Chavasse shrugged. “One or two. Your hunch about Skiros was right. He was a double agent. Been working for the Commies for the past four years. They’ll have to wait a long time for his next report.”

The Chief selected a cigarette from a silver box and lit it carefully. “How did you manage it?”

“I traced him to Lesbos,” Chavasse said. “He was having a skin-diving holiday. Unfortunately, something went wrong with his Aqua-Lung one afternoon. By the time they got him back to the beach, it was too late.”

The Chief sighed. “Most unfortunate.”

Chavasse leaned across the desk. “Now I’ve explained the finer points of the affair, perhaps I can go back to bed.” He got to his feet and crossed to the window. “I feel as if I haven’t slept for a month.” He stood there, staring out into the rain for a moment, and then turned abruptly. “To be perfectly frank, on the way over here I was considering packing things in.”

The Chief raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Could you see yourself going back to lecturing in a provincial university?” He shook his head. “Not a chance, Paul. You’re the best man I’ve got. One of these days you’ll be sitting behind this desk.”

“If I live that long,” Chavasse said sourly.

The Chief gestured to the chair. “Come and sit down and have another cigarette. You always feel like this when a job’s over, especially when you’ve killed somebody. What you need is a long rest.”

“Then what about it?” Chavasse said. “Christ knows I’ve earned one. This last year’s been hell.”

“I know, Paul, I know,” the Chief said soothingly, “and I’ll see you get one – after this next job.”

Chavasse turned from the window angrily. “For God’s sake, am I the only man the Bureau’s got? What about Wilson or LaCosta?”

The Chief shook his head. “I sent Wilson to Ankara last month. He disappeared his second day there. I’m afraid we’ll have to cross him off the list.”