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putting it on for me. “Your dad sat for days and days in some filthy apartment with only this German fellow for company: arguing and swearing most of the time according to your dad’s account. They were waiting for news of Hider’s assassination. When thi news came that the assassination attempt had failed, in came this Gestapo agent. Your dad was ready to jump out of the window but it turned out that it was the other chap’s brother ... I’m probably getting it all muddled,” said Frank with a smile. “And I’m sure it was all just one of your father’s yams. But whenever your dad could be persuaded to tell that story he’d have me, and everyone else, in fits of laughter.” Frank had some more wine and ate some cheese. “None of the rest of us had ever been in Nazi Germany of course. We hung on your dad’s every word. Sometimes he’d be pulling our leg mercilessly.”
    “The other day someone hinted that the Department might get to me through my father,” I said as casually as I could. “Pressure you?”
    “That was the implication. How could they do that, Frank?
    Did dad do anything .
    “Are you serious, Bernard?”
    “I want to know, Frank.”
    “Then may I suggest you seek clarification from whoever gave you this bizarre idea.”
    I changed the subject. “And Fiona?” I asked as casually as I was able.
    He looked up sharply. I suppose he knew how much I still missed her. “She keeps a very low profile.”
    “But she’s still in East Berlin?”
    “Very much so. Flourishing, or so I hear. Why?”
    “I was just curious.”
    “Put her out of your mind, Bernard. It’s all over now. I suffered for you but now it’s time to forget the past. Tell me about the new house. Do the children like having a garden?”
    Our conversation was devoted to domestic small-talk. By the time we went back to the drawing room to drink coffee, Frank was in a mellow mood. I said, “Remember the last time we were together in this room, Frank?”
    He looked at me and after a moment’s thought said, “The night you came over asking me to get Bret Rensselaer off the hook. Is it really that long ago? Three years?” “You were packing your Duke Ellington records,” I said.
    “They were all across the floor here.”
    “I thought I was retiring and going back to England.” He looked round remembering it all and said,’ It changed my life, I suppose. By now I would have been pensioned off and growing roses.”
    “And been Sir Frank Harrington,’ I said. “I’m sorry about the way it all worked out, Frank.” It was generally agreed that the debacle resulting from my intervention had deprived Frank of the knighthood he’d set his heart on. London Central had been saved from humiliation, by my warning and Frank’s unilateral action, but they’d still not forgiven either of us. We’d been proved right, and for the mandarins of the Foreign Office that was a rare and unpardonable sin.
    “It must be nearly three years,” he said, unrolling his tobacco pouch and stuffing his Balkan Sobranie tobacco into the bowl of a curly pipe. Oh God, was Frank going to smoke that pipe of his? “I was disappointed at the time but I’ve got over it now.” “I suppose Bret got the worst of it.”
    “I suppose so,” said Frank, lighting his pipe. “Last I heard he was having night and day nursing care and sinking fast,” I said. “He’s not still alive?”
    Frank took his time getting his pipe going before he replied.
    Then he said, “Bret hung on for a long time but now he’s gone.” He smiled in that distant way of his and started puffing contentedly. I moved back from him. I could never get used to Frank’s pipe. He said, “That’s not to be repeated. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you. I was told in confidence; the Department have said nothing yet.”
    “Poor Bret. That night I flew out of Berlin there was a roomful of men in white coats swearing he couldn’t live beyond the weekend.”
    “His brother arrived