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considering a job offer and inviting her to come in to discuss it.
    There followed an extraordinary series of meetings and interviews, initially in Whitehall and eventually at Thames House as well. Emma and her husband, Brian, spent long evening discussing the decision she’d have to make. Brian was gently sceptical. Did she really want to give up the relative security of a GP post in the NHS for something as outside the normal range of a doctor’s experience as this? More importantly, did Emma think she’d be happy, attending to just one patient, who in all likelihood would stay fit and healthy anyway? Wouldn’t she miss the hurly burly of GP life, of caring for a host of ills, medical and social, while feeling that she was genuinely making a difference? And it wasn’t as though she could bask in the status afforded to her by being personal doctor to the country’s top counterintelligence officer. She wouldn’t be able to tell a soul.
    But Brian let her convince him. The money was good. Better than what she’d been earning in full-time practice, in fact. Much better. It meant she and Brian could now afford a live-in nanny to look after the children. Her duties were, frankly, not all that arduous. Monthly examinations of her patient, including routine blood and other standard tests. Updates on the state of his health to an array of other, handpicked specialists – surgeons, cardiologists, urologists – who would be called upon if he ever needed them. And Emma was aware that she’d be on twenty-four hour call in case of an emergency.
    The sudden freeing up of her time would allow Emma the breathing space she’d never had since graduating. To spend time with her and Brian’s children, seven-year-old Jack and his sister Niamh, two years younger. To do some research work. To garden.
    So Emma underwent the final, formal interview. She signed the Official Secrets Act. She perfected the cover story she’d been advised to concoct: that she was starting up a private practice and travelling to the homes of assorted Civil Service mandarins and Saudi Arabian dignitaries. And she began the monthly trips from their Wimbledon semidetached home to Thames House, always in a chauffeured car with tinted windows and a rota of politely aloof escorts.
    She poked and prodded Sir Guy’s flesh, listened to the thump of his heart and the rasp of his on-off smoker’s lungs, lobbed back his grumbles and sarcastic remarks in the form of jibes of her own. Over the following year, she became genuinely fond of this gruff, sometimes alarming, yet kind man. And she knew he liked her, too, even though it wasn’t in his nature ever to admit it.
    Now, writing her notes with Sir Guy dressing behind her, Emma said, ‘How’s the smoking?’
    ‘Haven’t touched one for three months.’
    She turned and gave him a look.
    Sir Guy held up his hands in resignation. ‘All right, all right. Two cigars a week. Maximum.’
    ‘That’s two too many.’
    ‘Ah, shut up.’
    They went back to his office and made small talk for a while. Eventually Sir Guy said, ‘Well. Till next month.’
    She smiled.
    He pressed a button on his desk. A few seconds later the door opened and a man came in. Of medium height, broad shouldered. Light on the balls of his feet, like a cat. Hair buzzed short in a military style.
    ‘James,’ said Sir Guy, ‘be a good chap and escort Dr Goddard to the car.’
    The man inclined his head. He held the door for Emma and followed her through.
    They walked in silence through the murmuring corridors. Halfway along, Emma said, ‘Okay if I pop to the loo?’
    ‘Of course,’ said James. He indicated down a short passage.
    Emma strode towards the restrooms, not looking back. In the women’s room she glanced around, found it empty. She went back to the door and gave a sharp rap on it.
    The door opened and James came in.
    Quickly she dragged him towards one of the cubicles, pulling him in after her and slamming and locking the door.
    His