'You're more conversant, then,' Shatner said, 'with Berlin than Westerby is. That makes a difference.'

'I'm a bit surprised you didn't send for me in the first place.' He'd known my background; he must have. All the controls have got to do in this place is press a button and the computers throw you on the screen like an X-ray.

He stood still for a moment and looked at me. 'As I've told you, you're not my favourite executive.'

'That's a bloody shame.'

I was getting fed up with him.

'Now that we've got that over,' he said, 'let's remember that we've both had a rather trying night, and make mutual allowances. When can you take over from McCane?'

'The focus of this operation,' Shatner said, 'is on a man named Maitland. Or rather, on his death.'

We were already into preliminary briefing and the little room was full of smoke. He'd asked me if I'd mind his having a cigarette, which I thought was civil of him.

'Maitland was a cultural attache at our embassy in Berlin, fond of the city, active in his job, though for some reason not particularly well liked among his colleagues. A week ago he was murdered, and his body taken away. His flat had been broken into with some violence, and the police found evidence of massive blood loss. There were marks on the floor indicating that his body had been dragged out of the flat to the lift. The telephone was hanging by its cable – he'd been talking to a woman friend, who came forward, when the flat was entered. She reported sounds of the door being smashed in, an outbreak of voices and finally a cry. Maitland's car was also broken into and rigorously searched, the upholstery slashed open and the carpets dragged up.'