He fingered the flesh beneath the gray eyes and sighed. “Christ, but you look like hell,” he said softly, and the face in the mirror was illuminated by a smile of great natural charm. It was one of his most important assets.

He ran a hand over the two-day stubble of beard on his chin, decided against shaving, and returned to the bedroom. As he dressed, rain tapped against the window with ghostly fingers, and when he left the flat ten minutes later, he was wearing an old trench coat.

The car was waiting at the bottom of the steps when he went outside, and he climbed in beside the driver and sat there in silence, staring morosely into the night as they moved through deserted, rain-swept streets.

He was tired. Tired of living out of a suitcase, of hopping from one country to another, of being all things to all men and someone very different on the inside. For the first time in five years, he wondered why he didn’t pack it all in, and then they turned in through the gates of the familiar house in St. John’s Wood and he grinned ruefully and pushed the thought away from him.

The car braked to a halt before the front door, and he got out without a word to the driver and mounted the steps. He pressed the bell beside the polished brass plate that carried the legend BROWN amp; COMPANY – IMPORTERS amp; EXPORTERS, and waited.

After a few moments, the door opened and a tall, graying man in a blue serge suit stood to one side, a slight smile on his face. “Nice to see you back, Mr. Chavasse.”

Chavasse grinned and punched him lightly on the shoulder as he passed. “You’re looking fine, Joe.”

He went up the curving Regency staircase and passed along a thickly carpeted corridor. The only sound was a slight, persistent hum from the dynamo in the radio room, but he moved past the door and mounted two steps into another corridor. Here, the silence was absolute, and he opened a large, white-painted door at the far end and went in.