‘You were never a real agent, Chevie. You were an official source of intelligence. That’s a very different thing.’

‘But it said agent on my badge. My handler called me Agent Savano.’

Witmeyer smiled at Chevie as though she were five years old. ‘We thought you kids would like a badge. You know, to make you feel important. But it takes more than a badge, Chevie.’

‘I was on the fast track to being a proper agent. I was told that all I had to do was complete my assignment and a place in Quantico would be mine.’

‘You were told,’ said Witmeyer. ‘But there was nothing in writing. Take the deal, Miss Savano. It’s a good one. And, maybe, if you keep your head down, we can talk about Quantico in a few years.’

Chevie was not interested in the deal, but, if she wanted to be a real Special Agent, England was her only option.

‘So I report to the London office?’

Witmeyer looked shiftier than usual. ‘Nope. You report directly to WARP. The London office works mostly on hate crimes, that kind of thing. What you’ll be doing is not connected to their day-to-day operations. They won’t even know you’re in the country unless you call in.’ Witmeyer looked around excitedly, as though about to deliver amazing news. ‘In effect, you’ll have nothing to do but study distance-learning modules for your high-school diploma.’

Chevie sighed. ‘So it’s back to school for the little kid.’

‘I hate to tell you this, Chevie, but you are a kid,’ said Witmeyer, glancing over Chevie’s shoulder, anxious to shut this meeting down and join the other agents clack-clacking their weapons in the bustling office space beyond. ‘I’m giving you double years for your pension, Chevie. That’s the best I can do. You can take the pension offer or not. Either way, if you want any chance of staying on at the Bureau, you’re going to London.’

So Chevie had been in England for nine months, babysitting a metal capsule that looked an awful lot like an Apollo landing module that had been stuffed into the basement of a four-storey Georgian house on Bedford Square in Bloomsbury.

‘What do we actually do here?’ she had asked her boss on the first morning. His name, believe it or not, was Agent Orange, which must be some kind of alias, and he was grey from head to toe, from his floppy quiff to his sunglasses and his skinny suit, right down to his custom-made tasselled loafers.

‘We attend the pod,’ said the fifty-year-old agent, his Scottish accent making the word attend about three seconds longer than it needed to be.

‘What are we, podites?’ said Chevie, still jet-lagged and feeling a little belligerent.

Orange took the question seriously. ‘In a way. Yes, Agent Savano. That pod downstairs is your church.’