‘He’s going to have to decide soon.’

‘That’s the trouble,’ said the deputy. ‘He already has.’

The theatrical flamboyance of the Garrick suited the Permanent Under Secretary, decided Wilson, following Naire-Hamilton from the bar along the corridor lined with original Gainsboroughs and Reynolds into the dining room. On the way the intelligence director recognized two stage knights and a millionaire novelist whose last book he’d attempted and found incomprehensible. It had been a spy novel.

The wine had already been decanted and as they sat Naire-Hamilton said, ‘Claret, dear fellow. That all right with you?’ He was in broad chalk stripe again. Today there was a handkerchief in his top pocket – an almost perfect match for the pink carnation.

‘Of course,’ said Wilson.

‘Like this club,’ said Naire-Hamilton. ‘Belonged for years. Lowered the standards a bit recently… admitting women, things like that. But I still enjoy it.’ His butterfly hands fluttered around, summoning waiters.

Wilson had a soldier’s lack of interest in food and ordered liver because it was the first thing he saw on the menu. The Permanent Under Secretary went into debate with the head waiter before selecting the steak and kidney pudding. It came off the trolley and Naire-Hamilton made the man adjust the portion, increasing it, before it was served.

Conscious that they could still be overheard, Wilson said, ‘Interesting paintings.’

‘All genuine,’ said Naire-Hamilton. ‘Committee can’t afford to insure the damned things, so we photograph them and hope they’re too well known to be stolen.’

Their food was served and, when the waiters left, Naire-Hamilton said, ‘What’s the progress?’

His food forgotten, the intelligence director outlined the potential harm the traitor could have caused if he had been operating any length of time.

‘That’s appalling,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

‘It could be,’ agreed Wilson.