Charles had read and reread the light taupe piece of paper in front of him. He had turned the page over and looked over his shoulder, to make sure it wasn’t some of his ex colleagues playing a joke.

The piece of paper, well to be clear, the writing on the piece of paper, never changed.

He hadn’t thought of the name on the piece of paper for years, decades in fact. It was a cold memory from the depths of his brain, from his younger days in the mud and horror of the first war. If this was the man who was after him, after all these years, then he was in for the fight of his life.

Charles placed the paper in the burn draw of the desk he was sat at, stood, went to the door and rang the buzzer to be let out. He collected his briefcase, nodded goodbye to the attendant and headed for the exit of MI6.

He hailed a black cab on the street outside and slipping the driver a fresh pound note, told him to step on it.

He needed to speak to Alex urgently, they had fought this man together before.