Asad looked around him as he fetched his bag. The cottage looked down into a valley that had just three houses and a couple of farms. The hills on the opposite side were forested until two-thirds of the way up. Abu Mujahid had chosen well. They were unlikely to be disturbed.

#

Chiswick, West London

The waitress smiled at Rod Houghton.

‘What would you like today?’ she said, staring unblinking, her pencil tapping her cheek.

‘Cup of black coffee, please, love. And a glass of tap water.’

The waitress made a note but didn’t move away.

‘You from Manchester? I like your accent,’ said the waitress.

Jesus, he thought. She wasn’t making this easy.

‘Yep,’ he said, attempting to end the conversation, before turning back to his phone.

The waitress moved off while Houghton switched on the phone, tapped in the Wi-Fi code printed on the greasy menu propped against the ketchup bottle. He gave a fake Gmail address and was online. He opened WhatsApp, typed two messages and turned the phone off.

A middle-aged, plump Asian woman with a magazine was sat by the door. An elderly white couple were at the next table, sat in silent boredom. A black man with a toddler was on the phone in the corner. He’d give it a few minutes then leave. He settled down to drink his coffee as quickly as decency would allow.

#

Thirty seconds after Houghton had left the cafe, the Asian woman with the magazine stood up. She walked through the door and paused in the street. A white man in a grey jacket walked past her – their eyes caught for a second and she gave him an almost imperceptible nod. He continued walking in the same direction as Houghton.

Around the corner, safely out of sight, she checked behind her and spoke out loud. ‘I’m at the cafe in Chiswick High Road. The target has used his phone. Repeat, he’s just used his phone.’

The reaction from the voice in her ear was ecstatic.

‘We’ve got him,’ said her sergeant.

#

Downing Street, London

Thomas had been kept waiting in the foyer for ten minutes and was fuming. He entered the Prime Minister’s office and lowered himself onto the leather sofa without being invited. The PM stood with his back to the Home Secretary, staring through the bulletproof glass into the garden.

‘Tell me, Ben,’ said the PM slowly, without turning. ‘How are you finding Lesley Hogarth these days? There was a time when you couldn’t stand her. Yet I hear you’ve been enjoying her company quite a lot recently.’

‘Wouldn’t go that far,’ said Thomas, unflustered. ‘I’m keen to build bridges. She is what she is, we can’t do anything about that.’

‘Indeed.’ The PM sat heavily at his desk rather than moving alongside Thomas. At times like this, he reminded Thomas of their old Cambridge college dean, a pious white-haired don who regarded his students as an unwelcome intrusion into his otherwise well-ordered life. ‘I know you well enough, Ben, to be confident that you wouldn’t be so unscrupulous to be using Hogarth for your own personal ends.’ Thomas said nothing. ‘Just as I’m confident that you wouldn’t be using the situation out there,’ he waved carelessly toward the window, ‘to reposition yourself. We go back far enough for me to be confident in your loyalty.’