Turnbull had a tiny radio mic attached to a curly wire that disappeared down his shirt collar. While he passed the instruction to his men, Fitz went among the crowd and asked a couple of people if they’d seen Dudley that evening. Neither of them had.

Fitz hurried from the room. In the corridor outside he took out his phone and dialled a secret number. Each Brother of the Order was issued a mobile that he was instructed to keep with him at all times. As a rule, if his masters were to call him on it, he must respond. To fail to do so was regarded as a kind of heresy.

No reply. Tristan Dudley was a deeply trusted member, whose willingness to sacrifice his only child as an offering only underlined his loyalty and bound him more tightly to the Order. If he wasn’t answering his phone, something really was wrong.

Just then, Turnbull came out and joined Fitz in the corridor. ‘His Bentley’s in the car park but there’s no sign of him in the bathrooms, or anywhere else.’

Fitz said, ‘He always travels with the same two bodyguards. Call the lodge house and ask to speak to them. They might know something.’

Turnbull nodded. ‘I’ll get right on it.’

Fitz paced impatiently while Turnbull talked to the lodge house.

‘No, I don’t know their bloody names,’ Turnbull was telling the person he’d got through to. ‘Just get them on the phone, will you? It’s important.’ Silence for a moment as they waited. Then the voice came back on the line and Turnbull said, ‘What do you mean, they’re not there? They have to be. The car’s there.’

‘What?’ Fitz demanded.

Turnbull ended the call. ‘Nobody’s seen them either. I don’t understand. If Dudley’s not here and neither are his driver or bodyguards, then who was driving the bleedin’ car?’

Fitz glowered at his head of security. The alarm bells were jangling inside his head, just as they’d done with Abbott but twice as loudly. Something was up. He thought about the apparent security camera malfunction in the grounds. What if it was more than that? His instinct was telling him that they had serious trouble. And there was only one conclusion he could come up with.

‘We’re under attack.’

Chapter 57

Time was pressing on for Fitz. In a few minutes the gong would ring to invite the members to retire to their dressing rooms and prepare for the night’s ceremonies. As Turnbull marshalled his security team and rushed off to comb the entire house and grounds for the suspected intruders, Fitz hurried back inside the members’ lounge to voice his concerns to Bartholomew Van Brakel.