‘You forgot to mention the Russians.’

‘Most of whose ships have been sunk by Italian submarines, whilst the Royal Navy just stands by and looks on. HMG should be blushing to the roots, not worrying about what I am up to.’

‘I don’t make policy, Cal.’

‘It’s not so long ago you seemed as committed as I am to fighting the likes of Franco, or was the buying and shipping of weapons to Ethiopia two years back just a lark? I seem to recall a lot of talk about stopping Mussolini, and while I am aware you are not much of one for ideology, I would be disappointed to find you have done a complete volte-face and signed up with the denizens of the Right Club.’

Peter, to avoid answering what was clearly a question, stood up and went to a rather faded curtain, which, when twitched back, revealed a tiny kitchen, into which he disappeared as he responded.

‘Would you like some coffee, old boy? I can make some if I can work out this infernal pot the Frogs use.’

‘So, you’re back with MI6?’

‘I am.’

‘Comfortable?’

The reply came through the curtain with some venom. ‘Salaried, old chap, which for some of us is a most compelling requirement.’

‘And your previous…’ Cal paused. ‘I hate to say “employers”?’

Having been a victim of budgetary cutbacks at the start of the decade, Peter had been recruited by a group of moneyed or politically connected individuals who were worried about the inexorable rise of the European dictators, allied to the fact that His Majesty’s Government were doing nothing to put the kibosh on them. To such people a trained and competent intelligence operative, British to the core, was just the ticket.

The assumption that he had done their bidding for a decent stipend Cal had taken as read. On the grounds of proper appreciation he never worked for nothing and he doubted Peter would either, but he did have a private income, which he knew Peter lacked, given it rarely went unmentioned when they met.