On the workbench in front of him lay the key to success or failure of this whole enterprise: his mobile phone. Except it was not really his mobile phone, it was a highly specialized piece of digital engineering, devised with input from all three intelligence agencies. If anyone cared to trace his location – and they had to assume that would happen – then it would reveal it as a private residence next to a Big Yellow Self Storage facility in Cowley, on the south-east edge of Oxford. The phone was loaded with all the apps you would expect – WhatsApp, Instagram, Facebook, Twitter – but additional functions had been built in. Like the ‘panic button’ that simulated the noise of a doorbell in the background if Luke needed to abort a difficult conversation or avoid an awkward question. Meanwhile the techies from GCHQ would be trying to zero in with their scanners on the location of the people at the other end.

‘Well, I think we’re ready.’ Dextra was standing in front of him; her clipboard was gone, but now she was wearing a headset and mike. He thought she looked tense, which was hardly surprising. He was feeling pretty wound up himself. She glanced at her watch. ‘They’re expecting you to call any minute now. Operations,’ she spoke into her mike, ‘are we good to go?’

She listened, looking at Luke, and nodded. ‘They’re all set. That just leaves you, “Steve”. Any last-minute questions before I disappear behind that screen over there? Anything you’re unhappy with?’

Luke felt his head was fit to burst with everything that had been crammed into it over the last three days. He knew there were 101 things that could go wrong, that just one misplaced word could torpedo the whole operation. But he couldn’t afford to think like that. He could do this. He was ready.

‘Nope,’ he replied. ‘Let’s do it.’

93

Vauxhall Cross

Sunday, 20 March, 1624hrs GMT

LUKE WAS ALONE in the room. The only sound came from the artificially generated traffic noises from ‘outside’ – noises that emanated from the 3D surround-sound speakers embedded in the walls of the Stage. Yet he was very far from alone. He knew he was being observed by a dozen cameras and a dozen people, with every word, every syllable, every keystroke monitored and recorded.

A male voice spoke gently into his earpiece. The operational director. As calm and as measured as a Radio 4 announcer. ‘All right, Steve. I want you to take your phone and open the contacts screen. You should see a list of contacts there. Now scroll down to the one that says Methuen.’

This was hardly rocket science, and they had rehearsed it only that morning, but, still, they were taking no chances.

‘You’ve found it?’ the voice continued in his ear. ‘Just nod if you have … Okay, good. Now select that and tap the link that says free video call.’