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fourth floor. “Tell me,” said Liz, “who is that man Tom? I’ve never seen him before. Is he new?”
    â€œTom Dartmouth,” said Dave. “And no, he’s not new. He’s been in Pakistan—got seconded to MI6 there after 9/11, poor bugger. He’s an Arabic speaker. I should have introduced you but I didn’t realise you didn’t know him. I suppose he came back while you were off sick. You’ll like him; he’s a nice bloke. Knows his onions.”
    He looked at Liz for a moment, then slowly a smile came over his face. He poked her playfully with an elbow. “Don’t get excited now. I’m told there’s a Mrs. Dartmouth.”
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous,” said Liz. “You’ve got a one-track mind.”

5
    W alking down the corridor to see Wetherby, Liz felt a mix of trepidation and anticipation. She had seen him only briefly since returning to work, when he had come out to greet her on the first morning, then had to rush off for a meeting in Whitehall. She was very disappointed but in her heart of hearts not surprised that he had returned Marzipan to Dave Armstrong’s control, but she hoped that he would have something else equally important for her. Goodness knows, there seemed enough to do—one of the old hands in Counter-Terrorism had said the day before that even at the height of the IRA bombings in London, life at Thames House had not been so frantic.
    Wetherby was standing at his desk when she came into the room. As he motioned for her to sit down, she thought not for the first time how little she really knew about the man. With his neatly pressed suit and polished Oxfords, he would merge easily with any group of well-dressed men. But a close observer would have noticed his eyes. Set in his unremarkable, slightly uneven features, they had a quiet watchfulness which could turn suddenly to humour or to coldness. Some people misread his apparently mild demeanour, but Liz knew from experience that a penetrating intelligence and determination lay behind the gentle appearance of the man. On her good days Liz knew she was important to him, and not just because of her skill as an investigator. But this professional relationship remained cool, and pervaded by a subtle irony, as if they knew each other better in some other life.
    Wetherby said, “I had an Irish nanny when I was a boy, who used to ask me, after any upset, if I was feeling ‘well within myself.’ Funny expression, but apt. How about you?”
    He was smiling but watchful, and she looked him in the eye when she replied, “You honestly don’t need to worry about me.”
    â€œI hear you’ve been down with your mama. She well?”
    â€œYes, she’s fine. Worried about what the lack of rain will do to the young shrubs.” Liz paused, then asked politely. “And how is Joanne? Any better?” Wetherby’s wife suffered from a debilitating blood disease, which had made her a permanent semi-invalid. Liz thought how odd it was that he always enquired about her mother and she after his wife—without either ever having set eyes on the object of their concern.
    â€œNot really,” said Wetherby with a frown and a slight shake of his head, as if to dismiss the unwelcome thought and move on. “I wanted to see you because I’ve got an assignment for you.”
    â€œTo do with this operation?” she asked hopefully.
    â€œNot exactly,” said Wetherby. “Though I want you to stay in the section and keep involved while you work on this. It’s a supplementary assignment, if you like, though it’s important.”
    What could be more important than an imminent suicide attack in Britain? Suddenly she wondered if she was being demoted; it seemed the only explanation.
    â€œDoes the name Sean Keaney mean anything to you?”
    Liz thought for a moment. “The IRA man? Of course. But isn’t he