A pulse had begun beating in my leg, the onset of cramp. I moved and the briefcase slid off my knees. I left it where it fell. Pol said softly as the music broke:

"There are two people you can trust -"

"No people."

"An American, Frank Brand, and a young German, Lanz Hengel. They -"

"Keep them clear of me."

"You have a link man

"Keep him clear."

"It is myself. I am your link man."

"Keep clear of me then."

If I were going in, it had to be on my terms. They couldn't expect it of me and they shouldn't have sent this man Pol to hook me like this. They were bastards. Charington dead – get another man. KLJ dead – get another man. Who would they get after me? Six months hard, now this, and because of expedience, because I was handy. And they had the hook. "There's only one way to persuade him," they'd said, standing round the desk in that London room with the Lowrie and the smell of polish. "Tell him someone has seen Zossen in Berlin." And they'd lit a cigarette and sent for Pol.

I didn't care whether the monologue about a renaissant Nazi group was genuine or not. Given Zossen I needed no further blandishments. They'd wasted my time.

The cramp was beginning so I crawled on my hands and knees to the back of the box and got into the chair as if I'd just come in again after the interval. Pol did the same, brushing his hands carefully across the knees of his trousers. I sat with my eyes shut, thinking.

Now that I'd stopped resenting him and made the decision I could admit that it was my own fault. For years I'd operated in strict hush, as I'd been trained to do; so when they seconded me to liaise with the Federal Z Commission and supply the Hanover Tribunal with bodies for trial, I didn't see much point in coming into the open air.