The structure had been built in the sixties, a brick and concrete edifice to fill in the space in a part of London that had suffered grievously from the Luftwaffe’s bombs. It was small and unprepossessing and drew little attention from the occasional pedestrians who passed outside it. A metal gate barred the way to an underground car park, and the sign on the wall next to it read Global Logistics. Control waited for the barrier to withdraw into the roof and then touched the pedal to coast her Tesla down the ramp. It levelled out, and she guided the car to her usual parking space. It had been a busy morning and she hadn’t tested her glucose; she took the hand scanner and held it against the sensor that was attached to her right shoulder. Her levels were a little higher than she would have liked, so she took out her insulin pen, inserted a cartridge, and pulled up her shirt. She injected herself in the abdomen, wincing a little from the sharp prick, and then checked her makeup in the mirror. She tucked her shirt back into her trousers, switched off the car and got out.

She ran through the agenda for the day as she rode the secure elevator to the third floor. She had a lot on her plate and she was keen to start working through it. The first item of business was to speak with Weaver. He had returned from Colombia late last night, and she had told him to report to the office for a debrief.

The lift shuddered to a halt and the doors opened. The space beyond was busy with activity despite the fact that it was still early. The staff who worked the office at night were in the process of leaving, their replacements arriving and taking over. Analysts researched new intelligence and built profiles of the targets that the Group had been asked to investigate, their work soundtracked by the rattle of fingers on keyboards and hushed conversations with covert sources. Control crossed the floor, too wrapped up in her thoughts to notice the tentative nods of greeting from the men and women she passed.

Her secretary, Eve, looked up as she arrived at the waiting area next to the door to her office.

“Morning, ma’am.”

“Morning. Is he here?”

“Waiting inside.”

She opened the door and went through into her office. Weaver was sitting on the sofa that Control used when she wanted to talk to guests away from the formality of her desk. Weaver was her private secretary, although that title was misleading. He spent his time in theatre for the most part, working with the twelve men and women who comprised the active assets of the Group.

Weaver stood.

“Sergeant,” she said as she took off her coat and hung it on her hat stand.

“Ma’am.”