'Doubtfire, Home Office.' A sharp voice behind Millet.

'You're a bit late, old chap.'

'Millet…' he paused,'… Foreign and Commonwealth.

What's happened to him.'

'Just gone on the trolley. There's a box underneath the top, they put them in there, doesn't upset people that way.

About twenty minutes ago they gave up. Not a chance, everything done that could have been, he had the red carpet.'

'They said he hadn't long when they called me at home. I suppose I was sort of hoping… they're sometimes wrong.'

'Good riddance. What'll he get, Hero of the bloody Soviet Union?'

A nursing Sister approached the two men. The message was bright in her eyes. This was an operational area.

Doubtfire had a car and driver. Night Duty Officer for the Home Office, a travelling fire brigade. He was returning to his cubbyhole in Whitehall and the telephone that he prayed would stay silent, and a thermos of instant coffee. Millet was thankful to accept a lift. In the back of the car they talked in desultory fashion. Two practised civil servants, uncertain of the other's role and standing, and cautious of confidences. Millet was dropped in Great Charles Street at the entrance to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, which left him a long walk along the river to Century House.

The wind whipped at Alan Millet's legs as he hurried along the empty pavements. The sleet pecked at the skin of his cheeks, fluttered his close-cut hair. He was obsessed with a man called Michael Holly. A tall man, alive with enthusiasm, totally self-contained. Memories more than a year old. He supposed that every desker felt a stifling involvement with his field man. Like the first whore of a man's life, never forgotten, never to be escaped from. There was a pub across the river, where he had taken Holly – he always called himself that, never bothered with his given name – where they had sipped their drinks and nibbled at the tired bread and ham, where Holly had asked the expected question. What happens if