Secret Asset

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In the upmarket bathroom shop in Regent’s Park Road in North London, the slim brown-haired woman was showing a close interest in the display of tiles. “Do you need some help?” asked the young male assistant, who was keen to close since it was almost seven o’clock in the evening.

Liz Carlyle was killing time. In trainers and designer jeans, she looked like any of the wealthy young married women who drifted in and out of the interior-design shops and boutiques of this part of London. But Liz was neither wealthy nor married and she was certainly not drifting. She was very focused indeed. She was waiting for the device she held tightly in her left hand to vibrate once—the signal that it was safe for her to proceed to the meeting in the coffee shop further down the road. In the mirror on the shop wall facing her, she could see Wally Woods, the leader of the A4 team providing counter-surveillance backup, taking his time buying an Evening Standard from the newsvendor on the corner.

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