The tags are second-class material for the most part: trainees, executives earning their pension after action in the field, sometimes an odd spook who’s after someone specific. All the services do it and everyone knows about it and we settle for that; it’s the routine chore of keeping tabs on each other in case the pattern changes and we can learn something new. And the thing is that we could all knock each other off if we wanted to, but there wouldn’t be any point; we’re doing our job and they’re doing theirs and if anyone really wants to go somewhere in strict hush then he first makes bloody sure he’s got a clean tail.

It’s been an unwritten law since the services became organized, and last night I broke it.

“Have you anything to say?” Parkis was asking me.

Wearily I said: “What like?”

“In your own favour.”

I thought about it.

“Not really.”

He went and sat down behind his desk and now I caught so much of the chill in the air that it reached my spine. I suppose I’d been holding back from the brink that I knew was there, hoping for some kind of luck that’d save me. As Parkis began speaking I knew it was strictly no go.

“I wasn’t able to see you the moment you arrived here this morning, Quiller, because I was in emergency conference with Administration. Two decisions were reached. One: that you should be sent out of London as soon as possible and in the utmost secrecy. Two: that your immediate resignation would be received with our unqualified approval. You will draw an overnight bag on your way out of the building, and there is transport waiting for you at the door. Your escort will facilitate your passage through London Airport Immigration as best he can.” He paused briefly. “Unless, of course, it’s already too late.”