Four of those agents were intimates. Men that Meyer had known for years. Men he trusted with his life, and with much more besides. Each of them skilled and experienced in the kind of work with which he was about to task them.

The fifth? She was an outsider. Here at the insistence of John Knowles. Meyer had tried to resist the introduction of an unknown element to his team, but an executive order from the president was not something he could ignore. Especially when that order was a response to the mistakes of Meyer’s own son.

Knowles wanted someone on the team who had his confidence. And so Special Agent Eden Grace was now a part of this, whether Meyer liked it or not. But she would face a harsh introduction to reality. Meyer took his seat at the head of the table. Eden Grace was at the table’s far end. In Meyer’s direct line of sight, and – for now – entirely oblivious to what she was about to learn. ‘Gentlemen . . .’

Meyer stopped himself. He looked to the end of the table, towards Grace. She was looking back, and Meyer held her gaze as he continued. He needed to read her reaction to everything he had to say.

‘And ladies, of course. Today will not be your typical day in the office. Another little project has come up. One which needs to be dealt with in the next twelve hours. In other words, the president has need of your . . . extra-curricular expertise.’

Meyer’s eyes swept the room. His core team was engaged. Listening. Grace, however, seemed confused.

That was to be expected.

‘As always this is not something I can order any of you to do. It’s on a strict volunteer basis, but as ever your involvement will be well compensated.’

‘Where is it?’

The question came from Meyer’s right. From an agent who, in any other company, would be described as ‘the big guy’. Far less imposing when next to Meyer, the man’s physical capabilities were still obvious.

‘Manhattan,’ Meyer replied. ‘The jet is already waiting at Reagan. For those of you who are in, it’s wheels up in an hour.’

‘And the target?’ The question came from the same man.

Meyer picked up the remote control that sat on the table ahead of him, and with a single click he brought the room’s seventy-inch, paper-thin display screen to life.

Every pair of eyes in the room focused on the image that appeared. It was a close up of a man, aged in either his late thirties or early forties. He appeared fit and strong; a physical specimen not unlike the agent who had so far led the questioning. Unlike the agent, the target carried facial damage: a heavily broken nose and a ragged six-inch scar down his left cheek.

Meyer was silent as he studied the image. Like his team, this was his first sight of Joe Dempsey. And what he saw concerned him. Meyer did not know what it was, but there was something about the man . . .