Friday, 18 March, 1133hrs GMT

NUMB. THAT WAS how Luke felt. And quietly angry. Turning it over again and again in his mind as he revved the engine of his Land Rover and ran an amber light on the drive in to the MI6 building in Vauxhall. How could he have been so blind? Why hadn’t he seen this coming? Of course. Every single time he had had to be away on a trip it was always Hugo bloody Squires who managed to be there for Elise when he wasn’t. Always ready to escort her to one of her art-gallery openings or some other diary event. Yet somehow he couldn’t bring himself to blame her. Not after what he had done with Tannaz in Iran. Maybe this was some kind of divine punishment.

He was passing the US Embassy building now at Nine Elms, and a pedestrian had suddenly decided to cross the road in front of him, seemingly oblivious to the traffic. Luke slammed on the brakes, wound down the window and swore at him. The man flicked him the finger and walked on.

So what now? Chuck in this whole MI6 gig and ask Elise for a second chance? Well, it was a bit bloody late for that, wasn’t it? Luke stifled the thought the instant it entered his head. No, he’d blown this one. Elise, fatherhood, their shared little life in that flat, all built on sand, as it turned out, all gone now. He had walked out on her in silence almost as soon as she had delivered that news. He simply didn’t trust himself not to say something he would always regret.

Turning off Albert Embankment and watching the green metal gates open, he hit the accelerator too early and nearly ran over one of the security staff. He took a deep breath and gave himself a silent reprimand. This wouldn’t do. He needed to suppress his dark thoughts, control his temper and stay professional.

Angela Scott was waiting for him in the ground-floor lobby of the Vauxhall Cross building, cradling a cup of coffee to her chest. Catching sight of her as he keyed himself in through security, Luke did something of a double take. Instead of her habitual, sometimes dowdy, business wear, Angela was dressed in a dark blue boiler suit with the sleeves rolled up. There would be a reason for this, he guessed, but he decided, on balance, it was probably best not to comment on it.

‘Jesus, Luke, you look terrible!’ she told him, as she walked over to a tall, circular bin next to the big MI6 plaque and dropped her empty cup into it.

‘Thanks.’ He ran his hand through his hair. He couldn’t remember when he’d last washed it.

‘No, really,’ she said seriously. ‘Maybe you’d better go straight home and get some sleep as soon as we’ve set this thing up.’