The dealer was waiting for him in the car park at the end of the block, in a red Audi A4 saloon, the engine low-rumbling. Bowman halted in front of the takeaway and looked up and down to make sure he wasn’t being watched. Then he stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, lowered his head and walked across the road. As he approached, the window on the driver’s side of the Audi cracked open. Bowman took out the four twenties from his coat pocket. A hand poked out of the window and snatched the cash. It reappeared a moment later gripping a plastic baggie filled with pink-coloured pills. Bowman jammed the bag into his coat pocket and walked on.

He took a roundabout route back to the hotel. He looped round Marble Arch, doubling back on himself and occasionally pausing to glance in the reflection of shop windows. The usual anti-surveillance measures.

Bowman returned to his hotel room and flicked on the bathroom lights. He set the plastic baggie down, took out one pill and emptied the rest into the storage compartment in the pill crusher. He mashed the other tablet into a fine powder using the crusher, tipped it onto the counter. Prepared to inhale.

Then there was a knock at the door.

Bowman froze.

His first thought was: I’ve been followed. The police have seen me buying drugs. I’m about to get arrested. But no. He had been vigilant. The chances of someone tailing him back from the drop were vanishingly small.

So who the fuck is outside?

The knuckles rapped on the door again.

He left the opiate powder on the counter, slipped out of the bathroom and padded over to the door. Slid off the deadbolt and eased the door open.

Two figures stood in the corridor.

They had the attitude of security service heavies and the wardrobes to match. Off-the-rack suits, cheap haircuts. Next to each other, they were like the before and after photographs for a dietary supplement commercial. The guy on the left was grey-haired and running to fat, with a heavily lined brow and a wonky nose. His partner was leaner and square-jawed, with the glowing skin of someone in peak physical condition.

They showed him their security badges. Bowman glanced at them both. The guy with the wonky nose was called Henderson. The guy with the perfect skin was called Williams. They were UKNs. Bowman had seen their type before. Freelancers used by Five and Six to carry out surveillance work and other duties. They did the jobs out of some deep loyalty to Queen and country, Bowman presumed. It certainly wasn’t because of the piss-poor pay.

‘Josh Bowman?’ the latter asked.

‘Yeah?’

‘You need to come with us,’ Williams said. His voice was as nondescript as his clothes, his face. ‘Now, if you don’t mind.’

‘We’ve been told to tell you to bring your ghost ID from the Wing,’ Henderson added.