A door swung open on the passenger side of the Land Rover and Luke didn’t wait to be asked. He leaped inside, shuffling up on the passenger seat next to the team commander, who had her helmet on her lap. Two sensations hit him at once. He was in a warm place, for the first time since escaping from the warehouse, and he was safe. The relief was overwhelming, but he knew he couldn’t rest for a moment. Not now. He introduced himself and looked around as they drove off. The Land Rover’s interior was full of radio equipment, weapons, and men and women, armed to the teeth, dressed in the grey-and-black uniform of Britain’s Counter-Terrorism specialist firearms officers. On the phone Luke had already given a clear description of the warehouse and the road leading to it; the second team had been dispatched while Essex Constabulary raced to set up snap roadblocks on all the exits leading from the Springwood Industrial Estate.

‘You’re bleeding.’ Inspector Newbold had just noticed his shoulder wound as they lurched round a bend. ‘Jerry, pass us that blue towel up front,’ she called over her shoulder to someone in the back. ‘We’ll get that looked at, but not right now.’

‘It’s fine,’ Luke lied, turning to her. She was young, maybe ten years younger than him, he reckoned, but Inspector Newbold exuded a quiet professionalism.

‘Okay, I need you to give me everything you’ve got on them,’ she said, as Luke used the towel to dry off the icy water that was still trickling down his back. ‘I need numbers, weapons, dispositions. Are they going to resist? How many devices do we need to disarm and how many are guarding them?’

Luke started to fill her in, the details of what was in that warehouse still all too real in his mind. He stopped as she held up her hand to take a call. She looked at Luke as she listened.

‘Yes, he’s right beside me.’ She passed him her phone. ‘It’s for you,’ she said. ‘Your office.’

Luke sat bolt upright as he put the policewoman’s mobile to his ear and heard the voice. ‘Jenny!’ Four days had passed since they had parted ways in GRU headquarters in Moscow. Four days during which she had survived a mystery illness, and Luke had worried about her every single day. ‘You made it!’ he said, genuinely pleased to hear from her.

‘I did.’ Her voice was brisk and businesslike. Good. This was the Jenny he knew. ‘We can talk about that later,’ she said, ‘but right now I need to brief you on what you’re up against here. Porton Down say the virus inside those canisters you saw in that room is beyond lethal. It’s a genetically modified pathogen made with help from a Russian lab. And, Luke, there is no cure.’