He found the subs in a group on the pavement nearest Copper House. Max swaggered across to him looking not just unperturbed but almost purring with his own composure. There was a cigarette between his fingers and a black trench coat over his usual black shirt and black trousers. His case and suit-bag were leant neatly against the wall. ‘Morning, Jez,’ he said, offering him his packet. ‘We’ve just been talking about you. See anyone we should be worried about?’ Jez took a cigarette. ‘How about him?’ He pointed out an armed policeman talking into the walkie-talkie Velcroed to his chest. ‘Is he an Islamist sleeper agent?’

Jeremy, flattered, squinted at the policeman and said, ‘Nah, that one’s just fiddling his expenses.’

Max held out his lighter, shielding it with his other hand for Jeremy, who asked, ‘So what the hell’s this place we’re going to? Is it really a bunker?’

‘I’d have to double check this is true,’ said Max, judiciously smoothing his hair, ‘but I don’t think it’s actually underground. More like a secure newsroom. They built it in the Cold War so they could still get the paper out if the Russians nuked London. The point is that our jihadi friends, or any new jihadi friends we’ve made this morning, won’t find it just by Googling our address.’

‘But someone must have been there before.’

‘I think Frank has. A few of the—’

They abruptly had to shift sideways as a train of porters swung around the corner carrying packing boxes. Plants, lamps and framed pictures protruded from the brown cardboard. Max and Jeremy watched as one porter put down a box – all of them had ‘Beast on Sunday Editor’s office’ written on them in permanent marker – and opened the back of a van. Another porter had a rolled-up rug bending thickly over his shoulder, the protective mesh on its underside making a pale overlay to the deep colours within. Behind him shuffled two others, their arms and faces taut, taking tiny steps under the weight of a life-sized golden baby elephant.

The chief sub bounded over to them, his fat bald head quivering on his shoulders. ‘Rats!’ he exclaimed with relish. ‘Rats, running down the gangplank, getting off the ship before it sinks.’

‘Look at that thing,’ said Jeremy, watching the BoS Editor’s golden elephant be heaved up on to the lip of the van. ‘What else do you think he’s got in there?’

‘That’s none of our concern, Jezdemona. Let the rats run away, and the ones who’re left, however incompetent, must be hacks. Lauren hasn’t turned up, that gutless backstabber.’

‘Lauren?’ Jeremy was taken aback; he’d thought she had the tenacity of ambition.