‘Straight after the briefing. Our contact at Six will explain more.’

Mallet straightened his back and marched over to the door.

‘Everyone inside the Shed!’ he ordered. ‘Team briefing in five.’

From outside, Bowman heard the scraping of metal against concrete, the shuffling of papers, the clicking shut of laptop screens. Mallet circled round the table, took a place close to the speakerphone and waved a hand at the empty chair next to him.

‘Sit down, Josh. You’ve got questions. That’s understandable. Everything will be clear soon.’

Bowman sat and stared at the board, questions cycling through his head. He thought about the meeting in Monaco. He thought about David Lang’s involvement with Galkin and Bezuglov and President Seguma. He wondered what the fuck was going on in Monte Carlo.

Then there was no time to think, because the three other members of the Cell filed into the Shed. First came the woman with the strawberry lips, then the black guy with the cropped hair. The short guy entered the room last. As he shut the door a red light glowed above, signalling that the Shed was fully secure. He took a seat next to his colleagues.

‘Everyone, this is Josh Bowman,’ Mallet said. ‘He’ll be joining us for this operation. He’s coming on board as a replacement for those two other idiots. One or two of you might have worked with him before. For those of you who haven’t, Josh is a Regiment lad. From B Squadron. My old crew.’

Mallet gestured towards the short guy. Keith ‘Tiny’ Loader was the smallest man in 22 SAS, but also one of the toughest. A widow’s peak sat atop his craggy face; his hands were criss-crossed with scars. But the smile was warm, and there was a kindness to his large round eyes.

‘I’m sure you know Tiny from your time at Hereford,’ said Mallet.

Bowman nodded. ‘We did Selection together. He beat me on the Long Drag.’

Loader grinned, revealing a graveyard of stained brown teeth. ‘You were a cocky bugger back then, boyo.’ He spoke in a sing-song Welsh accent, redolent of the valleys.

‘Typical bloody Para. Always wanting to kick the front door in and kill everyone in sight.’

‘Engineers,’ Bowman quipped. ‘Always think you know best.’

‘That’s because we do, mate. We sneak through the back door while you idiots are going through the front.’

Bowman laughed.

‘How’s the madhouse these days?’

‘Fine,’ Bowman said. ‘The lads are all fine.’

‘Is Sally Stevens working the bar at the Green Dragon?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘She’s a good woman, that one. Gorgeous. If I was still down there, I would have been giving her the old Loader vaccine by now.’ He winked. ‘A seven-inch injection, if you know what I mean.’

‘If you did,’ said Mallet, ‘it would be the first time you’d pulled anything in a pub other than a pint, Tiny.’