'Is that so?' I said, keeping it all very casual.

'For years your people kept Bret away from any US sensitive material in case it compromised his loyalty, but he was never any kind of undercover man for the Agency. Bret is your man, you can rest assured on that one.'

I nodded and wondered where Posh Harry had got the idea that Bret was suspected of leaking to the Americans. Was that Lange's misinterpretation or Harry's? Or was it simply that no one could start to envisage him doing anything as dishonourable as spying for the Russians? And if that was it, was I wrong? And, if he was guilty of such ungentlemanly activities, who was going to believe it?

'What have they got against Bret anyway?' asked Harry.

'Better you contact me through the office, Harry,' I said. 'I don't like getting my relatives involved.'

'Sure, I'm sorry,' said Harry, giving no sign of being sorry. 'But this is something better done away from the people across the river there.' He gave a nod in the vague direction of Westminster and Whitehall.

'What is it?'

'I'm going to give you something on a plate, Bernard. It will give you a lot of kudos with your people.'

'That's good,' I said without sounding very keen. I'd suffered some of Harry's favours in the past.

'And that's the truth,' said Harry. 'Take a look at that.' He passed me a photocopy of a typewritten document. There were eight pages of it.

'Do I have to read it? Or are you going to tell me what it's all about?'

'That's a memo that was discussed by the Cabinet about three or four months ago. It concerns the security of British installations in West Germany.'

'The British Cabinet? This is a British Cabinet memo?'

'Yessir.'

'Is there anything special about it?'

'The special thing about it was that one copy at least ended up in the KGB files in Moscow.'

'Is that where this photocopy came from?'

'KGB; Moscow. That is exactly right,' he smiled. It was the salesman's smile, broad but bleak.

'What has this got to do with me, Harry?'

This could be the break you need, Bernard.'

'Do I need a break?'

'Come on, Bernard. Come on! Do you think it's a secret that your people are nervous about employing you?'

'I don't know what you're talking about, Harry,' I said.

'Okay. When your wife defected it was swept under the carpet. But don't imagine there were no off-the-record chats to the boys in Washington and Brussels. So what do you think those people were likely to say? What about the husband, they asked. I'm not going to baby you along, Bernie. Quite a few people – people in the business, I mean – know what happened to your wife. And they know that you are under the microscope right now. Are you going to deny it?'

'What's your proposition, Harry?' I said.

'This memo is a hot potato, Bernie. What son of a bitch leaked that one? Leaked it so that it didn't stop moving until it got to Moscow?'

'An agent inside Ten Downing Street? Is that what you're selling me?'

'Number Ten is your neck of the woods, old buddy. I'm suggesting you take this photocopy and start asking questions. I'm saying that a big one like this could do you a power of good right now.'

'And what do you want out of it?'

'Now come on, Bernie. Is that what you think of me? It's a present. I owe you a couple of favours. We both know that.'

I folded the sheets as best I could and put it all into my pocket. 'I'll report it, of course.'

'You do whatever you choose. But if you report it, that paper will go into the box and you'll never hear another thing about it. The investigation will be directly handed over to the security service. You know that as well as I do.'

'I'll think about it, Harry. Thanks anyway.'

'A lot of folks are rooting for you, Bernard.'

'Where did you get it, Harry?'

Posh Harry had a foot on the chair and was gently scraping a mud spot from his-shoe with his fingernail. 'Bernard!' he said reproachfully. 'You know I can't tell you that.' He wet his fingertips with spittle and tried a second time,

'Well, let's eliminate a few nasties,' I said. 'This wasn't taken from any CIA office, was it?'

'Bernard, Bernard.' He was still looking at his shoe. 'What a mind you've got!'

'Because I don't want to carry a parcel that's ticking.'

He finished the work on his shoe and put his feet on the floor and looked at me. 'Of course not. It's raw, it's hot. It hasn't been on any desks.'

'Some kind of floater then?'

'What do you think I am, Bernard? A part-time pimp for the KGB? Do you think I've lasted this long without being able to smell a KGB float?'

'There's always a first time, Harry. And any one of us can make a mistake.'

'Well, okay, Bernard. I've got no real provenance on this one, I'll admit that. It's a German contact who's given me nothing but gold so far.'

'And who pays him?'

'He's not for sale, Bernard.'

'Then it's no one I know,' I said.

He gave a little mirthless chuckle as a man might acknowledge the feeble joke of a valuable client. 'You're getting old and embittered, Bernard. Do you know there was a time when you'd get angry at hearing a crack like that? You'd have given your lecture about idealism, and politics, and freedom, and people who have died for what they believe in. Now you say it's no one you know.' He shook his head. It was mockery, but we both knew he was right. We both knew plenty of people who had never been for sale, and some of them had died proving it.

'Is George selling you a car?' I said to change the subject.

'I lease from George. I've done that for years. He lets me change cars, see? You knew that, didn't you?' He meant that George let him have a succession of cars when he was keeping someone under observation and didn't want the car he used recognized.

'No,' I said. 'George observes the discretion of the confessional. I didn't even know he knew you,'

'And nice kids, Bernie.' He slapped me on the back. 'Don't look so worried, pal. You've got a lot of good friends. A lot of people owe you. They'll see you through.'

Posh Harry was in the middle of saying all this when the door of the office crashed open. In the doorway there was a woman, thirtyish and pretty in the way that women become pretty if they use enough expensive makeup. She wore a full-length fur coat and hugged a large handbag to herself as if it contained a lot of valuables.

'Hon-ee,' she called petulantly. 'How much longer do I have to sit around in this dump?'

'Coming, sweetheart,' said Posh Harry.

'Har-ree! We're going to be so late,' she said. Her voice was laden with magnolia blossoms, the sort of accent that happens to ladies who watch Gone With the Wind on TV while eating chocolates.

Harry looked at his watch. Then we went through the usual routine of exchanging phone numbers and promising to meet for lunch, but neither of us put much enthusiasm into it. After Harry had finally said goodbye, George Kosinski returned with the kids.

'Everything all right, Bernard?' he said. He looked at me expectantly. I suppose for George all meetings were deals or potential deals.

'Yes, it was all right,' I said.

'Your Rover is there. The kids like it.' He put his briefcase on the table and began to rummage through it to find the registration book, but he only found it after dumping the contents of his case on the table. There was a bundle of mail ready to be posted, a biography of Mozart, and an elaborately bound Bible. 'A present for my nephew,' he said, as if the presence of the Bible required some sort of explanation. He also found a copy of the Daily Telegraph, an assortment of car keys with large labels attached, an address book, some foreign coins, and a red silk scarf. He waved the Mozart book at me. 'I've become interested in music lately,' he said. 'I've been going to concerts with Tessa. Mozart had a terrible life, did you know that?'