I said I'd do that.

'Any questions?' Carey asked me.

'No, but you can look after a couple of things for me. Was Hornby married?'

'Yes.'

'Send some flowers, will you?'

'How much for?'

'Oh, twenty pounds.'

'Name on the card?'

'Put anything. She doesn't know me.'

'Will do.'

'And tell Accounts we owe the Romanian Ministry of Agriculture for a sack of Grade A rye grain, 150 lbs.'

There'd be a squeal from that acidic old bitch in the counting house because she's always touchy about passing anonymous funds into Moscow without any explanation, but the rule is that if we damage any property we've got to report it and it's got to be paid for, and in any case this was nothing, the last thing I'd stuck Accounts for was a smashed Mercedes.

'Anything else?' Carey asked me. I said no and we shut down.

This was at 8:44.

It was mid-afternoon when London came through with instructions.

Medlock was back at the board.

'Zymyanin has booked out on the Rossiya to Vladivostok. Please stand by for Chief of Signals.'

Jane had been typing a report for the embassy, and stopped, leaving the room quiet. The sky in the high narrow window was already darkening toward nightfall even at this hour. The snow had eased off soon after we'd got back from the clothing shop.

I heard Croder's voice on the line.

'Your instructions are to board the train and try to make contact with him.'

With Zymyanin. I asked Croder: 'He signalled you?'

'No. We had his movements monitored. We think he finally decided against making a second rendezvous. Zymyanin is not normally a nervous man, but it seems he was frightened off by the Bucharest debacle.'

It didn't surprise me. You don't need to be nervous to get clear from a blown rendezvous with no intention of trying your luck again: it's simply a logical precaution.