'Please explain that,' Croder said on the line. No edge to his tone — he just wanted to get things clear, and so did I. I'd been in a towering rage myself ever since I'd picked up that man's head from the dirt in the freight yard, because you could still see the youth in his face, the clear skin, the smoothness around the eyes.

'In my opinion,' I told Croder, 'the Chief of Training at Norfolk is sending people into the field too young and too soon.' I looked across at Turner. 'How old was Hornby, d'you know?'

He turned from the window. 'Oh, early twenties.'

'They're sending out kids,' I told Croder, 'and they're getting them killed.' The chief of support down there in the freight yard had looked even younger, could have been nineteen.

In a moment Croder said, 'Your comments are noted.' All I'd get, and I let it go. 'In the meantime you should know that the Soviet, Zymyanin, has signalled us and given his whereabouts.'

'Oh really.'

'He arrived in Moscow twenty minutes ago.'

'Intact?' There could have been some shooting down there at the rendezvous point.

'Yes. He's quite experienced.'

An older man, well-trained. Bloody Norfolk.

I waited. A tram went moaning through the street below. Turner watched it, not actually seeing it, I knew that. He was trying desperately to pick up what information he could from my end of the conversation with Croder: he'd been the DIF for the mission but I already knew more than he did about the crash. I cupped the mouthpiece and told him, 'Zymyanin's alive and well.' It'd help him to know that his executive hadn't compromised the contact and got him killed too.