The guards left Knox with a large jug of water and a single glass. They didn’t take his jacket, belt, or shoelaces. They either thought there was no risk of him killing himself or they didn’t care if he did.

For the first hour of his incarceration Knox indulged in the fantasy that the Watchers who had witnessed his tirade against Manning were repeating his accusations through the corridors of Leconfield House and were going to come and ask him to lead a rebellion against the director general at any moment. For the second hour he alternated between sitting at the table and pacing around the room, thinking about what White might have done with Bianchi and Moretti’s passports and research. For the third hour he wondered if he’d been forgotten. Manning hadn’t appeared to gloat, or sent Peterson to do it for him. No one had come to break him out, but no one had come to rough him up either.

At about nine thirty he finally lay down on the mattress. He felt dizzy for a moment and realised he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything. He got up, poured himself a large glass of water, swallowed it in a single gulp, and returned to his bed.

He decided that whatever Manning had planned for him would wait until the morning, or maybe even after the conference was finished, and he’d dealt with Valera and whatever else he had planned over the next two days.

However, the longer Knox stared at the ceiling, the less he was able to shake a feeling that had been quietly taking root in his gut since Portland Place. Manning hadn’t broken character the entire time Knox had been attacking him. His temper barely flared even when Knox accused him of being a traitor and personally responsible for multiple deaths.

As Knox relived the confrontation over and over in his mind, Manning only ever looked disappointed and hurt, like a gentleman whose honour was being unfairly smeared. Even when Knox was being marched off there was no little sneer or wink telling him he was right but had still lost.

It raised a worrying question. Did Manning’s mask not slip because he was the greatest double agent in the history of espionage, or because there was no mask to begin with? Knox realised that he hadn’t just thought Manning was the mole, he’d wanted him to be it. He’d wanted to tie all the loose threads of the man’s career into a rope he could hang him from. But would anyone else do the same in Knox’s place? Manning himself had said Knox had a personal interest in bringing him down. Maybe it was too personal.