She crossed the room. Eve had prepared a pot of coffee, and she poured two cups, adding milk to both and taking them over to the sofa. She handed one to Weaver and sat down in the armchair.

“Let’s have it,” she said.

“There’s good news and bad news.”

She waved a hand. “Bad first.”

“We’ve had confirmation that Eight didn’t make it. The Colombians got him to a hospital, but he died just after he was admitted.”

“There’s no way back to us?”

“No, ma’am. None at all.”

“And the good news?”

“Two is going to be fine,” Weaver said. “Eleven took him to a doctor we have on the payroll. They’ll be leaving the country today.”

That was something, she supposed. “What else?”

“I spoke with Number Six. They’ve located the facility where Number One is being held. Their assessment is that it would be possible to break him out, but that the odds favour a more patient approach. His first hearing is in two days. They’ll need to transfer him across the city, and the intelligence is that it’ll be a normal police van with two or three officers. If you agree, they propose to do it then.”

“Of course I agree,” she said. “We can’t have Thorsson standing trial.”

“There’s no possibility that they could connect him to British intelligence.”

“Are you sure, Sergeant? Are you completely sure? I know Thorsson is good, but having him out there, possibly in the papers, means there are too many variables that we can’t control. I need him out of Colombian custody and back in this office so he can explain to me just how this whole situation went south as quickly as it did. I want you to take part in that conversation, too. I need to decide whether you are still able to discharge your duties to the standard that I expect.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, dipping his head. “Of course.”

Control got up and crossed the room to her desk. She reached into her in-tray and took the file that had been prepared for her. A cardboard folder held a wedge of paper perhaps an inch thick. The bundle had been tied with a red ribbon; that meant that Control had been authorised to send one of her agents to attend to the man or woman who was the subject. She untied the ribbon, opened the folder and looked at the photograph that lay atop the stack. It was of a man in his late middle age. He had dark hair, crisp, alpine blue eyes and a horizontal scar that ran from his cheek to the start of his nose. She took the photograph across the room and laid it on the coffee table so that Weaver could see it.

She laid a finger on the photograph. “What about him? Is it done?”