'Let's not play with words, Bret. The important question is whether Stinnes is playing a double game.'

'Forget it,' said Bret.

'I'm not going to forget it, Bret,' I told him. 'I'm going to pursue it.'

'You landed Erich Stinnes for us. Everyone says that without you he wouldn't have come across to us.'

‘I not sure that's true,' I said.

'Never mind the modest disclaimers. You got him and everyone gives you the credit for that. Don't start going around the office telling everyone they've got an active KGB agent in position.'

'We'll have to take away the shortwave radio,' I said. 'But that will warn him that we're on to him.'

'Slow down, Bernard. Slow right down. If you're blaming yourself for Ted Riley's death because you agreed to letting Stinnes have the radio, forget it.'

'I can't forget it. It was my suggestion.'

'Even if Stinnes is still active, and even if tonight's fiasco was the result of something arranged between him and Moscow, the radio can't have played a big part in it.'

I drank some of the whisky. I was calmer now; the drink had helped. I resolved not to fight with Bret to the point where I flounced out and slammed the door, because I didn't feel I was capable of driving back to London.

When I didn't reply, Bret spoke again. 'He couldn't send any messages back to them. Even if by some miracle he smuggled a letter out and posted it, there'd be no time for it to get there and be acted upon. What can they tell him that's worth knowing?'

'Not much, I suppose.'

'If there's any conspiracy, it was all arranged before we got him, before he flew out of Mexico City. The use of that radio means nothing.'

'I suppose you're right,' I said.

'There's a spare bedroom upstairs, Bernard. Have a sleep; you look all in. We'll talk again over breakfast.'

What he said about the radio made sense and I felt a bit better about it. But I noted the way he was going to bat for Stinnes. Was that because Bret was a KGB agent? Or simply because he saw in Stinnes a way of regaining a powerful position in London Central? Or both?

16

As always lately, the D-G was represented by the egregious Morgan. It was a curious fact that although Morgan couldn't always spare time to attend those meetings at which the more banal aspects of departmental administration were discussed, he could always find time to represent the D-G at these Operations discussions. I had always been opposed to the way the top-floor bureaucrats gate-crashed such meetings just to make themselves feel a part of the Operations side, and I particularly objected to pen pushers like Morgan listening in and even offering comments.

We were in Bret Rensselaer's room. Bret was sitting behind his glass-topped desk playing with his pens and pencils. Morgan was standing by the wall studying The Crucifixion, a tiny Durer engraving that Bret had recently inherited from some rich relative. It was the only picture in the room and I doubt if it would have got there if it hadn't fitted in with Bret's black-and-white scheme. Morgan's pose suggested indifference, if not boredom, but his ears were quivering as he listened for every nuance of what was being said.

'This is a time to keep our heads down,' said Dicky. He was wearing his faded jeans and open-necked checked shirt and was sprawled on Bret's black-leather chesterfield, while Frank Harrington was sitting hunched up at the other end of it. 'We've stirred up a hornet's nest and Five will be swarming all over us if they think we're doing any sort of follow-up operation.'

Dicky, of course, had been left out of the fiasco in which Ted Riley was killed and he wasn't happy at the way he'd been bypassed, but Dicky was not a man to hold grudges, he'd told me that a million times. He'd be content to watch Bret Rensselaer crash full length to the floor and bleed to death, but it wouldn't be Dicky who put his dagger in. Dicky was no Brutus; this was a drama in which Dicky would be content with a non-speaking role. But now that Rensselaer wanted to organize a follow-up operation and possibly salvage some measure of success out of the mess, Dicky found his voice. 'I'm against it,' he said.

'It's a perfect opportunity,' said Bret. 'They've lost their records. It would be natural for Moscow to make contact.' He rearranged the pens, pencils, paper clips, and the big glass paperweight like a miser counting his wealth.

'Is this what Stinnes is saying?' I asked.

Bret looked at me and then at the others. 'I should have told you…' he said. 'Bernard has suddenly decided that Stinnes is here to blow a hole in all of us.' He smiled, but the smile wasn't big enough to completely contradict this contention. He left that to me.

I was forced to modify that wild claim just as Bret knew I would be. 'I didn't exactly say that, Bret,' I said. I was sitting on the hard folding chair. I always seemed to be sitting on hard folding chairs; it was a mark of my low status.

'Then what?' said Frank Harrington. He folded his arms and narrowed his shoulders as if to make himself even smaller.

'I not happy with any of it,' I said. I felt like telling them that I had enough evidence to support the idea that Bret should be put straight into one of the Berwick House hard-rooms pending an interior enquiry. But in the present circumstances any attempt to describe my reasoning, and my evidence, could only result in me being put there instead. 'It's just a feeling,' I said lamely.

'So what's your plan?' said Frank, looking at Bret.

'Stinnes says that a courier takes cash to pay the network. We know the KGB rendezvous procedure. We'll contact the network and I'll take them some money.'

'Money? Who'll sign the chit for it?' said Dicky, suddenly sitting up and taking notice. Dicky could be very protective about German-desk funds being spent by anyone other than himself.

'It will come from Central Funding,' said Bret, who was ready for that one.

'It can't come direct from Central Funding,' said Morgan. 'It must have the appropriate signature.' He meant Dicky, of course, and technically he was right.

Bret wiggled his feet a little – his shoes were visible through the glass-topped desk – and ignored him. To the rest of us he said, 'There's sure to have been cash and valuables lost in the explosion. And even if there wasn't, they'll want dough to cover their extra expenses. It's a perfect chance to crack them wide open.'

'It sounds like bloody madness to me,' said Morgan, angry at getting the cold shoulder.

'Do we know any of them?' said Frank vaguely.

Bret had been saving this one, of course, and Frank had fed him just the right cue. 'Damn right we do! We know three of them in considerable detail; one is on the computer. I had a long session with Stinnes yesterday and I know exactly how it should be done.'

Frank still had his arms folded. I realized that he was fighting the temptation to get out his pipe and tobacco; Frank found thinking difficult without the pipe in his hand, but the last time he'd smoked his pungent Balkan Sobranie here, Bret had asked him to put it out. Frank said, 'You're not thinking of trying this yourself, are you, Bret?' He kept his voice level and friendly, but it was impossible to miss the note of incredulity and Bret didn't like it.

'Yes, I am,' said Bret.

'How can you be sure that Bernard's wrong?' said Frank. 'How can you be sure that Stinnes didn't send your two men into that booby trap? And how can you be sure he hasn't got the same kind of thing planned for you?'

'Because I'm taking Stinnes with me,' said Bret.

There was a silence broken only by the sound of the D-G's black Labrador sniffing and scratching at the door. It wanted to get in to Morgan, who took it for walks.