“In here, old man,” Murchison said. “Try not to be too long. We’ve a cabaret starting in half an hour. Really quite something, I promise you.”

He moved back along the passage, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet, and Chavasse knocked on the door, opened it and went in.

The room was a small, plainly furnished office, its walls painted a neutral shade of green. The young woman who sat at the desk writing busily was attractive in spite of her dark, heavy-rimmed library spectacles.

She glanced up sharply and Chavasse smiled. “Surprise, surprise.”

Jean Frazer removed her spectacles. “You look like hell. How was Albania?”

“Tiresome,” Chavasse said. “Cold, wet, and with the benefits of universal brotherhood rather thinly spread on the ground.” He sat on the edge of the desk and helped himself to a cigarette from a teak box. “What brings you and the old man out here? The Albanian affair wasn’t all that important.”

“We had a NATO intelligence meeting in Bonn. When we got word that you were safely out, the Chief decided to come to Rome to take your report on the spot.”

“Not good enough,” Chavasse said. “The old bastard wouldn’t have another job lined up for me, would he? Because if he has, he can damn well think again.”

“Why not ask him?” she said. “He’s waiting for you now.”

She nodded toward a green baize door. Chavasse looked at it for a moment, sighed heavily and crushed his cigarette into the ashtray.

THE INNER ROOM WAS HALF IN SHADOW the only light a shaded lamp on the desk. The man who stood at the window gazing out at the lights of Rome was of medium height, the face somehow ageless, a strange, brooding expression in the dark eyes.

“Here we are again,” Chavasse said softly.

The Chief turned, taking in everything about Chavasse in a single moment. He nodded. “Glad to see you back in one piece, Paul. I hear things were pretty rough over there.”