‘I have friends in the house,’ I said, and saying it out loud was nearly enough to tear me to pieces. I was holding myself together through sheer force of will. I took a leap of faith, desperate to cling on to the hope that Erskine was going to help me with the thing that mattered most. ‘John Goose. He’s the caretaker of the property. You know that I’ve used it before, yes? Assets in need of places to stay; the occasional meeting place for those in need of a quiet space to think, to recover, to talk. He’s on the books, all above board. Plants the listening ears and picks them up again and gets a few quid in his pocket when he’s done. He and his wife went there tonight at my request. They’re caught up in whatever’s happening.’

Erskine nodded, chewing his lower lip. ‘I heard. Everything Walt said to you – everything you said in return, I heard it all.’

I screwed up my features as in pain. Felt the thought arriving through the fog. ‘The lighter?’

‘Bug and tracker. Quite proud of it. Quartermaster took my old Zippo and gave it a thoroughly modern makeover. Glad you had the presence of mind to take it. Walt’s got the recordings you took from me, so that’s a loose end tied up. Really, I hadn’t expected you to be so virulently anti-orders. I really did think you would get on the next train back to London. Walt wasn’t even that cross when I reported in. Said you were the sort who was always hard to read and that was why he never knew whether to bring you into the circle of Angels.’

The word chimed with something I’d read. Angels? Was there an operation? Something to do with Prickly Heat? I was too tired and groggy to be able to disentangle the great mess of words that floated as ripped-up pictures just outside my recollection.

‘It will come to an end tonight,’ said Erskine, a grimness to the set of his jaw. ‘One way or another, Walt will make people do the right thing, or he’ll bring the whole damn tower of cards tumbling down.’

I shook my head. ‘Please,’ I whispered. ‘I just need to get my friends to safety.’

‘We all have people that matter to us,’ he said, a little steel in his tone. ‘You’re an intelligence analyst, Cordelia. You’re a spy, like the rest of us. You serve queen and country and you’re supposed to follow orders no matter what they are. When you disobeyed me on the train tonight, it got me wondering whether perhaps you do serve a grander purpose – whether you hold yourself to a different set of standards. Whether you understand the moral imperative of our position.’