The embassy occupies six dismal rooms and its own separate entrance. The stairs are threadbare and the whole place smells very faintly of damp, some whisper of the Thames in the foundations. The brass-buttoned lift creaks and clatters as it rises to the third floor, and the bombproof door squeaks as another uniformed soldier, this one a dark-haired man with shocking blue eyes, ushers her into a chamber that is, she realises, a species of interior barbican, bulletproof in all directions and probably airtight as well. If she were to kill this man—if she were a terrorist—they’d likely just let the door swing shut and wait for her to suffocate.