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Chapters (124)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Acclaim for Frank Gardner’s Luke Carlton thrillers
  4. Also by Frank Gardner
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. 63
  70. 64
  71. 65
  72. 66
  73. 67
  74. 68
  75. 69
  76. 70
  77. 71
  78. 72
  79. 73
  80. 74
  81. 75
  82. 76
  83. 77
  84. 78
  85. 79
  86. 80
  87. 81
  88. 82
  89. 83
  90. 84
  91. 85
  92. 86
  93. 87
  94. 88
  95. 89
  96. 90
  97. 91
  98. 92
  99. 93
  100. 94
  101. 95
  102. 96
  103. 97
  104. 98
  105. 99
  106. 100
  107. 101
  108. 102
  109. 103
  110. 104
  111. 105
  112. 106
  113. 107
  114. 108
  115. 109
  116. 110
  117. 111
  118. 112
  119. 113
  120. 114
  121. 115
  122. Epilogue
  123. Acknowledgements
  124. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

She walked over to the workbench, turned around and jumped up so she was sitting on it, facing him. Other people in the room seemed to be busy making adjustments to the props in the room. ‘This is where we’ve conducted some of our most sensitive video calls with individuals in organizations that we need to penetrate overseas.’ She turned back to Angela. ‘I think this is the first time this year this place has been used for a domestic target, though, isn’t it, Angela?’

‘That’s correct,’ Angela replied, standing close by with her hands thrust deep into the pockets of her boiler suit.

‘So,’ continued Dextra, ‘once you leave here you’ll be run out of the IOC across the river, which means—’

‘Wait, what? The IOC? The International Olympic Committee?’ Luke frowned at her. This made no sense to him.

She smiled as she replied. ‘No, not in this context. The IOC is the Intel Ops Centre inside Thames House. It’s where MI5 run the final stages of all their live ops from.’

She stepped back a pace and gave him an appraising look. ‘Right, let’s get you started. Hope you’re well rested because we’ve got an awful lot to get through in a very short time.’

90

Vauxhall Cross

Friday, 18 March, 1811hrs GMT

FOR SIX HOURS straight they were at it, down there in the surreal, hermetically sealed world of the Stage, deep beneath the MI6 headquarters building, getting him ready for the role he was to play. Luke felt like a weapon being prepped for battle, and he loved every minute of it. It wasn’t just that all this was taking his mind off the slow-motion car crash of his personal life; this was ‘training’ like he’d never experienced before. He was the receptacle and they were pouring the knowledge into him. Techies from GCHQ in Cheltenham, voice and drama coaches, experts on Europe’s extremist groups brought over from across the river in Thames House, a recently retired member of the Special Reconnaissance Regiment and – from behind a screen – an operational German informant inside an active neo-Nazi group from Dresden.