The nerves were on edge.

'What time are they, calling up?'

He sipped his tea.

'No special time.'

I sat back and looked at Little Lord Fauntleroy. Under the big glass dome of the Rotunda the silence was peculiar, made up of tiny sounds that ticked or scratched or bumped and then died away before you could place them; but they weren't the ones I was listening to. Up there on the far side of the Channel there were doors opening and closing along those dim-lit passages, and the gibberish was crackling through the static and out of the scramblers in Signals while a phone rang and was picked up and someone in Monitoring sent a memo to Egerton or Mildmay or Parkis and everyone waited for the word that would start this whole thing running. Somewhere in Beirut or The Hague or the Azores they were looking for the hole, and when they'd found the hole they were going to put the ferret down, and the ferret was me.

From where we sat in our plush chairs in this sepulchral calm we could hear the telephone, faintly, at the desk in the foyer. I listened to that sound, too.

'You must have some idea,' I told Steadman.

Sat cursing myself. Perfectly normal for the executive to be on edge when he's on call but we always try not to show it and we always try not to show it especially to little ticks like this one.

He looked at the shine on his nails.

'There's someone trying to get across.'

I sat forward an inch, 'Where from?'

'We don't know.'

'Oh for Christ's sake, you must know where the-'

Stopped.

He looked around him, terribly casual, hamming it. The executive is requested to keep his cool and not shout the place down so that strangers can hear.

'Correction,' he said blandly, his gaze passing across my face as if by accident 'For «we» don't know, read "I" don't know.'