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far end of the room was open. He went over and played nicely by knocking first. She invited him in and gestured for him to close the door.
    “Care to tell me what you were doing at Wormwood Scrubs this morning?”
    He kept his paranoia in check and tried to reason it out. Mobile phone footprint? Nope — switched off until they were back outside. He hadn’t used a car either. He completed his thinking aloud. “Those new ID cards we got a month ago.”
    She said nothing, but he read her like a book, always had done — between the covers once upon a time.
    “Thomas, I give you a certain latitude with your private life.”
    Judging by her face it was his turn to say something.
    “We all have our secrets.” He didn’t say ‘Bob Peterson’; he didn’t have to.
    She huffed. “Look, if it’s something that might reflect on the team — or the Unit — then I need to know about it.”
    “It doesn’t.”
    She peered over her reading glasses. “Is it connected with Miranda, or Karl?”
    He yielded what he hoped was an inscrutable smile.
    “Thomas,” she said wearily. “I can only protect you if I know what’s going on.”
    An interesting turn of phrase. Protect him from what?
    She took off her glasses and folded them carefully on the desk. “I’ve said what I need to and let’s leave it at that. Fancy a coffee outside?”
    “Sure.” Only right then he wasn’t sure at all.
    They strolled out under the watchful gaze of Ann Crossley. Sometimes he marvelled at how civilised they were together. Christine was an ex, even if it was ancient history. The last interest he’d shown had been purely professional, when he’d found out about her and the very married Bob Peterson. It still made him smile to think how Bob had been transferred from London, with Christine promoted in his place. A good day’s work. Last he heard ‘Uncle’ Bob was back in Southampton with his unsuspecting wife.
    Liverpool Street station was bustling; a swarm of people pouring from the escalators at street level. It would have been a great picture. Christine made a beeline for a carbon copy coffee house — matching decor at every turn and staff who all looked like they deserved something better.
    “My treat.” She reached across him in the queue to pick out pastries and a hint of French perfume grazed his memory.
    “Cappuccino, please,” he said to the pierced lovely behind the counter, who beamed at him when Christine turned her head.
    He carried the tray over to a table, which she brushed with an extra napkin. “So how are you? We haven’t caught up in ages.” She glanced down at her iPhone, resting on the table with her keys.
    “We never catch up ? Why are we here?”
    She adjusted the tray to line up with the table edge. “I’ve been asked . . . that is . . . Sir Peter Carroll has requested I make you available as a courier. Ordinarily I’d assign anyone from the team . . .”
    Logic kicked in. “Only, you want something from him — or your people do?” He wondered why Christine’s friends in the Foreign Office might be taking an interest in the Director General of the SSU.
    She blushed and he warmed to that. The lady still had her scruples.
    “You’re free to say no, of course, after . . . everything.”
    He sipped his coffee and the foam tickled his lips. Everything. The reality had been a lot messier. Six months ago he’d been just another name on the surveillance team. Now he knew that Christine, Ann and Karl had additional allegiances and all were engaged in an intelligence tug-of-war that surfaced from time to time. And as for the great leader himself . . .
    He licked the sprinkles from the rim of the cup. “Tell him I’ll do it,” he promised, because he didn’t have a good enough reason not to. And this way she’d hopefully back off from his prison visits.
    “Thank you, Thomas; I appreciate it. Can you head straight over to Whitehall? He needs you there today.”
    “What about the Benefits Investigation