All the walls in the room suddenly lit up: every surface, excluding the floor but including the roof, was an LCD display. The director turned and faced the screen at the head of the room and pointed at an enlarged image of a Twitter post. ‘This post was picked up by one of our European social media analysts six minutes ago,’ Morrissey began.

He pointed at the screen again and the Bulgarian text was replaced by English.

Oh my God. There is an earthquake. The whole building is shaking.

‘The post was geolocated to Sofia, Bulgaria,’ Morrissey continued. ‘We have since tracked every post within a fifty-kilometre radius.’

Morrissey then pointed to the wall to his right, which displayed scores of smaller screens. ‘That’s a live feed of every post coming out of what we have since narrowed to a five-kilometre radius,’ the director said. ‘We have numerous reports of explosions, loud noises and smoke, but no confirmation of a bomb or an exact location.’

The director was interrupted by a beep.

‘Sir.’ A female voice came out of the speakers in the floor. ‘I am about to load an Instagram post onto the main screen.’

Morrissey, and everyone else in the room, turned and waited.

The Bulgarian text then gave way to English.

St Nedelya Church is on fire. Roof has collapsed.

The picture accompanying the post showed a building halflevelled and burning.

‘Get me an address,’ the director shouted.

In an instant, the screen at the far end of the room brought up a Wikipedia page for the church, including its address and GPS coordinates. Morrissey began firing a series of orders at the men and woman around the table.

‘Collins,’ he barked, ‘alert local authorities. They are still in the dark. Get emergency services to the scene.

‘Jones,’ he commanded, ‘find our closest drone and send it in. I want a live feed ASAP.

‘Stein,’ he shouted, ‘see what we have in the way of satellites.

‘Ramirez, get the boffins to limit the live social media feed to within one kilometre of this church. Get names, addresses and profiles of anyone who posts. A full electronic sweep. I want to know everything about them.’

He continued around the room, getting to Sami last.

‘How many do we have in the Bulgarian office?’ Morrissey asked.

‘Eight,’ Sami replied.

‘Get them all there now. And anyone else who’s close. I want every available man on the ground. And I want you there too. Leave as soon as you contact your team.’

CHAPTER 25

Long Bay Correctional Complex, Sydney, NSW, Australia

JAX opened his eyes when he smelled the Brut 33.

‘Oh, hello there. Feeling any better?’ a voice boomed.

The sulphurous light was blinding. The smell of the cologne was nauseating. The voice, although gentle, was head-splitting. The sudden attack on his senses was too much. He closed his eyes and held his breath. The gloom called him back.

‘Hello . . . Are you awake? Hello.’