Manning’s face still hadn’t changed, but the Watchers’ had. And they weren’t looking at Knox like he might be crazy. They were looking at Manning like they weren’t completely sure if he was their leader or their enemy.

‘Tell me one thing,’ he said, launching his final attack. ‘Was getting rid of Holland the KGB’s idea, or yours?’

Knox hoped Manning’s mask would finally slip and he’d give himself away. But he just sighed, gave the Watchers a nod, and walked over to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the hall, both hands back in his jacket pockets.

With a reassuring look to Bennett, Knox let himself be led out of the room. When the door closed again behind Knox and the Watchers, she turned to Finney and steeled herself for her own battle.

‘What are you going to do with me?’ she asked. She was ready to lay out everything for anyone who would listen, here, in Grosvenor Square, or even Langley, to prove that she’d spotted what everyone else had missed—that the CIA had been compromised just as badly as MI5.

‘Nothing,’ Finney replied.

‘What?’ Bennett had expected a tirade to match Manning’s, but there was no fire in Finney’s eyes, no sign he was going to snatch at any of the bait she’d dangled in front of him.

‘I don’t deal with the clerical staff,’ he said.

Chapter 54

Chapter 54

Valera sat on the edge of the bed, waiting. She’d spent the last however many hours watching the colour of the sky slowly start to deepen. In Povenets B or Leningrad in July it would be as light as it was outside now until long into the night. Sunset in Stockholm would be late and brief too. But she suspected she wasn’t in Sweden any more.

Five minutes ago she’d heard the heavy click of a lock and the deep groan of the large metal door being opened and closed. Then there were footsteps on the stairs and a prolonged sequence of shuffles and sounds from the other end of the house.

Now she heard more footsteps approaching the bedroom. She stood up. She wanted to face whoever had come to visit her on her feet. The steps stopped briefly outside the door, then with a gentle nudge it swung open to reveal a man in a grey suit carrying a tray with a teapot and two teacups.

‘Ah, Miss Valera, you’re awake,’ Peterson said, a broad smile across his face. ‘Wonderful.’

‘Who are you?’ she demanded. Her voice cracked as she spoke, and she realised she hadn’t drunk anything since she’d devoured the pot of jam she’d found in the fridge as fast as if it had been ice-cold water, fresh from a mountain stream.

‘I’m Devereux,’ Peterson replied. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. How are you feeling?’

‘Where am I?’