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soldiers and plain-clothes men on foot, the roadblocking vehicles reversing and accelerating away, sirens blaring.
    â€˜Come on,’ said Tanya to her daughter.
    â€˜How’s Natasha?’ asked the Director General politely. He’d had tea served and took some himself, although he wanted something stronger.
    â€˜Bewildered,’ said Tanya. She felt uncomfortable in such an impressive office. She thought the building ugly, though, like a factory.
    â€˜We’re glad you made the crossing safely.’
    â€˜We were lucky. It was a calm night and we never saw a naval patrol,’ said Tanya. She added: ‘Is there any news?’
    Bell shook his head. ‘There’ll have to be, soon. We can’t inquire, of course. That would confirm he was on an official mission.’
    â€˜I pray he won’t be hurt: physically hurt, I mean.’
    â€˜So do I,’ said Bell.
    â€˜It’s all very plausible and I agree all your papers are in order,’ said the KGB interrogator. ‘But I don’t believe a word you’ve told me. I want to know the truth. I want to know what you were doing at Liepaja and why you staged that stupid running away trick.’
    Whitehead, who was sagged with fatigue because they hadn’t let him sleep since his seizure, tried to straighten in his hard chair. ‘Truth,’ he said with difficulty. ‘I’ve told the truth.’
    â€˜No you haven’t,’ said the interrogator. ‘But I’ll find out the truth. I always do. You won’t be able to resist, not in the end.’
    Whitehead strained up to focus fully on the man. Which of them would win, he wondered.

4
    The Assassin
    One of the many unique institutions of London is its gentlemen’s clubs. They are invariably wood-panelled, leather-chaired places in fine, historic mansions from which, until a recent Act of Parliament ruling that the sexes are equal, women were prohibited. To become a member takes years and the highest recommendation; to be refused or expelled is to be disgraced. They are roughly divided among the professions. There is a club for travellers and a club for lawyers. The club for artists and writers and actors is the Garrick, in London’s Covent Garden.
    An adequate professional description for officials of the country’s intelligence service is difficult – they certainly wouldn’t accept spy – and there are hardly enough to support the expense of a club of their own. Over the years, for reasons no one can any longer remember, they have gravitated towards the Garrick. It was here that Samuel Bell chose to lunch with Sir William Hoare, who also had a profession difficult to describe. He was attached to the Foreign Office, which controls overseas intelligence, so nominally he was a diplomat. His true function was liaison between all espionage agencies.
    â€˜You talked of a problem?’ queried Bell at once. They were in the jostled bar, with pre-lunch whiskies.
    â€˜I hope I’m being overcautious,’ said Hoare. He was a stooped but immaculate man, white-haired and dark-suited, with a soft, almost apologetic voice. ‘Does the name Valentin Shidak mean anything to you?’
    For a few seconds it didn’t and then Bell remembered. He said: ‘Russian dissident. Allowed to leave the Soviet Union about five years ago. Since which time he’s lectured and broadcast on the evils of Moscow.’ Bell was glad of the recollection: recently, especially after a little too much to drink, he’d found his memory wasn’t so good.
    Hoare nodded. ‘We’ve used him, too. Two branches of our intelligence, at least.’
    â€˜I didn’t,’ insisted Bell. He had an inherent distrust of defectors and dissidents.
    â€˜I know,’ said Hoare. ‘I still felt you should be warned. He’s disappeared.’
    â€˜Why the concern?’
    â€˜The other intelligence people stopped using him about