'Okay sir, I'll tell-' then the phone rang and he asked me to hold on. I tried to recognize the voice at the other end but all I could tell was that it wasn't Parkis and it wasn't Egerton.

'They're ready for you now, sir, in Room 6.'

It was the next floor up and I took the stairs and met Woods coming out of Signals with his tie under one ear and a cigarette in his mouth and a cup of tea in his hand.

'Jesus Christ,' he said, 'three changes in the last twenty-four hours!' He limped along to the Gents. God knew which current operation he was doing the signals for, but anyone having to change his code three times in twenty-four hours was running it very close.

Room 6 was along in the briefing complex and I knocked and went in.

'Who are you?'

'Quiller.'

'Ah yes. Sit down, won't you?'

He was behind the desk, sliding a ruler across some paper in a series of angled jerks, presumably making a graph. He was slightly rumpled-looking, with black hair and a grey face and sooty bags under his eyes. I'd never seen him before. His ruler went on sliding and I watched the deft working of his hands. He sat very still with his head angled down to look at the desk, and I took no notice when one of the telephones buzzed. After a while I got the impression that he was a remote-controlled robot with orders to fiddle here while some kind of Rome went burning down.

'Yes.'

He slid the ruler to one side and looked across at me. It was the first time I'd seen his eyes; they were the same unhealthy grey as the rest of his face, and gave away nothing.

'We haven't long,' he said, and got up and began walking about. 'I'm sending two of you people across to Lisbon by the first available flight — direct, of course. They are Pritchard and Mailer. Have you worked with them before?'

'No.'