‘Oh dear,’ Peterson replied. Only one out of three. What on earth did Holland see in you all these years? It can’t have been your powers of deduction.’

Knox faked a leap round the right-hand side of the table, forcing Peterson back towards the desk and away from the sofa the gun was under.

‘Why did you do it?’ Knox demanded. ‘Wasn’t being Manning’s lapdog enough?’

‘That’s rich, coming from Holland’s favourite pet,’ Peterson replied.

‘I’m no one’s pet,’ he shot back.

‘Holland handed you everything you’ve ever wanted on a plate. You’re the golden child who doesn’t have to follow the rules.’ Peterson took another step round towards the desk, mirroring every step Knox made towards him. ‘I’m just taking the advantages I wasn’t given.’

‘You’re a traitor,’ Knox said.

‘And you’re a hypocrite,’ Peterson spat at him. ‘You play the part of the poor child from the East End but you live in a penthouse on top of a block of council flats, just to remind everyone how much better than them you are.’

Knox couldn’t control himself any more. He hurled himself at Peterson. But Peterson was ready for him. He sidestepped out of the way and let Knox crash straight into the desk.

‘A predictable hypocrite.’

Knox, doubled over on the desk, took a second to compose and quickly berate himself for underestimating Peterson. He guessed Peterson expected him to come back up swinging. So instead he let out a groan, slumped down to his side, and used the tulip chair to steady himself. Then, when he did stand back up, he brought Peterson’s briefcase with him, throwing it at his head.

Peterson jerked out of its way, catching his foot on the corner of the coffee table and falling onto it again, this time smashing through the onyx and crashing onto the floor.

‘At least I’m not betraying my country so the KGB can spy on the whole world,’ Knox said, as he stepped over Peterson and started raining punches down on him.

Instead of trying to protect himself Peterson started to laugh again. ‘A predictable, small-minded hypocrite,’ he said between blows.

Knox was so confused by Peterson’s reaction to the battering he was taking that he didn’t notice his hands reaching out under him, searching across the smashed shards of onyx.

‘Are you here to defend Dear Old Blighty?’ Peterson asked. ‘Britannia’s long dead. This is just a sad little island trapped in a fantasy of self-importance.’

‘Is that the line Moscow sold you?’