The light above the door changed from red to green.

“You can go through now, Number One,” said Tanner.

Beatrix stood, straightened her jacket, and went to the door.

Beatrix went inside and closed the door behind her. Control was at his desk. There was another man in the room, too. He was sitting in one of the generous club chairs by the fireplace. He was in his sixties, with leathery skin and rheumy eyes that bulged behind thick-rimmed spectacles. He dressed badly, like a rural vicar: a tweed jacket and brown cord trousers that were frayed at the cuffs. He had a bound file in his lap. Beatrix recognised a copy of her report.

“Ah,” said Control. “Good afternoon, Number One.”

“Sir.”

Control gestured to the second man. “This is Vivian Bloom,” he said. “Works for SIS. He was involved with planning the operation.”

“Indeed,” Bloom said. “I wanted to hear your report myself. And to thank you for a job well done.”

Beatrix regarded him more closely. His tie was stained and the collar of his shirt curled up at the edges. She had never seen anyone who worked for SIS who looked anything like him. “Thank you, sir.”

Control tapped his finger on the bound document on his desk. “I’ve read your report, Beatrix. Very thorough, as usual.”

“Thank you, sir. Can I ask about the attack at the arms cache? Do we know who that was?”

“We don’t,” Bloom said. “We’re still looking into it. I know Koralev told you he wasn’t working for anyone, but, frankly, I don’t buy that. Doesn’t make sense. Our working hypothesis is that it was an attempt to get him back.”

“So why wasn’t he protected? We were able to take him off the street with no opposition.”

“I can’t answer that, Miss Rose,” Bloom said.

“Seems odd that they would leave him unprotected and then go to such lengths to get him back.”

“It does, I agree. As yet, we’re no closer to why that might be. We’re investigating.”

“What about Koralev and Major Milton?” Beatrix said.

“You don’t know?”

“No,” she said.

“Koralev died in the car before Milton could get him to a doctor.”

“He was in bad shape,” she said.

“Quite. A shame we couldn’t get him out.”

Was that a slight? She ignored it. “What about Major Milton?”

“Picture-perfect extraction,” Control said. “He made his way to Puerto Cumarebo and the Navy picked him up in a fast boat. Transferred him to HMS Lancaster and then delivered him to Aruba. He flew in yesterday.”

“Excellent.”

“I’m curious,” Control said. “How did you find him?”