He released his grip on Bowman’s bicep. Bowman ducked into the van and took the bench seat beside Webb, the holdall resting between his feet. Mallet boarded last, dropping into the empty seat next to Bowman.

The side door whirred shut, and the driver glanced round to check on his five passengers. Bowman was surprised to see a familiar face looking back at him. Buzzcut. One of the three UKNs who had collected him from his dingy hotel room earlier that night. A little over two hours ago, but it felt more like two days.

‘We’re ready,’ Mallet said. ‘Let’s move.’

Twelve

Twelve

The guys kept to themselves as the Caravelle cruised west out of the city. They spent the time rechecking bits of kit or gazing out of the window. Casey swiped and tapped at her phone screen, getting live updates from Six on Lang’s current position. Mallet chewed his nicotine gum. Loader showed Webb pictures of one of his kids in a Swansea City kit. Webb pretended to look interested. As they skated west, Bowman tried to ignore the cravings. They had been getting worse since they’d left the police station, nibbling away at him. It wouldn’t be long before the shakes started again. A few hours at most. Maybe sooner.

I’ll need a few pills to get through the op, he told himself. He remembered what Mallet had told him when he’d offered him the job with the Cell.

This is a temporary posting. There are no guarantees that you’ll be kept on once the mission is over.

If I’m struggling with opioid withdrawal, Bowman thought, there’s no way I’ll be able to perform today. My career in the Cell will be over before it’s begun.

The first hint of dawn tinged the horizon as they neared the airfield. A guard in a high-vis jacket stepped out of the guardroom as Buzzcut drove up to the front gate. Buzzcut lowered his window and flashed his security pass. The guard studied it closely, cross-checking the details against the flight manifest on his clipboard. He handed the pass back to the driver and gave him a set of directions, thrusting his arm towards a row of buildings on the south side of the airfield.

The Caravelle coasted past the guardroom and down the access road for a quarter of a mile, passing maintenance buildings and a fuel dump and a half-empty car park. They raced past the terminal, turned left and hit another checkpoint. There was a short pause, then the boom barrier lifted and the Caravelle drove on, and suddenly they hit the pan: a lake of smooth asphalt two hundred metres due south of the runway. Further to the north, on the other side of the aerodrome, Bowman could just about see the lights coming from the RAF base.