‘Acting director general,’ he corrected her.

‘Not any more,’ she replied, her face breaking into a crocodile smile.

‘What?’

‘Didn’t you hear? He was called to Whitehall this morning.’ She made a show of checking her watch. ‘It’s been official for almost an hour now.’

Knox couldn’t believe it. Holland had been out of action for less than a week, and he was carrying evidence that raised serious questions about MI5’s operational security and Manning’s personal agenda. This wasn’t the time to hand the Service permanently over to someone else. Knox had to get to Whitehall, confront Manning, or make his case directly to the Home Secretary that he shouldn’t be given absolute power over the Service.

Another lift arrived and he stepped inside as the doors started to close.

Taunton, still smiling, called after him: ‘They’ll be celebrating by now.’

She’d meant it as a twist of the knife she’d just buried in his chest, but she’d actually just told Knox there was no point going to Whitehall after all. If Manning was celebrating, there was only one place he’d be.

Chapter 26

Chapter 26

The Fountain restaurant opened in Fortnum and Mason’s in 1955, and ever since had attracted the kind of person who liked their consumption extremely conspicuous. The restaurant’s plush, velvet booths gave the illusion of privacy, while their low backs made sure that everyone could see and be seen. Likewise, its windows were set low and fringed with curtains but still managed to provide a perfect view of the restaurant’s diners from the street.

Knox wasn’t at all surprised to find Manning in one of the Fountain’s larger booths, flanked by Peterson and two younger men he didn’t recognise. They looked like they’d been shipped up from Oxford that morning—they were bright, eager, and were both wearing the same Prince of Wales check suit as Peterson.

The four men were all tucking into the restaurant’s signature welsh rarebit. To Knox’s non-gourmand eyes it looked like pretentious cheese on toast, but people who had actually sampled the dish described it in near-transcendental terms.

‘Enjoying your meal?’ Knox asked the group.

The four heads turned as one, no doubt expecting to see the maître d’ dutifully checking in on them.

‘Ah, Richard, care to join us?’ Manning said, gesturing to the edge of the booth.

Knox didn’t move.

‘Phillips here was just telling us a charming story about Fortnum’s sending hampers to some suffragettes who had been sent to prison for smashing their windows.’ One of the Oxford men smiled, enjoying his moment in Manning’s spotlight. ‘Rather gentlemanly, don’t you think?’ He cut a large slice of the rarebit, then gestured again at the banquette. ‘Please, sit.’

‘No, thank you,’ Knox replied. ‘I hear congratulations are in order.’

‘Yes, well, the PM thought it was for the best.’

‘Of course he did.’