‘You mean those things actually have fuses?’ she had said, and he’d had to explain that he was using layman’s language. She had bristled at this, and insisted that he explain things to her in more technical terms. So for over an hour he’d spoken of SIGINTs and COMINTs and geostationary orbits, while she had listened intently, asking occasional questions. At the end of his explanation, she had smiled.

‘You really are a clever little sod, aren’t you?’ she had said, and he’d nodded. What else could he do?

Clever, Martin, but perhaps not clever enough. He was used to being given orders, used to doing what he was told, to being nothing more than an operative. He seemed a long way from that now. Those uniformed high-ups were still in his mind. Three minutes and forty seconds, and they’d looked pleased. What was it about Zephyr? What was it that was so classified even the control personnel couldn’t be told of it? For he was sure now that the malfunction had been a test of sorts, that it had been being put through its paces, with the brass there to watch, and that it had passed the test.

But what was the bloody test?

If anyone was following him, they were good. He didn’t catch sight of a single suspicious car or person on the drive to the Alfred de Lyon Hospital. Everyone was doing his or her bit to seem genuine, from the lady driver who nearly hit him at a junction to the man whose dog ran into the road, causing him to brake hard.

So far so good. Paul Vincent had sounded on the verge of a breakdown. Hepton didn’t feel too good himself. His body seemed extraordinarily tired and sluggish, his brain befuddled. He was hoping that Vincent knew more than he had been saying to date. It seemed the only way to unlock the hoard of answers to this whole thing.

He made good time on the drive, steered the car through the gates of the Alfred de Lyon and sped up the gravel drive. He didn’t bother with the small car park, leaving his Renault outside the main doors to the building. In the reception hall, he went straight to the admissions desk, where the white-coated lady on duty smiled, recognising him from the previous day.

‘I’ve come to see Mr Vincent,’ he said.

‘This must be his lucky day,’ she said. ‘Two visitors—’

‘Two?’ Hepton interrupted.

‘Yes, a young lady arrived half an hour ago to see him.’

‘A young lady? Short fair hair?’

The woman nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, that sounds like her.’

‘Is she still here?’ snapped Hepton. He was growing afraid now. What if he had missed them? What if Harry had already whisked Paul Vincent away somewhere … somewhere Hepton couldn’t find him?