‘Nice going, Luke. He’s not much use to us now, is he?’ The words of his line manager, Angela Scott, were still ringing in his ears, her frustration barely concealed. Luke had called it in to Vauxhall, of course, within minutes of the Norwegian marksman felling Skeet with the single fatal gunshot to the thigh. Luke knew he’d probably get a bit of grief from the Service, but he hadn’t expected to take the hit for this one.

‘You realize there’ll be a full investigation now, after this?’ Angela had said. ‘You’ve got less than a day before the press get up there. How the hell are you going to make the necessary discreet enquiries in that time?’ It was unlike Angela to be so upset: someone in Whitehall must be coming down hard on her. And she hadn’t finished yet. ‘Honestly, Luke, what is it that we teach you all, down at the Fort? Hmm? Blend in, be the grey man – or woman – and don’t attract attention. I’d say this is not exactly the outcome we were looking for here, wouldn’t you?’

Luke was used to bollockings. He’d experienced enough of them in the Royal Marines. In fact, as a recruit – a ‘nod’ – hardly a day had gone by at the Commando Training Centre at Lympstone when he wasn’t being bellowed at for some minuscule misdemeanour. But this was different: he was nearly twenty years older and wiser, and the one he’d just received from Angela seemed bang out of order, especially when he had come to trust her better judgement. It was almost as if someone above her had told her what to say.

Words formed in his head. Sorry, Angela, you’re quite right. Once we’d tracked down Skeet I really should have cosied up to him and got myself a full dose of plague. All in the line of duty, right? That was what he wanted to say, but he didn’t. He just took it on the chin. He had followed his orders, helped the Norwegian trackers locate Skeet and stopped him before he could infect half of Barentsburg. ‘What can I say, Angela? It’s how it happened, that’s all.’

‘Right. Well, you’ll need to sit tight and lie low until the Norwegian service makes contact with you. You’ve got less than twenty-four hours to find out what you can up there. Then we’re pulling you out. Twenty-four hours, Luke. And, for Pete’s sake, stay well clear of anyone in the media.’