‘It’s fine, really,’ he said. ‘John Ingram has got his posting.’

‘Where?’ she said. Ingram was Blair’s counterpart at the British Embassy, the Resident for Britain’s M16.

‘London,’ said Blair.

Lucky John Ingram, thought Ann. London was where she’d first met Blair, when he’d been attached to the American Embassy there, liaison attache with the British. ‘I’ll miss them,’ she said.

Lucinda Ingram had been one of the few wives to accept her, almost from the start, a bustling, no-nonsense woman, one of the ones who didn’t flirt. She drank a bit, though; but never beyond control. Lucinda’s going would mean she was losing her closest friend.

‘The farewell party is next Saturday.’

Same faces, same small-talk, she thought. ‘When did they hear about the move?’

‘Today, apparently.’

Which was why Lucinda hadn’t called, Ann supposed. She’d only be hearing about it herself tonight. ‘I must buy her something. A farewell gift,’ said Ann.

‘That would be nice.’

‘Maybe something from the gold shop, on Gorky Street.’ There wasn’t much else she could think of in the way of a gift that was obtainable in Moscow.

‘John’s asked me to look out for their new man.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Someone called Brinkman. Jeremy Brinkman.’

‘Wonder if he knows what to expect,’ said Ann. New arrivals were always lionised, a fresh face initially with fresh stories and news from outside their confines.

‘John doesn’t know him.’

‘Is he pleased to be going?’ Lucinda’s attitude had always been that Moscow was a stepping-stone assignment for her husband and somewhere – like anywhere else – that had to be enjoyed by a careerist’s wife.

‘It’s a promotion, so I think so,’ said Blair. ‘I don’t know that he likes the idea of being stuck in London.’

Dear God, just for the chance, thought Ann. She said, ‘Will he be?’