New lighting was installed, and a wall of potted palms appeared behind the desk, leased from and tended by an enterprising and thoroughly vetted firm of horticulturalists which provided plant life for half the offices in the City. John, who would have hated all this, was long gone by this time. His replacement, another former Special Branch officer, lasted about a year, and then the department recruited the first in a long line of cheerful, efficient young women to staff the front office. A little box appeared on the desk, for staff to touch their identity cards in and out and save them the bother of signing a register. And then, in a final burst of activity a couple of years ago, the veneer on the walls had been peeled off and replaced with translucent blue edge-lit glass panels, marble tiling was laid on the floor, the palms were removed and a long planter of indoor ferns brought in, and a glass and metal security gate not unlike the ticket gates on the Underground installed between reception and the short corridor that led into the building.

  The old glass desk had also been retired. Now there was something that looked like a decorator’s pasting table, but made of polished teak. On it sat a little computer monitor and a combination telephone/ comms centre with more buttons than the cockpit of an airliner, and behind it in a complicated-looking and ergonomic chair, sat the latest receptionist. She was brown-haired and neatly suited, and she had joined the office around the time Michael’s life began to go out of shape, and he hadn’t had time to commit her name to memory. Alice? Angela? They’d exchanged a few polite words, but they were strangers. Held under the table by clips were a couple of flash-bangs and a taser, in case of emergencies. Nobody was seriously expecting an emergency, but the weapons came with the office’s status. Back in the late 1930s the War Office had requisitioned a bewildering range of properties for various uses, and they didn’t give them all back after VJ Day. No one knew what the office had been used for back then, but it came with a firearms requirement and none of its subsequent residents had ever seen the need to give that up. Rob, Michael’s line manager, kept a Glock in his desk; he’d shown it to him one afternoon during a terminally dull discussion of Estonian banking data.

  With the firearms requirement came mandatory firearms training. Michael remembered a day’s small-arms instruction at Aldershot that had left him with aching wrists, a stamped certification, and the words of the instructor ringing in his ears. “We mustn’t be glum, sir, not everyone suits a sidearm. Have we perhaps thought of trying a shotgun?”

  Well, quite.

  As he waited on one of the comfy seats against one wall of the reception area, it occurred to him that he had never really spent much time here. He’d only ever passed through, going in or out of the building. It felt strange to be sitting here; there was that weird sense of déjà vu again, that feeling of it being simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar. Alice/Angela kept glancing over at him, as well she might. From her point of view, he had never left the building. She’d seen him arrive one morning five months ago, and after he’d become unmoored in Rob’s office on the third floor he’d been sedated and then taken out through the back of the building and put in a van waiting on Hanway Place. As far as she was concerned, he’d simply vanished, logged in and never logged out again, as if he’d been swallowed by the building. He wondered, for the first time, what the office gossip about him was like, and found himself settling into a very English cringe on his seat.

  “Mister Brookes?”

  Michael looked round, saw a young man standing on the other side of the security gate. “Yes?”

  “You’re here to see HR?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hi, I’m James. I’ll show you upstairs.”

  Michael got up. “I know the way.”

  “Sorry,” James said. “Rules.” He touched his pass to the reader on the gate to let Michael through.

  When Michael arrived at the department, HR had been called Personnel, and they had consisted of a crabby old lady named Meg who occupied a pokey little office on the ground floor at the back of the building. It was Meg to whom you submitted your expenses and your holiday dates, and Meg who issued stationery supplies. She organised flights and hotels for staff visiting overseas offices, and she kept, in a row of scratched and dusty filing cabinets, files on every member of staff employed by the office for at least the past twenty years. There had been a running joke that without Meg the entire department would be unable to function. And then Meg had simply not been there one day. Found dead by her sister, rumour had it, in her little flat in Wood Green, her cat starved half to death while it sat beside her waiting to be fed.

  The office did not seize up, but a hurricane of change did blow through it, presaged by the arrival of a team of consultants, four men with an officer-class look to them, who set up shop in a spare office on the third floor and ignored the staff for six weeks before departing again.

  The result of their labours was that Meg’s empire was split up and a whole new management tree planted. New departments dealing with Travel and Office Supplies appeared. Expenses and Office Maintenance were wholly subsumed into Finance. And Meg’s filing cabinets fell into the hands of a new Human Resources department.

  HR arrived one day in the earthly form of Martine, who favoured charcoal-grey business suits and pale blue silk shirts and a sniper’s stare. With her came a staff of five, and although it was never quite explained what they all did, or why it took six of them to fulfil a role which Meg had ably – if not contentedly – managed to carry out on her own for many years, it was clear the old Personnel office was too small for them all, so they were promoted upward through the building to the top floor, where a suite of offices next door to the little-used Conference Room had lain empty for as long as anyone could remember.

  Teams of cleaners and decorators were brought in to make the offices habitable, and a great deal of flat-pack furniture and almost two dozen brand new filing cabinets with digital combination locks went up in the lifts. When the refurbishment was over only the HR staff, to anyone’s knowledge, ever entered the offices again.

  In the years that followed, although the department experienced the kind of churn familiar to any office environment, the personnel of the HR department remained unchanged. Sightings were few and far between, except in times of crisis, when they made their presence known like a band of bureaucratic Furies.

  James led him from the lift to the door of the Conference Room, knocked, then opened it without waiting for a reply. Inside, Martine was sitting at the head of a long oval mahogany table, a stack of folders in front of her.

  “Mike,” she said without getting up. “Hello.”

  In a moment of weakness some years ago, Michael had confided to Martine that he disliked being called ‘Mike’. He said, “Hello.”

  Martine waved at the other end of the table, where a notepad, ballpoint pen, glass and carafe of water had been set in front of the only other chair in the room. “Have a seat.”

  Michael sat and looked at Martine down the polished expanse of the table. She studied a folder open in front of her. “How are we doing?” she asked without looking at him.

  “We’re doing all right,” he said.

  “Sure about that? Still taking the pills? Fully engaged with the outside world again? No more temper tantrums?”

  “All of those,” he said.

  She glanced at him, went back to the folder. “It’s been decided to waive disciplinary procedures,” she said.

  “Okay.” He hadn’t been aware that disciplinary procedures were even being considered. Just how bad had his Bad Moment actually been?

  Martine turned a page in the file. “Wouldn’t be appropriate,” she said. “And it would leave us open to an unfair dismissal claim.”

  “That would be bad,” he agreed.

  She looked at him. “Do I detect a return of the famous Brookes deadpan humour?”

  “I don’t know,” he told her. “I can’t remember.”

  “It’s a promising sign, whatever,” she said, returning her attention to the file and making a notation with a silver propelling pencil. “Not that you’d do that anyway,” she added. “A team player, that’s our Mike. Loyal to a fault.”

  His memory was still littered with blank areas, like blind spots, places that disappeared if he looked directly at them, and he found that this was one. Was he a team player? Was he loyal? No more or less than anyone else, he thought, but he couldn’t be sure.

  “Still,” she said, laying down her pencil and looking at him. “There’s the question of what to do with you, isn’t there.”

  “I rather thought I’d come back to work, when I was well enough,” he said. “If I was well enough.”

  “Retirement’s always an option,” she told him. She closed the folder, set it aside, opened another one. “Pension pot’s not spectacular, but that’s the civil service for you.” She took out a sheet of paper and looked at it. “Mortgage is paid off, no other big debts. Ought to last you well into your twilight years.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “We could put some consulting work your way, if you want to keep busy, or even find you something in academia, if you’re that way inclined. Although I can’t promise it would be in the Home Counties, so you might have to move.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “am I being made redundant?”

  Martine shook her head. “Not at all. Just trying to cover all the bases, that’s all.”

  “I should really be discussing this with Rob,” he told her.

  “Rob?”

  “My line manager.”

  “Rob’s gone,” she said, putting the sheet of paper back in the folder. “Not a name round here any more.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Private sector. One of those dodgy think tanks on Tufton Street.”

  “I’ve only been gone five months.”

  “Well,” she said. “Five months is a long time, isn’t it. It’s the difference between winter and spring, although Christ knows it’s hard enough to tell them apart these days.”

  “I’ve never had a problem telling winter and spring apart,” he said. “Is this some kind of test?”

  Martine blinked at him and took up another file. “So,” she said, “the question is, what do you want to do? Do you want to retire?”

  “No.” For some reason, the prospect terrified him.

  She picked up her pencil and made another note. “We could sign you off again, say for another five months, contingent on doctor’s advice, see how you feel at the end of that.”

  The thought of drifting around the house for another five months was almost as scary as retirement. “I want to come back to work,” he told her. His brain suddenly caught up with what he’d just said, and he added, “Eventually.”

  Another note. “And we can be sure you won’t blow up again? No more fits of the screaming habdabs?” She looked seriously at him. “I have to think of your co-workers.”

  “I’m not dangerous.”

  She tipped her head a little to one side. “You don’t remember, do you.” And then she watched as he tried to remember, but it was another blind spot.

  “I’m not dangerous,” he said again.

  She looked at him a moment longer, then looked down at the documents in the folder. “Get on all right with the Dutch, do we?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “The Dutch,” she said. “People from Holland. The Dutch.” She sighed and laid her pencil down and looked at him. “Amsterdam Office,” she said. “Good working relationship there? Any friction? Get on the wrong side of anybody?”

  “I was there last year,” he told her, wondering where this was going. “They’re a good bunch. Friendly, professional.”

  Martine gave him a look which told him all he needed to know about what she thought of friendly, professional. She looked down at the folder again and turned a page. “Somebody over there dropped a bollock and now the Dutch economic unit aren’t talking to us.”

  For a moment, his mind refused to parse this sentence. “What do you mean, not talking to us?”

  “I mean not talking to us. They turned off the tap; no data, no cooperation, they’re not even answering the phone.”

  “Why?”

  She looked up and rubbed her eyes. “Well, that’s just it, Mike. We don’t know. Amsterdam Office say they didn’t do anything wrong, and the Dutch aren’t saying anything at all.”

  Michael thought about it. “How far up has this gone?”

  “Our Service has talked to their Service, but according to them it’s a departmental matter, which is a euphemism for ‘sort it out among yourselves’. This has been going on for the last forty-eight hours; I figure we’ve got another day or so until some dickhead in Cabinet Office hears about it and decides to use it to make his name, and then it’ll be out of our hands, and you know what that means.”

  He nodded. Heads would roll, and nobody would be too particular whose. It occurred to him to ask why Martine was telling him all this, but he realised with a sinking heart that he already knew. He said, “Isn’t there anyone else who can go?”

  “Sure,” she said. “I could go, if push came to shove. But you’re a familiar face. You know old man van Hoebeek.” She mangled the pronunciation.

  “We’ve met a couple of times at conferences,” he pointed out. “It’s a bit of a stretch to say I know him.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You’re a familiar face; he knows you have some seniority. He’ll know we’re taking this seriously if you turn up.” She gave him a serious look. “Right now, this is a row in the corner of the playground, but it’s only a matter of time before Teacher notices, and then we’ll all be in detention.”

  “It’s a cute metaphor,” he said. He looked around the conference room. “Why can’t I do it over Zoom or something?”

  “Because we can’t talk to them to set up a Zoom meeting, Mike. Try to keep up.”

  “If we can’t set up a Zoom meeting, how am I supposed to organise something face-to-face?” But he thought he already knew the answer to that too.

  Martine started to sort through her folders. “Well, we’ve sort of presented them with a fait accompli.”

  “You’ve already told them I’m coming.”

  “We’ve sent them a message to expect you,” she said. “Ball’s in their court now. Either they’ll agree to see you or they won’t.”

  “I still haven’t said yes.”

  She looked at him. “Come on, Mike. Your country needs you. Go and talk to the old man. Find out what’s got their knickers in a twist. Come back and tell me all about it. How hard can that be?”

  “It could be very hard. Do you think I’m well enough to do this?”

  “Do you?”

  He shrugged.

  “If you don’t think you’re up to it, we’ll think of something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “We still have some moves left before questions get asked in committees, but we want to keep this in-house if at all possible.” She looked at him and raised her eyebrows.

  Michael didn’t say anything. This was what Jo had warned him about. He was being stampeded.

  Martine took a white envelope from one of the folders and slid it across the table. “You’re on the half past three flight from Gatwick, coming back tomorrow evening. That’s your ticket and itinerary. If they decide to keep you waiting we’ll change the return date for you.”

  He looked at his watch. “I won’t have time to go home and get my passport and a change of clothes.”

  She put another envelope on the table. “We took possession of your passport when you had your mad moment,” she said. “Standard procedure, nothing personal.” She reached down beside her chair and lifted an overnight bag and showed it to him. “Suit, shirt, tie, underwear, shoes. You’ll have to get yourself toiletries at the airport.” Another little envelope came across the tabletop towards him. “There’s a line of credit, but don’t go mad in duty-free and I’ll want all the receipts. You’re booked into that hotel near the DNB.” She slid a final envelope across the table. “Anything else?”

  He said, “I’m not sure I’m up to this, you know.”

  “Look,” she said reasonably, clasping her hands on the tabletop in front of her. “Go and listen to Theo’s gripes and woes, then come back and tell me what he said. That’s all. Tell him we’re keen to get this sorted out, but don’t make any promises. You can do that, can’t you?”

  He opened one of the envelopes, tipped it over, and his old maroon EU passport fell into his hand like a relic from a mythical civilisation. “I can’t promise it’ll help.”

  “It doesn’t have to help,” she told him. “So long as we’re talking, that’s a start.”

  In his passport photograph, he looked untidier than he remembered, hair uncombed, eyes a bit wild. Not a great advertisement for a British civil servant on a diplomatic mission. He put the passport down in front of him and sighed.

  That was all the answer Martine needed. Suddenly she was all movement, gathering her files and folders together and standing up. “You’d better make a move,” she said. “It takes ages to go through Security these days. At least nobody’s on strike right now. Don’t forget this.” She gave him the overnight bag. “Stay away from the Embassy except in emergencies, and don’t go near Amsterdam Office; as far as the Dutch are concerned they’re toxic right now.”

  He picked up the envelopes and put them in the bag. “Right,” he said.

  She looked him up and down and beamed. “That’s the way,” she said. “Couple of days away, do you the world of good. Text me if the meeting’s on; otherwise I’ll wait till you’re back for your report.”

  “Right,” he said again.

  She held the folders to her chest. “And after you get back we’ll see about signing you off for another couple of months, give you a chance to have a nice rest, and we’ll take things from there.” She gave him a last long look and then started to move towards the door. “So, I have to be somewhere else. James’ll be in shortly with a couple of forms for you to sign, then he’ll take you down to Reception. We can find our way to Gatwick okay, can’t we?” She smiled. “Course we can. See you tomorrow.” And then she was gone, no handshake, not even a thank you, leaving him sitting there feeling as if he had accidentally fallen into a spin-dryer.