‘This is a shitty job,’ complained the girl who had been fondled. ‘Really shitty.’

By the time they got back, the telephone conversation between Charlie and Rupert Willoughby had already been reported to Moscow. And Kalenin knew the protection he had evolved was possible. The priority cables were already arriving from Dzerzhinsky Square.

‘I’m bored.’

Rupert Willoughby didn’t bother to look up from his book at Clarissa’s protest. ‘As usual,’ he said.

‘Amuse me then.’

‘I’m your husband, not your jester.’

‘And fuck all good at either.’

‘You really shouldn’t swear,’ said Willoughby. ‘You always sound as if you’re reading the words from a prompt card.’

‘Fuck!’ she said defiantly.

‘Still not right,’ said Willoughby, knowing the condescension would irritate her even more. He lowered the book to look at her. She was moving listlessly around the apartment, lifting and replacing ornaments and running her hand along the top of the furniture.

‘Jocelyn and Arabella have taken the yacht to Menton,’ she said.

‘I know.’

‘They’ve invited me down.’

‘They usually do.’

‘I thought I’d go.’

‘Why not?’ Intent on her reaction, he said, ‘I’m seeing Charlie Muffin tomorrow.’

‘Charlie!’ She stopped. The brightness was immediate. ‘I’d love to see him again.’

She’d tried hard enough after New York. Which is what had planted the idea in Willoughby’s mind after the man’s telephone call and the yacht invitation.

‘I’ll ask him to dinner,’ he promised.

2

The office of the intelligence director was on the Waterloo side of the Thames. Sir Alistair Wilson asked the driver for the cross-over route through Parliament Square; purposely early for the meeting with the Permanent Under Secretary responsible for liaison between the department and the government, he’d heard the displays were particularly good this year and he wanted to see for himself.