The surface of Whitehall had a layer of settled water on it, with dips in the pavement creating puddles deep enough to cover his ankles. By the time he reached Downing Street, his shoes were sodden. They were a particularly expensive pair, hand-made in Jermyn Street earlier that year and meant to last a lifetime, and now he was convinced they’d been ruined before they’d been properly broken in. But the nature of the summons he’d received earlier that morning ensured the state of his shoes was the least of his problems.

He turned right just before Number 10, down the path that would take him to the rear entrance, where a policeman nodded him through. Once inside, his papers were checked before he was escorted to Sir Roland Pearson’s office.

Sir Roland was the Downing Street intelligence chief. His role was to act as an umpire between the various intelligence and security agencies; to keep the internecine disputes and rows over who was responsible for what to manageable proportions. His office was deep inside Downing Street, looking out over an internal courtyard.

‘Come in, Tom, glad you could drop by.’ Pearson was a man given to understatement. My office, Gilbey, eleven thirty had been the message: hardly a cordial invitation to drop by.

Gilbey removed his coat and hat, the carpet below him dampening as he did so. When he sat on the chair opposite Pearson’s desk, he could feel quite how drenched his trousers and jacket were. He was beginning to feel most uncomfortable.

‘This report of yours, Tom…’ Pearson was tapping a dark green folder on his desk.

‘Which report is that, Roly?’ They’d been at boarding school together, Pearson a couple of years above him. Gilbey felt he could get away with Roly, but he did omit the Poly that came after it in his school nickname. Pearson had been fat even at school.

‘The one on Agent – what’s his name – ah, here we are… Horatio. Winston appreciated the classical references, though. It amused him for almost a minute.’

‘What about the report, Roly?’

‘The thing is, Tom, it has rather set the cat amongst the pigeons, I’m afraid.’

Silence in the office. The only sound Gilbey could hear – and he hoped it was imagined more than anything else – was that of water dripping from various parts of him. He wasn’t in the mood to make matters easier for Pearson by asking why his report had set the cat amongst the pigeons. Instead he indulged himself with a quizzical frown to indicate he wasn’t sure what all the fuss could possibly be about.

‘Let me explain, Tom. Winston prefers clarity to confusion. He doesn’t appreciate being given conflicting advice; he simply does not have time for that. Hence my role here in Downing Street – and indeed Lord Swalcliffe’s.’