“Same time, eight-thirty.”

“I’ll just have to get up early.”

“Is it wise?”

“Is anything in this life? I’ll handle it, don’t worry. I’ll be in touch.”

He put the phone down, thought about it for a while, then called British Airways and booked a seat on the morning flight with an open return. He lit a cigarette and walked to the window. Was it wise, she’d said, and he tried to remember what Tommy McGuire had known about him in eighty-one. Nothing about Danny Fahy, that was certain, because Fahy wasn’t supposed to be involved that time. That had been personal. But Jack Harvey was another matter. After all, it had been McGuire who’d put him onto Harvey as an arms supplier in the first place.

He pulled on his jacket, got his trenchcoat from the wardrobe and went out. Five minutes later he was hailing a cab on the corner. He got in and told the driver to take him to Covent Garden.

Gordon Brown sat on the other side of Ferguson’s desk in the half-light. He had never been so frightened in his life. “I didn’t mean any harm, Brigadier, I swear it.”

“Then why did you take a copy of the report?”

“It was just a whim. Stupid, I know, but I was so intrigued with it being for the Prime Minister.”

“You realize what you’ve done, Gordon, a man of your service? All those years in the Army? This could mean your pension.”

Detective Inspector Lane of Special Branch was in his late thirties and in his crumpled tweed suit and glasses looked like a schoolmaster. He said, “I’m going to ask you again, Mr. Brown.” He leaned on the end of the desk. “Have you ever taken copies like this before?”

“Absolutely not, I swear it.”

“You’ve never been asked by another person to do such a thing?”

Gordon managed to look suitably shocked. “Good heavens, Inspector, that would be treason. I was a Sergeant-Major in the Intelligence Corps.”

“Yes, Mr. Brown, we know all that,” Lane said.

The internal phone went and Ferguson lifted it. It was Lane’s sergeant, Mackie. “I’m outside, Brigadier, just back from the flat in Camden. I think you and the Inspector should come out.”

“Thank you.” Ferguson put the phone down. “Right, I think we’ll give you time to think things over, Gordon. Inspector?”

He nodded to Lane, got up and moved to the door and Lane followed him. Mackie was standing in the anteroom still in trilby and raincoat, a plastic bag in one hand.

“You found something, Sergeant?” Lane asked.

“You could call it that, sir.” Mackie took a cardboard file from his plastic bag and opened it. “A rather interesting collection.”

The copies of the reports were neatly stacked in order, the latest ones for the Prime Minister’s attention on top.

Lane said, “Christ, Brigadier, he’s been at it for a while.”

“So it would seem,” Ferguson said. “But to what purpose?”

“You mean he’s working for someone, sir?”

“Without a doubt. The present operation I’m engaged on is most delicate. There was an attack on a man working for me in Paris. A woman died. We wondered how the villain of the piece knew about them, if you follow me. Now we know. Details of these reports were passed on to a third party. They must have been.”

Lane nodded. “Then we’ll have to work on him some more.”

“No, we don’t have the time. Let’s try another way. Let’s just let him go. He’s a simple man. I think he’d do the simple thing.”

“Right, sir.” Lane turned to Mackie. “If you lose him, you’ll be back pounding the pavement in Brixton, and so will I, because I’m coming with you.”

They hurried out and Ferguson opened the door and went back in the office. He sat down behind the desk. “A sad business, Gordon.”

“What’s going to happen to me, Brigadier?”

“I’ll have to think about it.” Ferguson picked up the copy of the report. “Such an incredibly stupid thing to do.” He sighed. “Go home, Gordon, go home. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Gordon Brown couldn’t believe his luck. He got the door open somehow and left, hurrying down the corridor to the staff cloakroom. The narrowest escape of his life. It could have meant the end of everything. Not only his career and pension, but prison. But that was it: no more and Tania would have to accept that. He went downstairs to the car park, pulling on his coat, found his car and was turning into Whitehall a few moments later, Mackie and Lane hard on his tail in the Sergeant’s unmarked Ford Capri.

Dillon knew that late-night shopping was the thing in the Covent Garden area. There were still plenty of people around in spite of the winter cold and he hurried along until he came to the theatrical shop, Clayton’s, near Neal’s Yard. The lights were on in the window, the door opened to his touch, the bell tinkling.

Clayton came through the bead curtain and smiled. “Oh, it’s you. What can I do for you?”

“Wigs,” Dillon told him.

“A nice selection over here.” He was right. There was everything-short, long, permed, blonde, redhead. Dillon selected one that was shoulder-length and gray.

“I see,” Clayton said. “The granny look?”

“Something like that. What about costume? I don’t mean anything fancy. Second-hand?”

“In here.”

Clayton went through the bead curtain and Dillon followed him. There was rack upon rack of clothes and a jumbled heap in the corner. He worked very quickly, sorting through, selected a long brown skirt with an elastic waist and a shabby raincoat that almost came down to his ankles.

Clayton said, “What are you going to play, Old Mother Riley or a bag lady?”

“You’d be surprised.” Dillon had seen a pair of jeans on top of the jumble in the corner. He picked them up and searched through a pile of shoes beside them, selecting a pair of runners that had seen better days.

“These will do,” he said. “Oh, and this,” and he picked an old headscarf from a stand. “Stick ’em all in a couple of plastic bags. How much?”

Clayton started to pack them. “By rights I should thank you for taking them away, but we’ve all got to live. Ten quid to you.”

Dillon paid him and picked up the bags. “Thanks a lot.”

Clayton opened the door for him. “Have a good show, luv, give ’em hell.”

“Oh, I will,” Dillon said and he hurried down to the corner, hailed a cab and told the driver to take him back to the hotel.

When Tania Novikova went down to answer the bell and opened the door to find Gordon Brown there, she knew, by instinct, that something was wrong.

“What’s this, Gordon? I told you I’d come round to your place.”

“I must see you, Tania, it’s essential. Something terrible has happened!”

“Calm down,” she said. “Just take it easy. Come upstairs and tell me all about it.”

Lane and Mackie were parked at the end of the street and the Inspector was already on the car phone to Ferguson, giving him the address.

“Sergeant Mackie’s done a quick check at the door, sir. The card says a Miss Tania Novikova.”

“Oh, dear,” Ferguson said.

“You know her, sir?”

“Supposedly a secretary at the Soviet Embassy, Inspector. In fact she’s a captain in the KGB.”

“That means she’s one of Colonel Yuri Gatov’s people, sir. He runs London Station.”

“I’m not so sure. Gatov is a Gorbachev man and very pro-West. On the other hand, I always understood the Novikova woman to be to the right of Genghis Khan. I’d be surprised if Gatov knew about this.”

“Are you going to notify him, sir?”

“Not yet. Let’s see what she’s got to say first. It’s information we’re after.”

“Shall we go in, sir?”

“No, wait for me. I’ll be with you in twenty minutes.”

Tania peered cautiously through a chink in the curtains. She saw Mackie standing by his car at the end of the street and it was enough. She could smell policemen anywhere in the world, Moscow, Paris, London-it was always the same.