It was a complication, yes. But as Cunningham thought more carefully, he began to realise that it was a complication that could work to his advantage.

Perhaps Knowles has served his purpose. Perhaps it’s time for him to face the consequences of Tootkai . . .

His eyes settled on the final folder as he ruminated on the idea.

File Four. The slimmest of the bundles. Just a few pages. It was also the most recently complied.

Michael Devlin.

Cunningham shook his head as he picked up the paperwork for the second time that morning. Another of Romeo Meyer’s failures.

How the hell is this guy still alive?

Cunningham’s stress had been building since he had taken the call two hours earlier. A call to tell him that the mission had failed. That instead of Michael Devlin, it was Romeo Meyer’s best man now lying dead on a London railway track. Which meant that not only was the lawyer still alive – leaving a direct line open for Dempsey to find out what Mansour knew – there was now the body of a US agent to deal with.

Somehow Cunningham had suppressed his anger. He had not even raised his voice. What would have been the point? Romeo Meyer seemed oblivious to even the harshest criticism.

But now? As he looked at his best-laid plans strewn across his bed, a physical representation of the mess in which he now found himself, he could feel his blood pumping through the carotid artery that passed his right ear.

It had gone as far as he could allow, and so he knew what he had to do next. The thought made his heart beat even harder.

It was time to call the boss.

He reached out for the telephone next to his bed. One of two encrypted satellite phones on the property. Only a single person ever called it. And it, in turn, only ever called one person.

It was answered on the first ring.

‘Kelvin.’ The voice gave no hint of mood. It never did. ‘You haven’t used this line for a while.’

‘I haven’t needed to,’ Cunningham replied. ‘Not until now.’

‘Are you calling about the mess in Manhattan or the mess in London?’

Cunningham had no answer. It was not how he had hoped to begin this conversation.

‘Did you think I didn’t know?’

‘No. No. Of course . . . I . . .’ Cunningham could hear himself flounder. He forced himself to calm down. ‘No. I just thought I should bring you up to speed.’

‘Seems a bit late for that. Since you’ve been trying to keep me in the dark about all this.’

‘I haven’t. I assure you. I just . . . you had other concerns. I didn’t want to trouble you until everything was resolved.’

‘Resolved? How, Kelvin? Resolved by way of four dead agents in New York? A dead agent in London? A professional killer now out there somewhere, gunning for Knowles? None of that sounds very resolved.’