White had spent the whole of Friday evening and Saturday quietly seething while entertaining his wife’s relatives, who were up from the country for the weekend—another task he’d hoped to avoid.

The early morning on the heath had cleared his head, but the hike up Parliament Hill was starting to inspire a fresh sense of irritation. It was solidified when he reached the top of the hill and found Knox sitting on the bench he always rested on to catch his breath.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ White asked.

To add insult to injury, Stella happily wandered over to Knox and curled up at his feet.

‘You’re a creature of habit, Malcolm,’ Knox replied. ‘Same as the rest of us.’

‘It’s too early for amateur psychology,’ White said, giving in to his legs’ need for a break and sitting down next to Knox. ‘What do you want?’

Knox looked out over the city. He could see east past St Paul’s and west towards Battersea Power Station. All the way between, new buildings were changing the city’s skyline, and cranes glinted as they turned in the sun. And in the middle of it all was Kemp House. Knox was sure he could see the top of the tower, smudged black, even from several miles away.

‘How are things in Leconfield House?’ he asked.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ White replied, making no effort to hide the resentment in his voice.

‘Well, let me tell you what’s been going on in the outside world,’ Knox said.

Knox had decided in Schiphol that Peterson had been right about one thing at least. He should have gone to White days ago. He was the only person Knox could talk to without risking exposing Pipistrelle’s secrets because he already knew them all. There was always the chance that it was actually White who was behind everything, working with the Russians and using Manning, Peterson, and the two dead Italians as cover, but it was an extremely slim one. Knox was sure White believed in the Service, and he hoped that belief would outweigh whatever he might currently think of Knox and his own loyalty.

He relayed the events of the last seventy-two hours, starting with his visit to Dr Kaspar, then his discovery of Bianchi and Moretti’s hidden research, and ending with the kidnapping of Valera in Stockholm, apparently by British forces.

When Knox had finished, he waited for White’s response. And after a moment, White gave it.

‘Nonsense,’ White said.

‘Excuse me?’ Knox asked.

‘Total poppycock.’

‘It happened,’ Knox assured him. ‘I’ve got the bruises.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you have,’ White said, tempting Stella over to his side of the bench with a treat. ‘But I’m also sure it’s entirely within your capabilities to make all these things happen to you without it being part of some grand conspiracy. Where’s the proof?’