Liz attempted to do so. She looked out at the rain-slicked expanse of Lambeth Bridge. It was high tide, and the river was swollen and dark.

“Anything come up over the weekend?” she asked, placing the dark blue folder on the table.

“Nothing that’s going to keep us here too long. How was your mama?”

“Annoyed that the weather isn’t colder,” said Liz. “She wants some frost to kill the vine weevils.”

“Nothing like a good frost. I hate this running-together of the seasons.” He ran large-jointed fingers through his greying hair. “Six are bringing over someone new, apparently-one of their Pakistan people.”

“Anyone we know?”

“Mackay. Bruno Mackay.”

“And what’s the whisper on Mr. Mackay?”

“He’s an old Harrovian.”

“As in the story of the woman who walks into a room where there are three former public schoolboys. The Etonian asks her if she’d like to sit down, the Wykehamist pulls up a chair, and the Harrovian…”

“… sits on it,” said Wetherby with a pale smile. “Exactly.”

Liz turned back to the river, grateful that she had a superior officer with whom she could enjoy such exchanges. On the far side of the Thames she could see the rain-darkened walls of Lambeth Palace. Did Wetherby know about Mark? Almost certainly. He knew pretty much everything else about her.

“I think we finally have a full house,” he murmured, glancing over her shoulder.

MI6 were represented by Geoffrey Fane, their coordinator of counter-terrorist operations, and by the newcomer, Bruno Mackay. Hands were shaken and Wetherby moved smartly across the room to close the doors. A summary of weekend reports from overseas security services lay beside each place.

Mackay was welcomed to Thames House and introduced to the team. The MI6 officer had just returned from Islamabad, Wetherby informed them, where he had been a much-valued deputy head of station.