His flat was made up of a single large living area wrapped by windows, which served as his kitchen, dining, and living room. The space looked austere but considered. There was nothing extraneous, and everything served a purpose. On one side of the room was a free-standing granite kitchen counter. On the other was a large marble dining table and chairs. Along the wall halfway between them a well-stocked drinks trolley sat next to a black leather and rosewood Eames lounger. Behind the open plan was an equally minimalist bedroom and en suite.

Of all the absences from the flat, one was particularly noticeable: a television. In less than a decade they’d become a feature of almost every British home, but Knox had never seen the appeal. He understood the excitement a little window on the world might offer people locked away in semi-detached houses up and down the country, but he saw more than his fair share of life on a daily basis.

Knox always said he liked living in Kemp House because it made him feel connected to the heart of the city. Holland had countered that he’d chosen it so he could see his enemies coming from a long way off. Knox admitted it was a little bit of both.

Ten minutes after arriving home and making himself a stiff gin and tonic to take the edge off the afternoon, there was a knock at his front door.

Knox didn’t receive many visitors, which was another part of the attraction of living at the top of a high-rise. He valued his privacy, and still hadn’t introduced himself to the building’s few other residents. And should any of them want to learn more about him, all they’d find in any public records would be his name and job title at Avalon Logistics, one of the more prosaic cover company names used by members of MI5.

He checked his watch—a 1956 Omega with a silver body, clear face, and tan leather strap he’d treated himself to when Holland had been made director general and promoted him three years ago—and took a guess about who was calling on him at four in the afternoon.

He opened his door and proved himself right. A Watcher was standing in the hallway, holding a small crate.

‘Is this everything?’ Knox asked, fairly sure it wasn’t.

‘It’s what I was told to bring. So it’s what I brought.’ The Watcher thrust the crate into Knox’s hands and turned back to the lift without saying anything else. Knox let him go.