He dropped the lens into the foam-lined box and shut the drawer gently. “Next time you find yourself behind a long-distance rifle, you’ll know what the crosshairs are made of — if it’s a good one. This stuff’s stronger than platinum wire and about ten times as good as the plastic hairs they’ve got on the market now they’re too brittle and they’re not really black. Of course, I don’t get much call for this kind of thread these days they’re making everything of cold crap, aren’t they? No wonder civilization’s falling apart. What are you doing in Barcelona anyway?” He was looking at me over the edge of his half-moon glasses.

I didn’t answer.

“Silly question,” he nodded.

Charlie was one of our sleeper agents in the Mediterranean theatre, originally Codes and Cyphers, then operational for two years until the El Fatah took him for a Shin Bet executive and blew a Porsche from under him when he was nosing around in Cairo.

“I got thrown out of London,” I told him.

This must be the cleanest window in the whole of Barcelona: I suppose that was Pepita. A few dried brown leaves were still on the platanas down there along the Ramblas, and a wind from the harbour pulled at them Feliz Novedades! a torn banner said in red and blue letters.

“Thrown out?” He sounded concerned.

“Slung out, kicked out, what d’you want me to say?” I swung round to face him.

“What we want,” he said gently, wheeling his chair across to the living quarters, ‘is a nice little drop of Carlos Primero, which by good grace they named after me.” He picked up the bottle and poured two shot glasses.