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there, watching the world with cynical detachment.
    Wyman had befriended Schofield when working as the Section V (Counter-Intelligence) officer at the MI6 Rome station. Unlike most of his colleagues, Wyman was a true cosmopolitan, and this had earned him Schofield’s respect. Wyman had quickly realized that Schofield’s caustic, boozy front masked an active, penetrating intellect, and that the two of them had a great deal in common. They shared a mordant sense of humour, as well as a taste for good food, drink and intelligent company. Both men were skilled professionals, and both preferred to hide the fact. Furthermore, they had more in common than was generally supposed. Schofield had been involved in US intelligence during the last world war and he maintained acquaintances in the “Company”, the CIA.
    Wyman entered the Stampa and saw Schofield’s sixteen-stone frame leaning against the bar. There was no one else there, apart from a long-suffering barman who was already catering for the American’s liquid requirements.
    â€œHello, Frank,” Wyman said. “How are you?”
    â€œAbout five drinks under par,” said Schofield. “How about you? Still pushing paper in Percy Street?”
    â€œThat’s right. But not for much longer, I’m afraid.”
    â€œFired?”
    â€œThe English call it redundancy. It amounts to the same thing.”
    Schofield shook his head and emitted a low whistle.
    â€œI heard they’re economizing.”
    â€œYes,” Wyman said. “I’ve heard the same thing.”
    Schofield grinned.
    â€œDrink?”
    â€œScotch please.”
    The barman poured out the drink and gave it to Wyman.
    â€œWere you prepared for it?” Schofield asked.
    â€œI have to confess that I wasn’t. Cheers.”
    â€œStill,” Schofield observed, “I suppose you can go back to your university now.”
    Wyman shook his head.
    â€œNo I can’t. The College is taking similar steps. Very soon I shall be entirely without work.”
    â€œNobody likes an old-timer, Mike. What are you going to do?”
    â€œGod knows. I haven’t really had time to think about it. Something rather unexpected has cropped up in the Firm, and I’m supposed to sort it out before I leave. That’s why I’ve come to see you.”
    â€œI didn’t think you came here to exchange pleasant reminiscences. What can I do for you?”
    â€œI’d prefer to talk about it elsewhere, if that’s all right.”
    Schofield’s eyebrows lifted inquiringly.
    â€œOh, it’s like that, is it? Is there any money in this?”
    â€œOnly my expense account.”
    â€œThat’ll do. I presume we can talk over a quiet meal, thanks to the munificence of the Firm?”
    â€œI don’t see why not. It’s the least they can do, isn’t it?”
    â€œToo damn right,” Schofield growled. “I might be cheap, but I don’t work for free.”
    â€œThat,” Wyman observed, “should be the motto on your coat of arms.”

Chapter Fourteen
    W YMAN AND SCHOFIELD left the Stampa and walked down to the Via del Corso. The main streets were still full of people, so they turned off into a series of small lanes that led to the Piazza Navona.
    â€œIt’s much quieter nowadays, Mike,” Schofield said. “No more big parties, crazy film stars, all that crap. Rome still makes for good stories, but I think it’s sobering up.”
    Wyman gave a sly grin.
    â€œAre you talking about Rome or Frank Schofield?”
    â€œBoth, I guess. You know, I think I’ve become just another tourist attraction. People put me down on their itineraries, somewhere between Trajan’s Column and the Trevi Fountain. I get all these weirdos from the States coming up and telling me how they’ve heard all about me. It’s very disconcerting.
    â€œThe other day I got a visit from some girl who works at