And so Dempsey had arrived a stranger, living out of a suitcase in a downtown hotel room. It was an existence that had suited him. One he was used to. But his superiors at the ISB had seemed less happy. Less secure in their Primary Agent’s isolation. It was for this reason, Dempsey was sure, that he’d found himself introduced to the only other Englishman on staff.

Not that Sam Cooke considered himself a part of anyone’s staff.

Cooke had been in the United States for fifteen years by the time Dempsey joined the ISB. Most of his working life. In that time he had moved from parish to parish, never finding a permanent home until appointed as Catholic chaplain to the staff of the Secretariat Building. This was four years before Dempsey’s arrival and it technically made Cooke an employee of the United Nations, which owned the entire UN Complex in Manhattan’s Midtown on an extraterritorial basis.

If Cooke accepted that status, he certainly didn’t show it.

‘So it’s a no to the extra tea?’ Dempsey asked.

‘Of course it’s not a “no” to the tea.’ Cooke, as always, seemed oblivious to the amusement his friend found in his own short outburst. ‘It’s never a “no” to another cup of tea. Especially when it’s cold as bollocks out here like today. But then we talk about Chinatown, yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ Dempsey replied, rising to his feet. ‘Then we talk about Chinatown.’

‘Eleven of them?’

‘Yeah.’

‘All dead?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And you accounted for eight of them?’

‘Depends how you look at it. Four directly. Eight if you include the redirected grenade.’

‘Ah come on, man. Don’t piss about. Eight is eight. At this point what’s the difference anyway, eh?’

Dempsey said nothing. With all Cooke already knew about his past, the priest’s comment was to be expected. Because it was the same thought that kept Dempsey awake at night.

At this point, what was the difference?

Dempsey had spent the first two-thirds of his working life as a killer. Nothing more. Nothing less.

From the moment he had joined the British Army he had been conditioned. Institutionalised. His natural patriotism and his sense of right and wrong had been corrupted, just as his body and his skills had been perfected. By the time he had passed through the elite SAS and had been seconded to the clandestine Chameleon Unit, he was little more than a machine.

What had followed was an entire decade of blind dedication to ‘duty’. For Dempsey – like the other nine members of the Chameleon Unit – that duty was to infiltrate and to kill. Whenever and wherever he was ordered.

He had done so without question. Without hesitation. Without doubt. Always safe in the belief that any decision to end a life was a decision well made by his superiors. A decision deserved.

If the stakes had been lower, his naivety would be laughable. But they were not. Dempsey’s blind obedience had resulted in the deaths of hundreds. Some, maybe even most, were deaths they thoroughly deserved.