Gusts of wind blowing across the airfield rattled the ancient hangar, which creaked in protest. Hastily painted white during some brief conscription for a UN project, it was revealing its much hardier original khaki, showing through here and there, the last remnant of its Battle of Britain glory days. From outside, the only suggestion of activity, apart from a few parked cars, was a mobile scanner, its ten-metre dish pointing skywards to send and receive all encrypted communications. Inside, the resident pair of Cessnas had been shunted to one side to make room for Woolf’s makeshift operations base. Half a dozen work stations had been erected, along with a couple of large flat-screen monitors and the long table, at the head of which stood Woolf. He hated presentations but Mandler had insisted. ‘Think of it as a peer review,’ he’d suggested unhelpfully. But Woolf knew there would be no arguing. MI5’s section heads would have to be brought into the tent sooner or later.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, my apologies for dragging you away from your desks to this godforsaken back-water.’ Mandler gazed down at the group. ‘What you’re about to hear is known only to myself, Woolf and . . .’ he glanced at his notes while he tried to remember the names of Woolf’s team ‘. . . these two bright young things who have been watching his back.’

Cindy and Rafiq smiled in unison. Mandler smiled back, reflecting silently that Cindy, with her pierced lip, and Rafiq, with his iPod lead permanently trailing out of his trouser pocket, were both less than half his age.

‘The Joint Intelligence Committee has yet to be informed, same for SIS, GCHQ and DIS. Why we are keeping this so close to our chests should become apparent. So . . .’ he paused to frown at Woolf ‘. . . only the home secretary has been given a sneak peek inside the kimono in case we need to bring her on-side.’

He rubbed his hands together. ‘You all know James. He doesn’t just think outside the box. He tends to squash the box flat, toss it in the bin and leave us to pick up the pieces.’

There was a ripple of amusement.

‘Any questions, don’t hold back.’

He motioned to Woolf to begin. The group stared at him stone-faced, except Cindy and Rafiq, who maintained their frozen smiles.

Woolf stepped in front of the screen. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, meet the new face of British terrorism.’

He tapped a key to bring up the next shot, a soldier in dress uniform: gingery hair, freckles, intense gaze. ‘Retired Corporal Mick Vestey. Household Cavalry sniper, commended for killing two Taliban from more than a mile away. Here he is in his prime: Kandahar, 2007.’

The image changed to a shot of Vestey beside a Scimitar armoured reconnaissance vehicle, posing with his crew, tanned and oozing confidence.