‘I’ve made my decision. I’ve promised the children I’ll give it another try. I can’t go back on it.’

‘I don’t mind if you’re doing this because you really want to,’ Rose said. ‘But I’ll be upset if you made an impulsive gesture in the heat of a Bordeaux night and are too stubborn to face up to the fact it was a mistake.’

Kate didn’t say anything to that. She realized that one of the reasons Rose was such a valuable force in her life was that she was willing to say things on occasion that no one else would dare to, except perhaps her mother, who could often be guaranteed to miss the point entirely.

‘Infidelity is murder,’ Rose said quietly. ‘It destroys everything.’

It was said with such force that Kate wondered once again if there was a more personal resonance here than her aunt was admitting. But she found it hard to imagine Simon, a good, decent, loyal man if ever she’d met one, betraying the wife he so clearly loved.

‘I hear you,’ Kate whispered. ‘I do hear you.’

Rose stood. ‘I’d better be getting home. And I’m sorry to spring this on you, but I’ve arranged for Sir Alan to join Ian and me for breakfast tomorrow to discuss this attempt to block Maja’s arrival here from Serbia. I know you’re very busy, but I think it would help if you could be there.’

13

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Kate arrived at MI6’s grand headquarters in Vauxhall as an outsider for the first time since she was an inductee, a trainee intelligence officer, two decades before. Her aunt met and swiped her through the security pods. Sensing her unease, Rose offered a reassuring smile as they rode the lift to the top floor. ‘Must be strange to be back.’

Kate nodded. She was dreading this meeting, for reasons she couldn’t entirely place. They were met by the chief’s butler and ushered into the wood-panelled dining room with its panoramic view of the river Thames, the Houses of Parliament and the grandiose buildings of Whitehall beyond it.

Sir Alan, the former chief, was already seated opposite his successor and the two seemed to have dressed to showcase their contrasting styles. Sir Alan was in one of the immaculately tailored suits that had been his hallmark, his only concession to retirement a thick white beard that made him look a decade older. Ian sat opposite in dark jeans and an open-necked shirt. He had drawn himself up awkwardly close to the table, with one suede Chelsea boot twisted across the knee of his other leg, as if attempting a new yoga pose. It was his new obsession, so rumour had it, since he told people he no longer had the time or inclination to train for the Iron Man competitions that had once been his most tiresome boast.

But he hadn’t cut his long blond locks to fit his new responsibilities. Or learnt to do up his shirts, from which curls of long grey hair protruded. If the acid bite of setting eyes on a superior who had so often made her life difficult wasn’t enough, this alone would have put Kate off her breakfast. She stuck to coffee. ‘What are you up to, Kate?’ Ian asked her breezily.