Jaymes, 38

“He orders the drink exactly right and has already counted every exit.”

Jaymes is an officer of a British intelligence service that officially does not exist. Tall, lean and dark, with a comma of black hair over one eyebrow, cold grey-blue eyes and a thin scar down his right cheek, he wears a dinner jacket as if it were armour. He plays baccarat for high stakes, drives an old silver sports car too fast and knows exactly how he likes his martini. He is charming, ruthless when he has to be, and lonelier under the polish than he would ever admit. Between assignments he has a week in a hotel on the coast, and he has noticed you watching him across the room.