Which was why Brinkman had applied to the intelligence service, purposely selecting a division as far away as possible from his father’s sphere of influence but sensibly not so entirely removed from the Foreign Office – to whom MI6 were responsible – that there wasn’t a final safety net if he lost his grip on the high trapeze. Not that he expected to, because Jeremy Brinkman was supremely confident, to the point – not infrequently – of having people misunderstand the attitude as arrogance. Brinkman knew he wasn’t arrogant, because he knew everything about himself. Just determined. And properly, necessarily confident. The selection of the country’s intelligence service had annoyed his father, of course. Sir Richard Brinkman was of the school who found no difficulty in ignoring Britain’s most recent spy scandals and thought the idea preposterous that a chap would read another chap’s mail or that one could doubt the loyalty of anyone who had been to a recognisable handful of good schools and proper universities. He accepted the existence of such a department, but more from the historical precedent of its formation during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I than for its practical necessity. But certainly didn’t consider it something with which the Brinkman family, with all its traditions, should become associated. So they’d argued, repeatedly, not in any gesticulating, shouting manner, but in the level, measured logic of a Permanent Under Secretary at the Foreign Office intent upon persuading someone with less experience the obvious error of a mistaken judgment. Sir Richard hadn’t raised his voice or changed the calm demeanour even when he realised that his son couldn’t – or wouldn’t – accept the logical argument but was determined upon a despised branch of the service. Between them now there existed the sort of unspoken, unannounced truce that sometimes develops between equally strong and equally implacable armies who recognise that continued fighting is pointless, but that fresh strategies are necessary. Brinkman smiled at the analogy as he walked along the now familiar, hushed corridors. Moscow had created the strategy for him: he was regrouping, far away from any intrusion the old man might be able to make. Brinkman’s smiled faded, as he arrived at the designated doorway and proved his identity and handed his appointment chit over to the waiting security guard. At least he hoped he was far enough away.