Gemini. Mark Burnell

came to Maclise Road after Marrakech. The fact that we’re friends is strange because we’re so different. She truly believes in Magenta House. She heads S10, Operations (Invisible), the newest section, which was established after the terrorist attacks of 11 September 2001. S10 leaves no traces. Its victims die from natural causes, or accidents, or they simply vanish, ensuring they don’t become martyrs. Initially it only targeted Islamic extremists. Not a politically correct remit, to be sure, but then Magenta House has never been too concerned with political correctness. Now S10 targets anyone who merits their talents. Among Magenta House staff, S10 is always referred to as the Ether Division.

       ‘Hey, Steph. I didn’t know you were due in today.’

       ‘Nor did I.’

       ‘Something new?’

       ‘He wants me to chase a ghost.’

       ‘Savic?’

       ‘You knew?’

       ‘He mentioned it. I wasn’t sure how far he‘d take it.’

       ‘Apparently your lot are soaking up everyone in S3.’

       ‘You don’t sound thrilled.’

       ‘I feel like a three-star Michelin chef who’s been asked to scrub dishes.’

       We take the lift to the top floor to Rosie’s new office with its view of the Adelphi Building. When I was first recruited Rosie was a member of the support staff with limited security clearance. It was her talent for analysis that won her promotion. With promotion came full clearance. I’ve never discovered Rosie’s flaw, but I know there is one. Somewhere, lurking in a file, she has a weakness that’s been documented. We all do. Magenta House insist upon it. Personally I have too many to count so it’s never bothered me the way it bothers others. Rosie has never mentioned hers to me. It is, perhaps, the only taboo subject between us.

       In her early thirties, Rosie could be the picture of a successful modern woman. Before she started up S10 she spent a spell in S7 with me. That was when she lost weight and toned up. Like me, she was reincarnated.

      She moves behind her kidney-shaped desk and settles into her Herman Miller chair. ‘What kind of tea would you like?’

       ‘Green, if you have it.’

       She pushes a button on the phone base. ‘Adam, two teas, when you‘re ready. One green, one lemon and ginger.’

       ‘What do you know about Savic?’

       ‘Not much. He hasn’t strayed across my desk. But I’ve heard the rumours, naturally. There’ve been alleged sightings of him in Germany, Belgium and Holland. Some say he runs a chain of call-girls in Prague and Budapest.’

       ‘How original.’

       ‘Others say he’s gun-running down to Maputo. Or was it Harare?’

       ‘That sounds more like Mostovoi’s line of work.’

       ‘There have been reports of him in Pyongyang, Osaka and Shanghai.’

       ‘How long can it be before he’s spotted working with Elvis in a fish-and-chip shop in Scarborough? Anything concrete?’

       ‘Not until you landed Lars Andersen. By the way, I’m sorry about S3. I’ll get somebody to put some stuff together for you. Give me a couple of days.’

       ‘Thanks.’

       ‘How’s Mark?’

       ‘He’s well. We’re starting to plan a big climbing trip for next summer.’

       ‘Where?’

       ‘El Capitan.’

       ‘Never heard of it.’

       ‘It’s in California. What about you? How was your date with that architect? You never said. Did he have any designs on you?’

       Rosie winces. ‘Oh Steph, that’s really lame. Even for you.’

       ‘Couldn’t resist it.’

      ‘Put it this way. He made me go halves at dinner and then wanted to go the whole way afterwards.’

       I laugh loudly. As gorgeous as she is, Rosie has little luck with men. I suspect it’s because she intimidates most of them. She wants to be dazzled and so assumes they do too. If she was more like me she’d understand that most men don’t want a competitor in a woman, or even an equal.

       ‘Are you taking precautions?’ she asks me.

       ‘God, you sound like my mother.’

       ‘You know what I mean.’

       I tell her I am. The door opens and Adam, Rosie’s assistant, enters the room carrying two steaming mugs. He’s older than she is, in his mid-forties, perhaps. Stereotypically, it would be easy to imagine that he was Rosie’s boss. But then there’s nothing conventional here.

       Rosie’s parents are first-generation immigrants. Both are doctors, both still practising; her mother is a GP, her father is a chest specialist. They live in north London and have three other children, all boys. Two work in the City, one shoots commercials. None of them have any idea what she does. Like me, she lies. Like me, she’s so good at it, it’s as natural to her as telling the truth. They believe she’s a security analyst at the Centre for Defence Studies at King’s College, London. Elsewhere it might seem strange that a young second-generation Indian woman is heading an outfit like the Ether Division. But in our world it seems perfectly normal because we can be anybody we need to be at any given moment.

      They drove south-west in Mark’s fifteen-year-old slate grey Saab, reaching the Saracen Arms, a fifteenth-century manor house with a twenty-first-century interior.

      Saturday was hot and still. They climbed at Uphill Quarry, a Site of Special Scientific Interest on account of its rare flora. A westerly crag set beneath a village church and a graveyard, Uphill’s challenges were technical rather than strength-orientated. Mark climbed smoothly, but Stephanie felt heavy-limbed and was frustrated to be stumped by A Lesser Evil on the Great Yellow Wall. Mark completed The Jimi Hendrix Experience – the route had recently been bolted – and then both of them completed Graveyard Gate, the arête furthest to the right of the Pedestal Wall.

      In the evening they soaked for an hour in the giant freestanding bath in their bathroom, then ordered room service. They ate looking out to sea, as the bloody sun set. They drank a bottle of Mercurey and Stephanie expected they would make love. Instead, somehow, they fell asleep without either of them noticing. When Stephanie awoke she was face down on the bed, cocooned in a white dressing-gown, Mark beside her, snoring and sunburnt.

      Sunday was hotter but with a breeze. They drove to Brean Down, a limestone peninsula protruding into the Bristol Channel, not far from Uphill Quarry. Boulder Cove was a five-minute walk across the beach from the car park. They warmed up on Coral Sea and then proceeded up Achtung Torpedo, through the face’s black bulge, before moving on to Chulilla, Casino Royale and Root of Inequity. Stephanie climbed effortlessly, the clumsiness of Saturday falling away from her as lightly as sweat. Mark finished with Anti-Missile Missile, a girdle traverse.

      From Brean Down they drove straight back to London, simultaneously spent and energized. They were sitting in a traffic jam on the M4, not far from Heathrow, when Stephanie said, ‘I might have a new job lined up.’

      ‘Oh yeah?’

      ‘It