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again sharp—“what went wrong in Poland.”
    Will removed the lid to the teapot, shaking his head as he saw that the brew had stewed. “The unexpected happened.”
    “Resulting in ten dead Q operatives.”
    Will raised a jar of fresh tea to his nose, recognized the leaves as Assam breakfast tea, and carefully placed two spoonfuls into a cup.
    “And all but one man from the AW and one man from the SVR teams killed.”
    Will poured boiling water over the leaves.
    “A bloody massacre. The Polish government wants answers.”
    “Our men were deniable. No links to HMG.” Will placed a tea strainer over another mug and slowly poured the tea into it. “Sure, they’ll be asking around—other European countries, the Americans—and we’ll all plead ignorance.”
    “Not all of your men were deniable.”
    Alistair was referring to Luke. Despite his alias documentation, it would only be a matter of time before the Polish police matched Luke’s dead body to the fully declared post of Head of Warsaw Station.
    “Your mission was an utter failure!”
    Will took a sip of the tea and momentarily closed his eyes in appreciation. Turning, he stared at Alistair. “It was a failure.” He looked at Delta 1. “I’m truly sorry for what happened to your men.”
    The Q operative stared at him and asked with a deep south London accent, “Did you know the Russians were coming?”
    “That’s none of your—”
    Will held a hand up to interrupt Alistair. “Yes, but I didn’t know about the private contractor team. That was the unexpected part.”
    Delta 1 considered this. “Then you’ve got nothing to be sorry about. If the contractors hadn’t turned up, together with the Poles we’d have held the Russians off.”
    “Aye.” Delta 9 spoke with a strong Scottish lilt. “But even so, we were underequipped.”
    “You were.” Will gave a slight shake of his head to Alistair to indicate that he wasn’t going to mention Luke’s treachery. “That was due to a breakdown in communication. We’re looking into it right now.”
    Delta 1 carefully placed his mug down before looking up at Will. “Whoever’s responsible for the breakdown in communication needs to be strung up. I’ve lost most of my team.”
    Will recalled the frozen look of terror on Luke’s face as he’d dumped his dead body in the trunk of the Head of Warsaw Station’s car. “What are your names and backgrounds?”
    Delta 1 answered first. “Mark Oates. Nine years in the Qs, two as team leader. Prior to that, twelve years in the Royal Marines, eight of which SBS.”
    Will looked at Delta 9.
    “Adam Tark. Five years in the Qs. Before that seven years in the SAS.”
    Will frowned. “I once knew a Scot called Ross Tark who was also SAS.”
    “Aye, he was my younger brother.” Adam smiled. “Always followed me around.” His smile vanished. “Were you there when he died?”
    Will answered, “No,” as he recalled gathering up Ross’s entrails and inserting them back into his stomach. The SAS soldier had been gutted by a Russian Spetsnaz commander during Will’s last mission. That operation was so sensitive that everyone involved in it was instructed to never speak to anyone else about what happened, anyone including security-cleared relatives of those who’d died in the mission.
    “And who are you?” Mark flexed his muscular hands.
    “That”—Alistair held up a hand toward Will—“really is none of your business.”
    Will studied the Q men. Adam looked nothing like his deceased brother. Though probably in his early thirties, he was prematurely balding with graying hair, and clearly had undergone emergency reconstructive surgery on what would have once been a handsome face. Mark was older, probably early forties, with cropped brown hair. His face was weathered, tanned, and partially covered with stubble. Aside from their physique, both men shared one trait. Their eyes looked dead.
    Will asked Mark, “What’s your brief right now?”
    “Fuck