Atlas had a number of premises dotted along the river, so they had opted for the one listed as the company’s headquarters. The warehouse reminded Porter of an airplane hangar. Its appearance bordered on military; the drab olive green of the walls reminiscent of a hundred other buildings from his army days. The only break in the monochrome exterior was the Atlas logo stamped on each side. It stayed true to the Titan from Greek mythology whose name they had taken, the sculpted ivory-coloured form of a man, crouching and straining under the weight of the planet that sat atop his heavily muscled neck and shoulders. Porter couldn’t help but notice the historical inaccuracy. Atlas holding up the earth was a common misconception. His grandfather used to read him stories when he was younger, tales of heroes, of Odysseus and Agamemnon. Achilles and Hector. He remembered thinking Atlas had been given a bum deal, condemned for ever to bear the weight of the heavens on his shoulders, not the earth upon which he stood, as many thought. Porter fancied he’d gotten a better bargain nowadays, now that the earth was home to some seven billion people. He wouldn’t want that weight on his shoulders.

They pulled up to the unmanned security barrier; Porter leant out of his window and pushed the button to speak. He waited patiently until a woman’s tinny voice squawked out from the intercom, shattering the silence. They identified themselves and the voice directed them to the visitor’s car park by the left-hand corner of the building, telling them they’d see a sign pointing the way to reception there. They followed the directions and found themselves inside a room that was the very definition of minimalistic. There was a chest-high counter running three quarters of the way across, punctuated by a hinged hatch to allow access, with two moulded plastic orange chairs set against the wall.

On the other side of the counter stood a woman that Porter pegged for mid-fifties. She reminded Porter of one of his former schoolteachers in her crisp, white blouse and sensible navy blue skirt, the way she peered out at him over the thick black frames of her glasses with a look of permanent disapproval. When she opened her mouth to speak, he half expected the same static and crackle in her voice that had filtered through the intercom.

‘Good morning, Officers,’ she said in a disappointingly normal tone. ‘I’ve called Mr Awad; he’s the site manager. He should be here any minute. Please, have a seat.’