The gunshot was so loud it made Valera dive for cover. She thought the bullet must have smashed through the door to her bedroom, but it hadn’t. The door was still in one piece, still locked, keeping her safe but also stuck.

Valera had already checked the room for possible escape routes. Now she checked again. The bedroom window opened, but only a crack and out into thin air. There was another window in the en-suite bathroom. It might have led to a ledge but it was far too small for her to fit through.

There was nowhere for her to go. All she could do was stay where she was, listen to the crashes and shouts coming from the other side of the door, and hope they stayed there.

Out in the suite, Bennett crumpled to the floor. Her hands reached for the red blossom of blood already spreading across her torso. She knew what it felt like to fire a gun, and she’d read about what it was like to take a bullet, but her books hadn’t prepared her for the sudden flood of adrenaline that made her feel boiling hot and freezing cold all at once.

She tried to control her breathing and stop herself from hyper-­ventilating. She pressed her hand against her side. The front and back of her shirt were both wet with blood, and she could feel the tears where the bullet had ripped through the fabric on its way in and out of her body. She knew she needed to put pressure on the wounds if she was going to stop herself bleeding out, so she clumsily shuffled backwards until she could rest against the wall and prop herself up against it, adding an extra smear-of deep red to its vibrant print.

Peterson stared at the Beretta, frozen in surprise that he’d actually pulled the trigger. He’d fantasised about firing a gun but he’d never actually done it, not even at the MI5 practice range.

Knox, faced with either helping Bennett or stopping Peterson doing any more damage, took advantage of Peterson’s paralysis and lunged at him over the side of the sofa. They both hit the hard edge of the dining table as Knox tried to wrestle the gun out of Peterson’s hand. But Peterson’s grip was surprisingly strong and Knox had to settle for slamming his wrist against the table until the gun tumbled out of his grasp and disappeared under the sofa next to Bennett. Unfortunately she was in no position to reach out and grab it.

Peterson shoved Knox off him, almost sending him tumbling back over the side of the sofa, then moved around the dining table, putting it between them.

‘So you finally worked out what’s going on,’ he said, his voice pure condescension.

‘You killed Bianchi and Moretti,’ Knox said. ‘Sold out Pipistrelle to the Russians, and now you’re delivering Valera to them.’