The woman tried her best to ignore the prayer mat he was holding, and Sami could tell by the look on her face that she didn’t know he was Islamic, even though he no longer hid his background, hadn’t for years. But then again, he no longer prayed. And with a first name like Hudson – which he had chosen as soon as he was legally old enough to rid himself of Abas – her puzzlement shouldn’t have been a surprise.

He pushed the prayer mat back between the filing cabinets, told himself he would pray later, knew he wouldn’t.

Then he opened his drawer and pulled out a notepad. He didn’t have clearance to take a computer, a phone or any electronic device capable of recording into the War Room. He searched for a pencil – no metallic objects, including pens, were allowed.

‘Sir, I can provide you with a pencil and anything else you need to take notes,’ the woman said. ‘We have to go. Right away.’

Sami shoved his drawer back into his desk, grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair – knowing he would need it – and followed the young lady. She was way faster than she looked, little legs pumping like engine pistons.

After the fresh pencil, notepad and his jacket had been placed on a blue tray and sent through an airport-style X-ray machine, Sami walked through the metal detector without setting it off. His side-arm, a standard issue SIG-Sauer P228 pistol, was locked away in a nearby safe and being guarded by an agent who looked more mastiff than man.

He provided the two-factor authentication needed for entry – a retina scan and a six-digit code – then the airlocked door opened and he was hit by an icy blast. It was always exactly sixteen degrees Celsius in the War Room, the optimum temperature for all the computers, of which there were dozens.

As he walked along the glass-walled hallway, Sami peered into the room to his left, a factory-sized floor full of PCs where hundreds of analysts, mostly young men and woman – the oldest he could see was barely middle-aged – stared at screens and tapped on keyboards. Sami had little idea what they were doing; he still struggled with his Android phone. He ignored the towering machines behind the glass wall to his right.

He stopped at another steel door and positioned his right eye in the cradle of another scanner after punching in a six-digit code – this one different from the last.

‘Senior Special Agent and Head of the Office of Russian and European Analysis Hudson Sami entering,’ an electronic voice announced.

Sami nodded before taking the last empty seat, one of twenty-four around a gargantuan table, the centrepiece of the conference room.

‘Okay, that’s everyone,’ said Morrissey, CIA Director of Operations. ‘Let’s begin.’