'Goodman combines traditional elements - the nods to Buchan, Fleming and le Carré - with the topicality of 2020s technology' SUNDAY TIMES
Jamie Tulloch and Sam Li never intended to be spies. Jamie, a former exec at a tech company, found himself caught up in a mission and discovered a taste for the secret world while Sam, a burnt-out corporate lawyer, was unexpectedly talent spotted by MI5. When both are plunged into covert training, they find themselves pitted against each other for their final evaluation - Exercise Red Poacher.
Every year, MI6 trainees must evade capture, infiltrate sensitive sites and report back with the right intel, while their peers at MI5 try to stop them. But things take a sinister turn when they witness the apparent murder of one of their fellow recruits. Is it all part of the exercise? Or is someone trying to weaponise this game of spies into something far more deadly?
Praise for David Goodman:
'If you think you've read every twist in every area of the genre, think again. Our winner has found a new take and delivers it with pace and propulsive storytelling. A Reluctant Spy is a sparkling new entry in the canon, with a vivid and unfamiliar setting as well as a gripping cast of characters. Don't start it last thing at night, or you might miss breakfast." VAL MCDERMID 'A propulsive, intelligent, ripped-from-the-headlines spy novel that's guaranteed to cost you hours of sleep. Highly recommended' DAVID McCLOSKEY 'A gripping debut, perfect for fans of Mick Herron and David McCloskey' THE SUN 'A twisty storyline and convincing action scenes make this a very promising debut' FINANCIAL TIMES 'A twisting, edge-of-your-seat tale of mercenaries, greed, corruption, and espionage' I.S. BERRY 'In the very top tier of espionage fiction' M. W. CRAVEN 'An excellent debut with terrific pace...will grip you to the end' JAMES SWALLOW
Release date:
June 4, 2026
Publisher:
Headline
Print pages:
352
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Rain streaked the windows, smearing the lights of Soho into a kaleidoscope of reds, whites and greens.
‘Would you like one of these? There’s two.’
Jamie’s date looked up from her phone. Pale, even in the soft glow of the restaurant, with long, curling brown hair and green eyes. She gave him a smile and an apologetic squint at the plate of California rolls. Jamie smiled back. His first date since Sofia. He was going to make the best of it.
‘No, thanks. Don’t really like sesame seeds.’
She raised her phone to compose a shot of the pristine salmon maki on the plate between them.
‘So is Charlie short for Charlotte, or . . .’
‘No, just Charlie. Think my dad really wanted a boy. He’s been trying to get me along to the football for years. But it’s so boring.’ She gave him another half-smile.
Finally, some common ground. ‘Hah, yeah. Makes it awkward at parties. Other guys always start in on the football chat, and I’ve got no idea what they’re talking about.’ An awkward chuckle.
Charlie pursed her lips and took a sip of Prosecco. ‘So what’s it you do, then? Profile said something about computers.’
Jamie twisted the napkin in his lap. An instinct he’d thought dormant told him not to reveal too much. The ghost of Terence, Jamie’s one-time handler for the Legends Programme, whispered in his ear.
Operational security, my boy. No attachments. No details. We need you clean and unentangled, when it comes time to make use of your illustrious life story.
Jamie swallowed a California roll nearly whole and wiped his mouth. That was all in the past now. He was no longer living a half-life, ready to loan his identity to an SIS field agent at the drop of a hat. The bargain he’d made with the Legends Programme had been a safety net. A helping hand. In return for living a quiet, limited life real enough to create the footprint a covert agent needed. An empty glove for another man to wear. In the end, that other man had turned out to be a traitor, and it had been Jamie who’d taken the risks. He’d survived, barely, a covert mission he’d never been trained for.
But that was over. He’d said no to continuing, left the Legends Programme. He wasn’t a living placeholder for SIS. He made his own decisions, set his own goals now. His real life, his actual life, was here, now.
In Sushi Joe’s Sushi Circus. At 7 p.m. on a Thursday. With a slightly stale California roll.
He fought the rising urge to talk about Zanzibar, his brief, accidental spying career. How he’d saved lives with his actions, even if they’d been pretty stupid in the moment. But SIS would likely take a dim view of using the Bocharov op as a conversation starter over conveyor-belt sushi.
He took a too-large gulp of his beer.
‘Yeah. Computers. Warehouse systems. I sell them. It’s really quite an interesting jo—’
Charlie was already looking at her phone again. She raised both eyebrows in a parody of concern, then looked up. She drained her drink, then sighed.
‘Listen, really sorry to do this, but I’ve just had a couple of texts. Friend’s having a fight with her boyfriend. Needs moral support, y’know?’
Jamie blinked, the second California roll suspended between his chopsticks. It slipped, thumped into the plate below. Flecks of soy sauce spattered his shirt.
‘Oh, sure. Well, it was nice to meet you, Charlie. Maybe we—’
She was already halfway to the door, breezing past with a light touch to Jamie’s shoulder.
‘Yeah, babes, have a nice weekend, all right?’
Ranelli’s Wine Bar, Square Mile, London
Thursday, 10 June, 2009hrs GMT
Sam’s phone rang just before she crossed the brass-edged threshold of Ranelli’s. When she took her phone out, her mother’s contact picture filled the screen.
‘Fuck,’ she murmured. She was already half an hour late. But she’d worry if Sam didn’t pick up.
‘Hi, Mum, you okay?’
‘Of course I’m okay – why do you ask if I’m okay every time? Are you okay? Still at work, la?’
‘For once, no. Just on my way to meet a friend, actually. Cecilia? You met her at my birthday last year.’
A moment of silence. Sam stepped into the doorway and shook off her umbrella. The interior of Ranelli’s was dimly lit, but she caught sight of Cecilia’s distinctive red hair and gave her a wave. Cecilia waved back and held up a full glass of red wine. Sam pointed at her phone and grimaced.
‘Ah yes, the red-hair lady. Funny one, her. Government worker.’
‘Home Office, yes. We’ve been meaning to catch up for months. I got away early.’
‘Eight o’clock is not early, Samantha. It is good you work hard, nuòmı̌, but I worry. It is not healthy. Body needs sleep. Good food. Not these protein shakes and weightlifting.’
Sam closed her eyes and took a slow breath. Now was not the time to re-run the fight about her gym routine and marriage prospects.
‘Well, if good food is the cure, surely lunch on Sunday will be my first step on the road to recovery?’ she said.
Another moment’s silence. Sam imagined her mother smiling at the flocked wallpaper in her parents’ fourth-floor flat off Streatham High Street. When she spoke again, she couldn’t quite keep the pride out of her voice.
‘This is flattery. I know what you’re doing, Samantha.’
‘Love you, maa mi. But I really do have to go. I’m already late. I’ll see you on Sunday, okay?’
‘Of course, of course, don’t keep the nice girl waiting. Say hello for me. Love you, táo zi.’
Sam rang off, then pushed through the heavy doors. Inside, the air was dense with beer and wine and the jostle of bodies at the bar.
‘So, so sorry,’ she said as she crossed the black-and-white-tiled floor, leaving a light scatter of raindrops in her wake. ‘Bloody deadlines. And my mother says hi.’
Cecilia smiled from behind a large, half-drunk glass of red wine, then pushed a full one across the dark wood table. ‘Bless the wonderful Mrs Li, I wish her hello in return. Also, darling, remind me when you don’t have a deadline?’ An eyeroll behind large, black-framed glasses turned into another smile under red curls.
Sam grimaced and took a long slug of her wine. ‘That’s law for you. Good at your job? Here, have another five briefs.’
Cecilia winced. ‘That’s why I went in-house, darling. Relative pay for the workload, that’s the real metric. And it’s not kicking around obscure points of tax law between interchangeable chinless wonders with the same aftershave. How long now? Four years?’
Sam shook her head. She knew how long it had been to the day. ‘Five.’ Actually, closer to six, but she didn’t want to think about that. ‘I’m just . . . I’m tired. But what’s new with you? Home Office still treating you well?’
Cecilia smiled, then shook her head. ‘You’re not getting off that easily, Li. What do you want, really? I’m pretty sure it’s not the three-bed in Surrey, husband called Rupert and leased BMW you’re currently barrelling towards.’
Sam bit her lip and stared at the scored wood of the bar table. That was the thing with Cecilia. She went right for the jugular. And she was right. Sam wanted something different. She’d need to be a few glasses of wine deep before she’d say it, though.
Instead, she waved the full glass she already had. ‘Figured I’d earn enough money to have a corporate meltdown and take up artisanal cheesemaking in the Cotswolds. Run a B&B. Yoga retreats.’
Cecilia snorted. ‘Don’t avoid the question.’
Something in her friend’s eyes cut through the deflection. An expectation of truth. She put her wine glass down.
‘I’d— I’d do something that meant something. I’ve got a good brain, when I’m not cross-eyed from sleep deprivation. But I feel . . . empty. Like I’m burning time and energy I won’t get back.’
Cecilia gave a short, sharp nod. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet. South Bank, tomorrow, 7 p.m. A . . . colleague of mine.’
Sam looked up from her drink. ‘At the Home Office? I’m really not sure—’
‘Just . . . meet her? For me? For all those times you copied my jurisprudence notes? I’ll even buy dinner tonight. One thing I can promise you is that it’s a very different role. Something I think you’d thrive in. One with real . . . purpose.’
Sam smiled, the waver of uncertainty quashed by her friend’s smile. She thought about the LED strip lights of her office, where she’d normally still be. The one thing she absolutely would not find in that place was a sense of purpose. ‘Okay, I think I can do that.’
‘Excellent.’ Cecilia grinned and motioned towards the bar. ‘But before we head to our dinner reservation, I think we can squeeze in another round.’
Room 307, Hotel Royal International, Antalya, Turkey
Thursday, 10 June, 2137hrs (GMT+3)
Nicola Ellis tapped a pen on the map. ‘Looks good. First time on a cold extract with one of our operatives?’
Outside, a moped rose in pitch as it passed. A burst of laughter floated up from the restaurant below. Nicola looked up after a beat of silence.
Alistair Lethridge, SIS field handler on Op GLIMMER, leaned back in an easy chair, a notebook on his knee. He was twenty-eight years old, dressed like every other slightly sunburned English tourist in Turkey’s biggest coastal resort town.
‘First time doing it with a Legends operative,’ he said. ‘Not the first time running an extract op.’
Nicola ignored the minor barb and traced her finger across Antalya’s old bazaar, a complex maze of twisting alleyways and steep stairways.
‘Well, this is the first outing for Operative GLIMMER. Anna Larkin, field-cleared and experienced. She’s paired with a Legend, Rosalie Cooper, a private bank relationship manager brought in to handle Zhao’s new accounts in London. The Zhao liaisons have been talking to Rosalie for months by email, but now they’re meeting Anna in person. Zhao’s core group is paranoid. No phones on the yacht. Armed bodyguards. So this extract has to be seamless.’
‘I thought these Legends spent years in role before you activated them?’ said Lethridge, squinting at the harbour, estimating distances.
‘GLIMMER is an experiment. She’s been paired with her Legend for less than two years. Early and often is the plan now.’
Lethridge looked up. ‘You think she’s up to it?’
Nicola remembered her own fluttering uncertainty when she’d floated the idea. Jeremy took some convincing. But Lethridge didn’t need to know that.
‘Anna has four years of other field ops under her belt. Plus, her Legend Rosalie already has a surprising level of access. Firms like this regularly put twenty-somethings right in the middle of sensitive engagements. Even when they’re dealing with the moneymen for the CCP.’
‘Will they have Guóānbù minders?’ Lethridge asked. ‘We could lengthen the CSR if we think that’s likely.’
Nicola tapped her pen against her lip, thinking about the few times she’d encountered China’s Ministry of State Security, which had mostly been in Africa, in dusty compounds and haunting the streets around Chinese consulates across the region. Their street teams could be effective, especially if they worked with locals. She surveyed the length of the Counter Surveillance Route marked on the map in front of her. On the short side, for most cities. But the Guóānbù would be on unfamiliar ground too.
She shrugged. ‘Possibly. But there’s plenty of corners and cut-outs in the bazaar. And GLIMMER knows her business. How many street crew do you have?’
‘Two. Locals. Are you purely observing, or can we make use of you? Chinese and Russian minders tend to underestimate women. Maybe you can make the pass?’
A brief twinge of unease. How rusty was she? ‘Best not. Your call who makes the pass. I can tail-end or front-run depending on direction. Maybe sit on the third location as back up.’
‘Got it,’ said Lethridge. ‘We’ll get my guys in here for a brief in the morning, then start the CSR tomorrow afternoon. Three hours should do it. They could have local assets of their own, but we haven’t seen that.’
Nicola flexed her hands. This wasn’t her patch, or her op, not anymore. She had to trust that Lethridge knew the country, and his job, as well as she’d known hers.
She nodded. ‘Good. Let’s keep it that way. Clean and quiet.’
Tacitech Plc, Old Street, London
Friday, 11 June, 0902hrs GMT
‘Morning, team, how are we all?’
A collection of groans rose from the group.
‘Excellent, excellent. You know the drill: let’s have your updates. Since it’s Friday, let’s try and get some energy, okay?’ Joseph Briarley, a man who gloried in the job title of ‘scrum master’, thanks to the company’s recent adoption of a new software development methodology, stood at the centre of a rough semicircle of Tacitech Plc’s finest, poised in expectation.
As he did most mornings, Jamie remembered a different kind of status meeting: his operational briefing in the guesthouse in Stone Town. The slow beat of the fan above the bed. The covert surveillance equipment laid out on the bed. Graeme Sylvan watching silently from his spot beside the window. Jamie’s heart thrumming as he listened to what Nicola was asking him to do. He’d never paid more attention to anything in his life. He’d been a Legend, never supposed to be anywhere near an operational mission. But circumstance and the bloody murder of his handler had put him in the operational hot seat. And he’d risen to the challenge. Every sense attuned to danger, every nerve ending firing.
By contrast, this morning’s updates went around the stand-up circle with a lethargy and predictability that felt like wading through treacle.
I’m working on a thing, but waiting for another thing. Can we confirm with the team who manages things whether the other thing will be ready before we need to do the thing?
Briarley pivoted, nodding theatrically. With each update he slapped sticky notes on to the board behind him with a little gasp of satisfaction, apparently immensely enjoying himself.
‘Aaaannnd, sales! What’s new in sales, Mr Tulloch, the man, the myth, the legend.’
Jamie’s eyes darted from one side of the circle to the other. ‘Uhh, four new leads this week. Might need new integration work on the scanning modules.’
More low groans from the techies. One of the testers blinked rapidly and sniffed.
‘Right, right, something for the prioritisation session later, Jamie, thank you. Any blockers? Any issues?’
Jamie looked down at his shoes and suppressed a sigh. ‘No, no blockers. No issues.’
South Bank Centre, London
Friday, 11 June, 1900hrs GMT
The woman waiting for her, shaded by trees outside the modernist bulk of the Royal Festival Hall, was in her early fifties. Pale skin, dark brown hair pulled back in a short ponytail. If Sam had passed her on the Underground she wouldn’t have looked twice. Senior operations manager of something or other. Dedicated career woman who also somehow found time for Pilates.
Two others shared the flat concrete bench, spaced just close enough to discourage anyone else. Mid-twenties, a man and a woman in jeans and light jackets. They had a certain watchfulness that matched the older woman’s.
‘Sam? It is Sam, correct?’ the woman said, indicating the bench beside her.
‘That’s right, unless you’re my parents.’
The day still had plenty of light in it, couples and families and gaggles of tourists strolling by the riverside. In the distance Sam heard the scrape and clatter of the skate park under Queen Elizabeth Hall.
‘You can call me Deborah, for now. Not my real name, which is an indication of who I might be.’
Sam huffed lightly in surprise. Whatever she’d expected, it hadn’t been this. She looked at the other two. ‘Should we . . .’
‘Oh, don’t worry, they’re with me.’
‘So is Cecilia . . .’
‘One of mine? Can’t confirm that. But she has a knack for talent-spotting. Her friendship with you is genuine, in case you’re worried about that.’
Sam felt herself reassured by the words, even as she picked them apart. ‘You’d tell me that even if it wasn’t true.’
Deborah’s eyes widened slightly, then she smiled. ‘Lying is part of the job. But that doesn’t mean everything is a lie.’
‘So, you’re a recruiter?’
Deborah shook her head. ‘Not usually. But I’m doing a little talent-spotting myself, for something new.’
‘So this is an interview?’
‘Not quite. Plenty of those later, if you’re interested. This is more of . . . an introduction.’
Sam turned to face Deborah. ‘I’m a corporate lawyer. I don’t really understand why you’re asking me.’
Deborah gazed out over the Thames. A tourist boat carved a lazy arc towards Festival Pier.
‘Cecilia believes you want something more. Something meaningful. So, I’m here to ask you a question, Sam. Are you prepared to serve your country?’
Old Town Bazaar, Antalya, Turkey
Friday, 11 June, 2200hrs (GMT+3)
‘Bravo Actual, AEGIS, eyes on . . .’ said Nicola, before releasing the transmit switch and adding ‘. . . fucking finally,’ under her breath. Sun-blocking tarpaulins rippled slowly overhead, lit by lamps lining the narrow, twisting street. It gave everything a strange, subaqueous quality, light moving in slow waves with the breeze. Nicola peered past the loud party of Germans on the next table, working their way through plates of meze and bottles of Efes beer.
‘Bravo One, negative on last brush pass,’ said Kemal, one of Lethridge’s locals.
Nicola straightened her back a little. Her turn. ‘AEGIS, moving internal,’ she said, picking up her handbag. The extendable baton inside clinked against her water bottle.
Inside, her waiter bowed and pointed upstairs. ‘Bathrooms, madame? Through to the back and up the stairs. After, you wish your bill?’
‘Yes, please,’ Nicola said brightly. ‘Early night, I think.’ She let her eyes drift to the Germans, who were cheering as another waiter emerged with a fresh tray of Efes.
The man gave her a knowing smile. ‘Very wise. Please pay on your way out.’
There were a few couples at low tables lit with candles, silk flowers wreathed along polished roof beams. A bar clad in dark wood to the right. At the back, a narrow, right-angled staircase.
‘Confirmed, they’re going inside,’ said Lethridge. ‘AEGIS, you’re up.’
Upstairs, two bathroom doors stood open. She picked the left. As she closed the door, Nicola heard the distinctive cadences of Mandarin Chinese as the group climbed the stairs.
The voices faded as the group filed into one of the private dining rooms. A burst of laughter; an opening door; low, apologetic English.
‘Too much coffee. I’ll be just a moment. No, no need for an escort, they’re just here, see. Okay, great. Okay.’
Two knocks. A beat. Another knock. Pulse drumming steadily, Nicola opened it.
Operative GLIMMER slipped inside. She was in her mid-twenties, a slim, athletic blonde in a silk cocktail dress, a tiny Gucci bag dangling from one hand.
‘Exeter,’ she said softly, eyes wide, taking in Nicola with a single swift up-and-down glance. They’d never met, usually operating through cut-outs and field handlers. Like Nicola had been, once.
‘Gloucester,’ said Nicola.
GLIMMER leaned in close, voice barely a whisper. Nicola could smell coffee and whisky, mixed. ‘I got a dump from the server on the boat. Air-gapped, like we thought. Too much for a full download, but I got the plaintext.’
GLIMMER unzipped her Gucci. Two tiny USB-C sticks tumbled out into her palm.
‘Don’t think I’ll be able to do much more. They’re watching me like fucking hawks,’ she murmured.
Nicola nodded, tucking the USB sticks into her own bag. ‘Well done. Carry on to extract as planned, three days fr—’
They both froze at the sound of footsteps. Then a single, loud knock on the bathroom door.
‘Miss Cooper?’ said a deep, suspicious voice.
Dalling Road, Hammersmith, London
Friday, 11 June, 1903hrs GMT
Not for the first time, Jamie half wished he’d taken up smoking as a younger man. On clear, quiet nights like this, with the distant sounds of traffic and music from Goldhawk Road, he’d have given anything for something to do with his hands. As it was, he sat in the open window and fidgeted.
He’d been thinking about going out to a pub, alone, for the last hour, but instead ordered a takeaway on his phone. A Thai place he hadn’t tried before. Jamie sighed. Excitement was just absolutely coursing through every cell of his body at the prospect.
When the food came, it was lukewarm and a little bland. Jamie managed to splash sauce on his T-shirt. Bad luck with sauces and shirts recently.
He sat at the window again. The city mumbled, a constant beat of Tube trains, buses, distant sirens. Jamie wondered how many other people were sitting at their own windows across the city. Most, new to London, were probably ten or fifteen years his junior. They’d go out, make friends, find their place in this city.
Somehow that felt impossible.
For a brief moment, right after Zanzibar, he’d felt like a different person. He’d met someone at a gym he’d rashly signed up for. Sofia, thirty-two, a Londoner with a huge Italian family he’d been looking forward to meeting. They’d enjoyed a brief and intoxicating relationship as spring flowers filled the parks.
Then things foundered. The Legends Programme had left a ten-year gap in his life. No close relationships, or even friendships. A long, dull, lonely blank spot on the map of his existence. And his accidental sojourn on Zanzibar as an untrained, terrified covert operative was strictly off limits.
He left long silences where there should have been mutual trust. He began to doubt that he deserved a woman like Sofia. The relationship died an undignified death when she got a promotion requiring a year in Paris. They both realised the relationship wouldn’t survive the separation of the English Channel. There were tears, but not many.
Jamie rubbed his forehead. He had a hollowness inside that made him want to scream.
‘Christ,’ he muttered, then felt for his wallet. His fingers went to the card, as they’d done six times in the past month. The edge was curved slightly, rubbed down and stained by the leather of his wallet. He pulled it out. A single phone number, written in blue biro.
South Bank
Friday, 11 June, 1904hrs GMT
Sam was no stranger to elliptical discussions. She worked in corporate law. But eventually, at the office, it ended up written down, made clear, spelled out for the court.
Eventually she asked the only question that actually mattered.
‘What . . . would happen next?’
‘Interviews. Background checks. Your family history, with Hong Kong and the CCP links your great-grandfather had, means vetting might be a little deeper than usual.’
A ripple of disquiet. ‘I’m sorry, what?’
‘Your great-grandfather was briefly part of Mao’s CCP, before defecting to Hong Kong. Our cousins across the Thames kept an eye on him for nearly twenty years, until the handover. Nothing to indicate a change of heart, or covert motives. But it still warrants a little extra caution.’
Sam pushed down a burst of anger. At this woman and the service she represented. At her own family. At her zuyeye, who had died when she was barely six. How could that old man, in his singlet, laughing as he smoked out of the window of his thirty-second-floor apartment, have been under surveillance by MI6? What else had her parents not told her?
There were going to be some pointed questions at lunch on Sunday, that was for sure.
Deborah watched her carefully. ‘Families. Full of secrets. Yours is no exception.’
Antalya
Friday, 11 June, 2206hrs (GMT+3)
GLIMMER froze for a heartbeat, then recovered admirably.
‘Christ, what is it? Can’t a girl piss in peace for five minutes?’ she snarled.
Mortified silence from the other side of the door, then two footsteps as the guard moved back. ‘My apologies, Miss Cooper. Just doing my job.’ Italian, judging by the accent.
Nicola got behind the door, then motioned to the toilet and the sink. She spun her hand in the air, hoping GLIMMER would understand.
Draw it out. Make it real.
GLIMMER sat down on the closed toilet, coughed, pulled off a few sheets of toilet paper, flushed them, washed and dried her hands. She gave Nicola a long, searching look.
Nicola nodded.
Go for it. Get out of here.
GLIMMER unlocked the door and went out in a rush of flying hair and loud sighs. ‘Honestly, Giovanni, I know you’ve got your orders, but it’s really quite undignified.’
‘Of course, miss, I apologise. As you say, orders.’
Nicola waited, perfectly still, barely breathing, tucked behind the open door. She wrapped her hand around the baton in her bag. Tight quarters, against trained security. Throat, if she could manage it, bridge of the nose, tips of the ears. Anything that would result in blinding pain. Her mouth filled with saliva and her stomach tightened.
Three more footsteps, then Giovanni’s bulk loomed in the bathroom doorway. He took another step forward and she saw the side of his face, reflected in a sliver of bathroom mirror. Watchful tension radiated from him.
Don’t look right. Don’t look right.
GLIMMER spoke, very close. The operative let a little of the Essex comprehensive school accent bleed through the usual City facade.
‘You gonna check the colour of my piss, Giovanni? Too late, mate, I already flushed it.’
He stiffened, then cleared his throat. ‘Of course not. Please, this way, miss. They wish to order and we’re holding things up.’
GLIMMER let out a quiet laugh, the hard edge gone as quickly as it had arrived. ‘Only teasing, Gio. Come on. I could murder some gözleme.’
Footsteps. Closing door. Silence. Then a burst of muted laughter from inside the room. Nicola let out a breath, long and slow.
Go. Go now.
Friday, 11 June, 1904hrs GMT
He stared at the number on the card. Nicola’s handwriting. They’d met twice since Zanzibar. The first time, she’d given him this card. The second was the funeral for Terence, Jamie’s former case officer. Jamie tried hard to remember him in his coffin, neat as a pin in a tweed suit, rather than the broken, bloodstained ragdoll he’d discovered in the bathroom at Charles de Gaulle. As the first handfuls of soil dropped into the grave, he’d locked eyes with Nicola through the thick ranks of black-clad mourners. For a denizen of the secret world, Terence had a lot of friends.
At the wake, held in a packed South London pub, they talked about her new life. She smiled as she described Rachael, their half-renovated flat, adjusting to the city, to commuting. Genuine happiness there, tempered by the certainty that her life had fundamentally changed. She shrugged.
‘I’m alive, with a couple of new holes in me. Waking up in the same bed every day is . . . well, it’s good for me. Might get the odd field trip. Keep my hand in. But I’m not a field handler anymore. Time for something new.’
When she asked him how he was doing, he’d been full of the joys of spring, talking about Sofia, how well things were going at work. She’d hugged him when he le. . .
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