He hurried across the foyer towards the toilets, brushing past a group of Chinese tourists. The decor inside the toilets matched the rest of the lobby. Polished marble floor, granite countertop, brass taps. Luxury handwash, a posh brand Bowman didn’t recognise.

His hands were shaking as he fished out the plastic pill crusher he always carried. There was a storage compartment above the crusher but the pills inside weren’t the kind of thing you bought over the counter at your local Boots. Four tablets left in the container. Bowman knew he’d have to score a fresh supply soon, but he didn’t have time to worry about that now.

He flipped the cap open, plucked out one of the oval-shaped tablets and placed it in the crusher on the underside of the bottle. He secured the base and twisted the cap several times, grinding the tablet down to a fine white powder. Tipped the contents onto the countertop, dug out a ten-pound note from his wallet, rolled it up and inhaled the lines. The powder burned in his nostrils. Then he clamped his eyes shut.

After a couple of minutes, he felt a buzz as several milligrams of opioid flowed into his blood. Slowly, the pain in his body faded. The sickness ebbed away. He stopped sweating.

Bowman put the note back in his wallet. He looked up, caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. He saw a face he barely recognised. The body was still lean and hard, his hands were rock-like, his shoulders broad. But the hair was streaked with grey now. His skin was pale. His pupils were the size of pinpricks.

You’re supposed to be a staff sergeant in 22 SAS, Bowman told himself. A decorated soldier with more than a decade of experience in the world’s most elite SF unit. You can’t be a bloody addict.

But in that moment, Bowman didn’t really care. He didn’t care about much, not now. He had long ago stopped looking to the future, to a time when things could be better. His dreams, such as they were, had been shattered in an act of horrific violence fifteen years ago. Now he had no plans, no hopes. He kept his distance from others. He had no real friends. He looked no further ahead than his next pill. Nothing mattered except shutting out the pain. Getting from one day to the next.

He took a deep breath and headed out the door.

*

The tourists were still hanging around the reception area as Bowman emerged from the washroom. He strode past them, a warm feeling from the pill washing over him. Kember sat alone, staring at his phone screen. Bowman glanced round but there was still no sign of the president’s lackeys.