The ambassador put down the telephone, and looked up. God, and the boy seemed young. Not tall and not short, but with an impact because of the set of his shoulders and the sturdiness of his hips. The sort of boy who would have captained the Fifteen at Marlborough, an adult's body and a youngster's face.

He had been in the room through the latter part of the ambassador's call and had stood midway between the door and the desk as if on a parade ground and at ease, relaxed and yet formal.

"So, you're young Holt. Welcome to Moscow, Mr Holt."

"Thank you, sir."

"None of that formality. I'm not 'sir'. We're a family here. I may be the patriarch, but not a frightening one, I hope. What's your first name, Mr Holt?"

"It's Peter, sir, but I'm generally just Holt."

"Then we have a bargain. I'll call you Holt, and you don't call me 'sir'. Done?"

"Thank you, Ambassador."

"You're a stickler for etiquette, young m a n… " Did he not look young? The smile was that of a teenager, bright and open. He liked his naturalness. He reckoned a man who could smile well was an honest man.

"… What do you think of the job they've given you?"

"It seemed to me that private secretary to the ambassador was about the best first posting that a Soviet specialist could expect."

"I was where you were three weeks before the Cuban missile crisis broke. I loved every day of my year here – and I hope you will… No, I wasn't talking in code on the phone. My wife's had to go back to London, mother not well, and she may be stuck there for a couple of weeks. We have a tradition of always bringing back some presents for our staff, the Soviet staff. Money doesn't matter to them, so we try to get them merchandise that's hard to come by here. You won't have seen the ladies who clean our apartment, cook for us, but they're all former Olympic shot putters, so it's Marks amp; Spencer's tights that keep the cobwebs out of the corners and the pots scoured.