Max took out the card again and paused over that penultimate line: Dry-clean thoroughly. It was spy speak for counter-surveillance, shrugging off a watcher.

Samson Syndrome. It was the spy’s equivalent of the mid-life crisis. The most famous case was the MI5 officer Michael Bettaney who was convicted of spying for the KGB in the eighties. The cause? Not buying a train ticket. Because he was caught fare-dodging, Bettaney knew he would fail his next security review; failing the review would lead to his d

‘The sun has gone over the yardarm,’

Nothing went in print for a politician unless it was iron-clad.

The first twenty years of life, he was starting to realize, were all external. Spots, grease, hormones – the bumpy ride to adulthood. The next twenty were all internal, far more difficult to catch.

‘You’ve given your life to a cause,’ said Aunt Maria. ‘The cause has given nothing back. A life is to be lived. Forget the world. Think for yourself. I’ve lived with regrets, but I don’t want to die with them too.’

Max maintained eye contact. For the first time in years, he felt fully alive. There was something magnetic about trying to outwit an opponent, using every ounce of intelligence to create a real-world effect.

According to the papers, he had unwittingly committed the cardinal sin of being pale, male and stale. None of the above seemed likely to change in the immediate future.

The secret war, the scientific struggle, depended on that. Spying was a performance and the costume, the voice, the initial entrance were as vital as the lines themselves.