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Koenig was the second person off the plane. He’d slept the entire flight and had woken hungry. He waited for Draper to disembark. It was fifteen minutes before she was able to join him. She looked exhausted, like she needed matchsticks to keep her eyes open. Economy clearly hadn’t agreed with her.

‘Hey there, sleepyhead,’ he said.

She told him to perform a sex act on himself. Rude.

They made their way to passport control. The uniformed Brit behind the Perspex screen scanned their passports, then waved them through without playing twenty questions. Either he’d been expecting them, or the UK Border Agency were under instructions not to delay diplomats, however unkempt they looked. Neither of them had checked luggage, so they headed straight to the arrivals concourse.

A woman was holding a printed bk she won’t want to waste that time.’

Which she didn’t. Instead of introducing herself, Bernice said, ‘The diplomatic pouch arrived three hours ago, Mr Koenig. We’ll talk in the car, and I have a briefing prepared back at Nine Elms.’

She led them to a Mercedes in short-term parking and threw Draper’s hand luggage in the trunk. She slipped into the London traffic and eased past a truck with ‘Sainsbury’s’ written on the side. It was a garish orange and yellow and white. Koenig couldn’t tell if it was transporting groceries or circus animals. He glanced at the Merc’s dash. The temperature gauge said it was below freezing. He’d have to buy more clothes at some point. He looked up at the low grey clouds and the permadrizzle, at the early commuters and their umbrellas. And maybe a hat, he thought.

‘Damn,’ Bernice said, glancing in the rearview mirror. ‘I’ve picked up a pigtail.’

‘I’m not familiar . . .’ Draper said.

‘Scotland Yard know about you. It’s always a risk when I drive myself. They sometimes put a car on me, see if I’m going somewhere interesting. I thought I’d gotten away with it this morning. It’s early and I’m in my assistant’s car. Probably playing silly buggers because our guys got their guys to quash the Speakers’ Corner investigation. They’ll be running your photographs now.’

‘Can you sort that?’ Koenig asked. ‘I can do without the distraction of bounty hunters right now.’

‘Leave it with me,’ Bernice said.

‘They know who you really are then?’

‘Everyone who needs to does. It’s sort of a given that we keep an eye on each other. It’s what allies do. Stops us falling out. And you can’t come here as an official CIA asset, not if you want to get anything done. The cultural attaché role gives everyone the cover they need to let me get on with the job.’

‘Which is?’ Koenig asked.

‘Liaise with the British security services, mainly. Bit of other stuff I won’t go into. Plus, as cultural attaché, I do get invited to some cool shit. I was in Stratford-upon-Avon last night. Guest of honour at the Royal Shakespeare Company’s All’s Well .’

‘I prefer movies.’

‘I know,’ Bernice said. ‘I believe you had quite the collection of Super 8s.’

‘I still do, I think,’ Koenig replied, unsurprised at the depth of Bernice’s knowledge. ‘A friend of mine put them in storage for me. Who knows, maybe I’ll get to go home and watch them one day.’

‘I gather there was some trouble stateside before you left,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘Had a run-in with some naughty cops.’

‘That’s putting it mildly,’ Draper snorted. ‘He killed one, blinded one and disfigured one.’

‘So I heard. The one you blinded is in an irreversible coma, I’m told. They’ll be turning off the machine soon.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ Koenig said. He thought about it, then decided he didn’t care. They were going to take him to a man who skinned people alive. It was a pity he hadn’t killed them all.

‘And the East Coast Sweeney, long on rumour, short on facts, now officially exists. I understand the FBI are putting a task force together this week. Seems like you did some good yesterday.’

Koenig looked out of the window, stared into the cold fog of a London dawn. ‘I just wanted to be left alone,’ he said.