Maybe you’d prefer to sit this one out, Josh,’ Loader said.

Bowman glared at him and set his jaw. ‘I never said that, mate. I’m up for the job as much as anyone. I just want to make sure it’s done right.’

Mallet’s cold gaze centred on Casey. ‘What about you, Alex?’

‘What about me?’

‘You’ve been as quiet as Patrick for the past hour. Usually we can’t get you to shut up. Are you sure you’re up for this?’

Casey folded her arms. ‘Why wouldn’t I be? Because I’m a woman?’

Mallet held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘It’s got nothing to do with that, and we both know it. I’m just asking.’

‘What are you trying to get at, John?’

Mallet scratched the back of his neck and shifted. ‘Look, everyone in the Cell rates you highly. You’re smarter than the rest of us put together, you’re skilled with the old cyber, brilliant at the tech and all that. But your books and gadgets won’t come in much use where we’re going.’

‘You’ve never had a problem with me going on ops before.’

‘This is different. There’s a small chance this thing could turn very ugly, very fast.’

‘I can take care of myself.’

‘No one’s suggesting otherwise. But if you’ve got doubts, you need to tell us. We can’t be taking passengers, lass, not on this job. No one will think any less of you if you decide to stay behind.’

Casey took a breath and stared hard at Mallet.

‘I’ve been trained in the same type of warfare as you,’ she said. ‘I might not have passed SAS Selection, but I’ve done the SRR course, which is the next best thing. I was the best shot in my training group, I’ve done surveillance work in war zones and I know how to fight. I’ll be fine. And I’m not your bloody lass.’

Bowman glanced at the footage of the riots on the TV and gritted his teeth.

‘Let’s just hope the timing on this op goes like clockwork,’ he said. ‘Otherwise, we’re all going to be in the shit.’

*

The Gulfstream landed at Nice at two thirty on the dot. Ten minutes later, a pair of diplomats strode briskly into the lounge. A man in his forties, six foot five, slightly stooped, with a bird’s nest of thinning brown hair. A much shorter woman with button-round green eyes and a mole on her dimpled chin. They carried themselves with the typical Whitehall mix of arrogance and insecurity. The kind of people who spent their days at the bureaucratic coalface debating obscure policy points, plotting and stabbing one another in the back.