You-know-who was the cause of all of Holm’s sleepless nights and most of his problems. He blamed you-know-who for his increased drinking, the loss of half of his hair, for his marriage break-up, for the fact he lived in a one-bedroom flat with a fridge stuffed with ready meals, for his lack of supportive colleagues at work, for his failure to progress up the ladder in the last few years. And now for this farce which could well lead to his dismissal. Of course he’d be offered the chance to take early retirement, the easy way to sanitise the whole unpleasant business. After many years distinguished service… blah, blah, blah. There’d be a short announcement in the internal daily briefing, a glass of sherry in Huxtable’s office, the meeting possibly graced with the presence of the head of MI5, Thomas Gillan. Back in the situation room a couple of bowls of hastily purchased snacks would be placed on a desk, and an envelope would be handed over. Inside a card signed by everyone and an Amazon gift voucher because nobody could be bothered with leaving presents these days. A few words would be said. There’d be some reminiscing about the good old days but nobody would mention the reason he was leaving the service. Nobody would mention you-know-who.

You-know-who. MI5 code name RAVEN. Street name – almost certainly an alias – Taher.

Taher…

The name hissed through Holm’s thoughts, the two syllables drawn out as if part of a Siren’s song calling him to his doom. Time and again he’d been beguiled by the name, led astray, his attention diverted from other mundane but important tasks. He could almost hear the whispers at his leaving do. A nod and a wink as he turned his back to reach for a bread stick.

‘The poor boy lost it, don’t you know? Became obsessed.’

‘Obsessed?’

‘Yes. Focused on chasing one individual instead of disrupting the network. Old style. Couldn’t update himself to deal with the reality of the post-9/11 world. Analogue not digital. Social circles rather than social media. So sad.’

A pause. Then a joke at Holm’s expense.

‘Not that the old boy had much of a social circle. Somewhat of a loner, wasn’t he?’

Muttering in agreement. A laugh. Some management speak and then a segue into a safer topic, perhaps football or cricket or the extramarital dalliances of a celebrity couple that someone in Five had inadvertently picked up on a phone intercept.

Somewhat of a loner.

With a tinge of bitterness Holm had to admit it was true. He hadn’t played the game in either the police force or the security services. No union, no Masonic handshake, he hadn’t gone to the right school or university, and he definitely wasn’t what they called clubbable.