Her voice trailed away and she looked at him thoughtfully. Chavasse lit a cigarette, no longer tired. “Since then…?”

“Well, you’re on the books as a Third Secretary, but you certainly don’t look like one.”

“What would you say I did look like?” he said calmly.

“Oh, I don’t know. Someone who got about a lot.” She swallowed some more champagne and said casually, “How was Albania? I was surprised you made it out in one piece. When the Tirana connection went dead we wrote you off.”

She started to laugh again, her head back, and behind Chavasse a voice said, “Is she giving you a hard time, Paul?”

Murchison, the First Secretary, limped across the terrace. He was a handsome, urbane man, face bronzed and healthy, the bar of medals a splash of bright color on the left breast of his jacket.

“Let’s say she knows rather too much about me for my personal peace of mind.”

“Should do,” Murchison said. “Francesca works for the Bureau. She was your radio contact last week. One of our best operatives.”

Chavasse turned. “You were the one who relayed the message from Scutari warning me to get out fast?”

She bowed. “Happy to be of service.”

Before Chavasse could continue, Murchison took him firmly by the arm. “Now don’t start getting emotional, Paul. Your boss has just got in and he wants to see you. You and Francesca can talk over old times later.”

Chavasse squeezed her hand. “That’s a promise. Don’t go away.”

“I’ll wait right here,” she assured him, and he turned and followed Murchison inside.

They moved through the crowded ballroom into the entrance hall, passed the two uniformed footmen at the bottom of the grand staircase and mounted to the first floor.

The long, thickly carpeted corridor was quiet and the music, echoing from the ballroom, might have been from another world. They went up half a dozen steps, turned into a shorter side passage and paused outside a white-painted door.