After seven consecutive 18+ hour days, each worse than the one before, this day from hell had begun with a 3am phonecall ("hip hip, cheerio!") from my friend Alfie at MI6 — waking me from one nightmare into another, with the news of yet another Russian nerve gas attack on NATO soil.

   Thankfully, it turned out to be nothing more than the latest insanely sloppy assassination attempt on some aging double agent. Like the one earlier in the year targeting Skripal. But make no mistake: Putin believed himself to be acting with impunity, and we all agreed it was time to give that little barechested steroid freak a taste of his own medicine.

For the next seven hours, I'd be huddled around a conference table at Langley planning a counterattack (scratch that) "measured response" with three of the scariest motherfuckers on the planet. Nothing flashy: just a little Filovirus in the ventilation system of a Russian nuclear sub, timed for release upon reaching maximum depth.