The soldiers thrust her out of the room and led her into a large cow barn. Dim light came from overhead fluorescent tubes; on the ground was a mass of straw, fresh manure and a row of troughs with the remains of a feed. They jogged through the barn and out one end. A security floodlight on a pole hung over a green tractor. Parked beside it sat a black Range Rover. As they approached, the door clunked open and a man climbed out. Dusty hair and a colonial tan suit.

‘Rebecca.’ Matthew Fairchild nodded. ‘Good to see you’re OK.’

‘I don’t…?’ Silva stood still, for a moment utterly confused. She pointed towards the cowshed. ‘You realise your men just killed the US ambassador?’

‘The deputy ambassador to be precise.’

Fairchild gestured at the Range Rover but Silva didn’t move. Then she turned, intending to thank the two special forces guys, but they’d vanished.

‘What is this place?’ she asked.

‘A black site run by the US. Totally deniable and off the books, unless they all of a sudden decide to admit to its existence, which they won’t.’

‘But the tractor, the cows…?’

‘It’s a working farm with an American expat owner. Isolated, plenty of outbuildings, a surprising array of useful equipment, and the potential for lots of unexplained noises. Just the place for working over enemies of the state.’

‘Which state?’

‘That depends.’

‘On British soil? Bloody hell.’

‘Come on, Rebecca. You can’t get squeamish now simply because the tables were turned.’ Fairchild got back into the Range Rover. ‘Let’s go.’

‘How’s this going to work?’ she said as she went round and climbed in the passenger side. ‘I mean three dead men, one of them the US deputy ambassador?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ Fairchild started the Range Rover and eased off. ‘To be frank, the fact Mavers went rogue is not my problem. It’s an American mess and they’ll have to sort it out for themselves.’

They passed a collection of farm buildings and threaded through a dense forest, black against the Range Rover’s headlights. For half an hour she saw nothing she recognised, then there was a sign for London and the M40. Fairchild hadn’t spoken again and every question she asked had been answered with a shake of his head. Now, as they joined the motorway, he appeared to relax.

‘How did you find me?’ Silva said.

‘Later. When we get home.’

‘Home?’

‘My home. It’s obviously not safe for you to go anywhere near your own place.’

‘Oh my God, you don’t know about my dad, he’s—’

‘He’s alive, Rebecca. Bruised but in fine fettle. He’d have come with me if I’d let him.’

‘He’s alive?’ Silva choked, tears filling her eyes. ‘I thought… God!’