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in simple loose-fitting trousers and a shirt with a jacket over the top.
    There was one other man. Pope knew him, too. His name was Vivian Bloom. He was the permanent liaison between the Firm and the Government. He had briefly been the sub-rector of Lincoln College, Oxford, and his previous profession was the reason for the nickname by which he was most commonly referred to within the Firm : The Reverend. Bloom must have been in his late seventies and had held on to his position through dint of the knowledge he had acquired over the course of his long career and, Pope assumed, the secrets he held over those who might otherwise have ushered him into his dotage. He had cut his teeth during the Cold War, and his successful work in recruiting agents at Berlin Station was legendary. Pope wondered how he liked this new world, where the monolithic Soviet enemy had been replaced by a myriad of asymmetric threats.
    Bloom was plain and average, very much the archetypal bachelor don, remarkable only for his dreadful dress sense. He dressed like a man with a modest budget but no taste whatsoever. His suit was a little too baggy for him around the shoulders and waist, cinched in with a leather belt. His shirt had been washed too many times, the collar turning inwards and fraying at the tips. His top button was undone, and his tie looked as if it had been knotted by a child. He managed his terrible eyesight with a pair of thickly-lensed spectacles that had the effect of magnifying his pupils. He was pudgy and red cheeked, and his thin hair was cut short to his scalp, as if he couldn’t be bothered with anything that would have required more than an occasional wash.
    Cheetham cleared her throat. ‘Thank you for coming, Captain Pope. And these are Sergeants McNair and Snow?’
    ‘That’s right. Agents Three and Twelve.’
    ‘Thank you for coming, gentlemen.’
    Snow nodded but didn’t speak. McNair grunted.
    ‘We’ve been briefed by Benjamin,’ she said. ‘But we wanted to speak to you before we reach a conclusion.’
    The atmosphere in the room was tense, and Pope got the feeling that a decision had already been made. This, he worried, was just window dressing. An attempt to give the impression that a thorough enquiry had been undertaken. An exercise to provide the justification for the course of action that would follow.
    ‘Of course, ma’am,’ he said.
    ‘Bit of a mess, wasn’t it, Captain?’

Chapter Seven
    P ope rehashed the events of that day with as much detail as he thought prudent. He was honest and forthcoming, and when he was finished, he answered their questions candidly. The tone in the room was aggressive and did nothing to dissuade Pope from his initial assessment that blame had already been assigned.
    ‘Sergeant Snow,’ the home secretary said, ‘what can you tell us?’
    ‘Captain Pope has set it all out, ma’am. I agree with everything he has said.’
    ‘Yes, Sergeant,’ Stone said. ‘Of course, you would say that.’
    Pope looked at the chief. He answered to the spook and did not hold him in high regard. His experience suggested that he was a self-serving career civil servant who would not hesitate to throw him under the bus if he thought it was to his advantage to do so. He was, Pope knew, an especially cunning man, and he did not like the way that Chief Stone was regarding Snow.
    Stone gestured to include all of them in his next comment. ‘The police tell the story very differently. They say that they aborted the opera tion between the time that you entered the station at ground level and the time you reached the platform. The commander has testified to us that she told you that the target was not a suspect and that you should stand down.’
    ‘That’s not true,’ Snow said with sudden heat.
    ‘How can you say that, Sergeant?’
    ‘I—’
    ‘When was this communicated?’ Pope asked, intervening before Snow could lose his temper.
    ‘The radio log records it at 7.48 p.m. The message