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Koenig wasn’t in a good place.

It was called the Trafford Centre. It was a shopping mall in Manchester. Koenig hadn’t been in a mall for years. Malls had CCTV. They had security guards who didn’t like people who looked the way Koenig did. More importantly, they had nothing he wanted. But his contact had said to meet in the Trafford Centre.

He chose a coffee shop, one of the smaller chains. The sign outside said, ‘Piping Hot Coffee’s’. It was written in paint, the kind that was supposed to look like chalk. Koenig ignored the misplaced apostrophe and went inside. He was curious to see why piping hot coffee was a big deal. Maybe everywhere else sold warm coffee. Or tepid coffee. Maybe piping hot coffee wasn’t the norm. He ordered a large Americano, black, and a Reuben sandwich. He asked the barista about the piping hot coffee. She stared at him, then said, ‘I hate working here.’

He took a seat near the rear exit and waited for his food. The same barista brought it over. He lifted the lid and grimaced. The sandwich was made with British corned beef, a fatty sludgy mess sold in cans. Looked like cat chow. Nothing like the paper-thin slices of salt-cured brisket they had in Boston. He ate it anyway.

*

His contact was called Rob Miller, and unsurprisingly, given what he did for a living, he was on time. To the second. He slipped into the seat opposite Koenig, picked up a sachet of sugar, and shook it. He tore off the end and emptied it into the black coffee Koenig had waiting for him. He repeated this four times. He had always liked his coffee sweet.

‘You in trouble?’ he said.

‘Not this time.’

‘Heard about that banjo in Texas.’

‘Banjo’ was SAS slang for a fight, used to describe anything from a barroom brawl to a brigade-sized assault. Koenig had met Miller when he’d trained with an SAS sabre squadron. Two months learning breach techniques, two months in the Horn of Africa shadowing radicalised Brits.

‘You did, huh?’ Koenig said.

‘We all did,’ Miller said. ‘Some ex-regiment work for that boss of yours. Jen Draper. They say you went all in.’

‘She’s not my boss.’

‘What is she then?’

‘It’s complicated.’

Miller formed a circle with his left index finger and thumb. Poked his right index finger through it. ‘That kind of complicated?’

‘Worse.’

Miller checked his watch. ‘The missus is getting a present for her sister’s birthday. Says she’ll be ten minutes. Means I have an hour to kill.’ He reached inside his jacket and removed a bulky package. ‘Plenty of time for you to tell me what happened. I’ll talk you through how this thing works afterward. The tech has improved since you were last involved.’

Koenig smiled. Special forces soldiers were the same the world over. Everything had value, nothing was given away. He signalled for two more coffees, then said, ‘It all started when I made the US Marshals’ Most Wanted list . . .’