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said, slowly and with an emphasis that promised an even more revealing addendum.
    â€œAh,” said Manning, “I am now absolutely all ears.”
    â€œMortimer Fitzhugh is a hybrid,” Burdin said. “By that I mean he inhabits a space between us and the Americans.”
    â€œHe's a double agent?”
    â€œNot quite. After all, we are so very close to our special American friends. But that's exactly the basis for his status and the means of justifying it.”
    â€œGo on,” said Manning. He was looking at his watch. Daylight was becoming an issue, and Burdin was on his own. There was no way he was getting near the house. His father would rise from his grave if a British agent came within reach of the garden gate.
    â€œFitzhugh is with the other lot, MI5,” he said. “He's also on loan to the CIA. He works both corners and reports to both.”
    â€œI thought MI5 were confined to domestic operations,” said Manning.
    â€œCome on, Eamonn, you know you don't entirely believe that. And remember what they say about all news being local. Well, it's the same in the intelligence game. There are no barriers or borders anymore. Everybody is everywhere and works all over, tout le monde so to speak.”
    â€œSo who's your man, or woman, at the embassy, Roger?”
    Burdin laughed.
    â€œNow Eamonn, there are things I can say and things I cannot say. But you know that. Suffice it to say Mr. Fitzhugh does nothing for us. Indeed, part of his job is to keep an eye on us. As you know there are times when there is a lot more between us than just a single digit. Cain and Abel and all that.”
    Manning was turning over and assimilating this information as quickly as he could. Several things came immediately to mind and began to make better sense. Like the time that the British embassy's first secretary had pumped him over lunch for his views on a long list of his colleagues at her majesty's embassy. He was trying to find out the identities of special friends who might be inclined towards talking loosely with “you Irish lot,” as he so indelicately put it.
    â€œI always did think that Mortimer was lacking in the kind of subtlety that I have come to expect from your side,” said Manning.
    Burdin was looking through his binoculars again. He had said all he was going to say about Fitzhugh and his secrets.
    â€œGood lord, but the light is fading fast. Time to be on my way,” he said.
    â€œYou had better be quick about it and careful. The ground is wet, and you will have to move fast to get down the side you came up,” said Manning, with a measure of genuine concern in his voice.
    â€œDon't worry, Eamonn. I have one of those miner headlamps in my pack, and I once did a survival course. Marooned in the Scottish Highlands for a week. They called it a perk of the job, the buggers. And my car's at the bottom,” Burdin replied.
    â€œLet me guess; it's an Aston Martin.”
    â€œYou've been watching too many films, Eamonn. Remember, we want to know what your friend Pender is up to. We'll be in touch once you are back in the States.”
    â€œHe's not my friend,” said Manning. But Burdin was gone. With a nimble-footedness worthy of a goat he had started back along the scrape that passed for a path down the south side of the mountain. He was already almost out of sight.
    Manning took a moment to absorb what Burdin had imparted. Fitzhugh was a bloody spook. That was no surprise. But the identity of his dual employers was interesting news. Manning figured he now might have a bit of fun with the man, send him off on false trails with information that appeared loosely and casually dropped over Cabernet Sauvignon.
    But so much of what lay ahead, not to mention in the past, was anything but loose and casual. As he considered all this, Manning began to make his way back down the slope, feeling hungry and in need of shelter and warmth.
    As Manning closed in on his