‘Pretty much. As you can imagine, the PM was left without much choice in the matter. His only viable red line being insistence that Sir Patrick testifies in camera. So the Americans are flying over a team from Langley. Private aircraft to Heathrow, secure transfer to a chopper and straight into Battersea. Half the reason they moved the embassy to where it is, so they can piggyback off the flight corridor into the heliport. They’ll be in and out with his evidence on the matter without anyone ever knowing they were here.’

Mickey pursed his lips. Already thinking through the route to the embassy. Choke points. Secondary routings. And hoping that the Special Escort Group were bringing their A game with them.

‘And how does the man himself feel about that?’

Cavendish smiled wanly. ‘He’s a realist. The deal, I suspect, is that he gives evidence in return for being spared at the next reshuffle. Although he’ll be left in Defence, which, let’s face it, will not be a comfortable seat once the shooting starts, unless we can stay out of it. Which I very much doubt. All it’ll take is pics of one of our carriers sinking to see the poor bastard thrown to the wolves. It’s a war-time ritual, if you read the histories. All of which means that right now all he can do is put a nice suit on, arm himself with whatever dignity he has left, and do as he’s told. As, Sergeant Bale, must we all. Although while I know this is duty for you, I want you to know that I really appreciate your agreeing to escort us tonight. There’s nothing specific on the threat board. Or at least not according to Liaison. I’ll just feel happier with some proper protection to hand.’

Mickey shrugged. ‘I won’t pretend I didn’t consider saying no. Would have been simple enough just to say I had a bit of a cough.’

‘But they told you I asked for you?’

‘Yes they did. And I was always a sucker for being asked for help. So now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a package to set up. We leave at 20.00?’

‘That’s the schedule.’

Mickey went back downstairs to find Wade looking for him. Holding a phone. Which he put behind his back as he whispered a warning.

‘It’s AC Chen. Asking to speak to you.’

He put the handset to his mouth. ‘Here’s Sergeant Bale, ma’am.’

And handed the phone to Mickey. Sensibly choosing to walk away. Mickey walked into the lounge, taking a seat before speaking. Composing himself.

‘Ma’am.’

‘Sergeant Bale. Thank you for stepping into the breach.’

‘Ma’am.’

Keeping his replies deliberately monosyllabic. Nothing she could take offence to, but no encouragement to believe that Mickey didn’t know exactly what she’d done.