Words of encouragement, to be sure – but all the same, at the last minute Fitz had laid on extra security for the evening: the VIP delegates at Karswell Hall would be protected by a crack team of twelve armed close protection specialists, all former CID and intelligence operatives, all lower-ranking club members sworn to uphold the secrets of the Order. Some of them had been recently recalled from Scotland, after the botched attempt to snatch Grace Kirk. Fitz had also taken additional precautions to get himself and the old man out of there fast, if anything were to happen. The security team leader was Fitz’s close associate, Turnbull. Spotting him hovering discreetly over by the entrance, Fitz asked to be excused for a moment, and threaded his way through the crowd to talk to him.

‘How are we doing?’ Fitz asked Turnbull.

‘Got a couple of cameras down in sector five. I sent a couple of the boys down there to check, but it’s nothing. Probably just a malfunction.’

Sector 5 was in the woods, towards the edge of the estate. ‘Get it fixed,’ Fitz said.

‘I’ll take care of it. Apart from that, we’re solid. Everyone’s here. Ready when you are.’

‘Let me see the list,’ Fitz said, and Turnbull took out a tablet device to show him. The checkpoint guards logged the number of each access pass onto a computer, which automatically flagged up if anyone was missing. Anthony Abbott was showing up as absent, not unexpectedly, but everyone else had checked in as normal. Fitz was so extremely thorough in his preparations that he’d memorised all fifty-four passcodes and could match them to the names of the invitees. For instance, number 386752FH was Sir Eustace Shaw of the Foreign Office; that number 482415YR was Commander Sandy Applewood, the current head of MI5’s anti-terror task force; and that number 907568XV was the MP Tristan Dudley, who’d provided the offering for their last event.

… Wait a minute.

Fitz turned and scanned the room again. He frowned. Rechecked the list.

‘Are you sure this is correct?’ he asked Turnbull.

‘Yes. Is something wrong?’

‘According to this record, access pass number 907568XV was logged into the checkpoint at 11.09 p.m. That’s twenty-seven minutes ago.’

Turnbull scrutinised the list. ‘Copy that. But what’s the problem with it?’

‘907568XV is Tristan Dudley. If he checked in nearly half an hour ago, where is he?’ Fitz knew Dudley’s psychology very well. The man craved the attention of his peers. If he was inside the building at all, he would normally have been at the heart of the crowd, basking in their praise and adulation.

Turnbull looked around the room, frowning too. ‘You’re right. I can’t see him.’

‘Have your men check the bathrooms,’ Fitz said. ‘He may have been taken ill.’