There was quite a lot of money involved. It was an official deal: we paid the Russians and they released a prisoner they were holding. It was political. A Cabinet Office request – very hush-hush. You know. It was going to be done in Berlin in the usual way, but Bret argued with Frank Harrington and finally it was decided that Bret would handle it personally. I went along to help.'

'This was when Bret was still running the Economics Intelligence Committee?'

'This was a long time ago, when it was called the European Economics Desk and Bret was officially only Deputy Controller. But there's no reason to think this job was anything directly to do with that desk. I understood that Bret was doing this at the special order oftheD-G.'

'European Economics Desk. That's going back a bit.'

'Years and years. Long before Bret got his nice big office and had the decorator in.'

'What are you going to tell me about him?' I said. I had the feeling that Dicky had come to a full stop.

'I was a complete innocent. I was expecting some well-dressed diplomatic official, but the man we met was dressed like a deckhand from one of the Swedish ferries, though I noticed that he arrived in a big black Volvo with a driver. He might just have come across the border – it's an easy enough drive.' Dicky rubbed his face. 'A big bastard he was, an old man. He spoke good English. There was a lot of small talk. He said he'd once lived in Boston.'

'Are we talking about a Soviet official?'

'Yes. He identified himself as a KGB colonel. His documents said his name was Popov. It was such a memorable name that I've remembered it ever since.'

'Go on, Dicky, I'm listening. Popov is a common enough Russian name.'

'He knew Bret.'

'Where from?'

'God knows. But he recognized him – "Good evening, Mr Rensselaer," he said, as bold as brass.'

'You said the place was empty. He could have guessed who you were.'

'There were too many people there for anyone to come in through the door and assume one of them was Mr Rensselaer.'

'How did Bret respond?'

There was a lot of noise. It was one of these places where they have disco music switched up so loud it bends your eardrums. Bret didn't seem to hear him. But this fellow Popov obviously knew Bret from some other time. He was chatting away, as friendly as can be. Bret went rigid. His face was like one of those Easter Island stone carvings. Then I suppose his friend Popov noticed he was alarmed. Suddenly all the bonhomie was switched off. Bret's name wasn't mentioned after that; it was all very formal. We all went into the washroom and counted the money, tipping all the bundles of bills into a sink and repacking the case. When it was done Popov said good night and departed. No signature, no receipt, no nothing. And no "Good night Mr Rensselaer." This time it was just "Good night, gentlemen". I was worried in case we hadn't handled it right, but they released the man the next day. Have you ever had to do a job like that?'

'Once or twice.'

They say the KGB keep the cash. Is that true?'

'I don't know, Dicky. No one knows for sure. We can only guess.'

'So how did he know Bret?'

'I don't know that either,' I said. 'You think he knew Bret from somewhere else?'

'Bret's never done any field work.'

'Maybe he'd paid money over in the same way before,' I suggested.

'He said he hadn't. He told me he'd never done anything like that before.'

'Did you ask Bret if he knew the Russian?'

'I was a new boy; Bret was senior staff.'

'Did you report it?'

That the KGB man had called him "Mr Rensselaer"? No, it didn't seem important. It's only now that it seems important. Do you think I should tell Internal Security?'

'Take your time,' I advised. 'It sounds like Bret has got enough questions to answer for the time being.'

Dicky forced a smile even though he was chewing his nail. Dicky was worried; not about Bret, of course, but about himself.

22

We were celebrating the anniversary of Werner and Zena's marriage. It was not the exact date, but Gloria had offered to cook dinner for the Volkmanns who were in London to appear before the committee.

Gloria was not a great cook. She prepared veal chops followed by a mixed salad and a shop-bought cake that said zena and werner congratulations in chocolate.

Not without some misgivings I'd allowed the children to stay up and have dinner with us. I would have preferred them to eat with Nanny upstairs, but it was her night off and she had made arrangements with friends. So the children sat at the table with us and watched Gloria playing hostess in the way their mother had so recently done. Billy seemed relaxed enough – although he only picked at the chocolate cake, which was unusual – but Sally sat through the meal pinch-faced and silent. She watched Gloria's every move and there was tacit criticism in the way she was so reluctant to help pass the dishes down the table. Gloria must have noticed, but she gave no sign of it. She was clever with the children: cheerful, considerate, persuasive, and helpful but never maternal enough to provoke resentment. Gloria took her cue from Nanny, consulting her and deferring to her in such a way that Nanny was forced into Fiona's role while Gloria became a sort of super-nanny and elder sister.

But Gloria's subtle instinct for handling the children let her down when she took the cushioned dining chair that Fiona always used at table. She sat at the end of the table so that she could reach the hotplate and the wine. For the first time the children saw Fiona replaced and perhaps for the first time they faced the idea that their mother was permanently lost to them.

When, after tasting the cake and toasting Zena and Werner in apple juice, Gloria took the children upstairs to change into pyjamas and go to bed, I was half inclined to go with them. But Zena was in the midst of a long story about her wealthy relatives in Mexico City and I let the children go. It was a long time before Gloria returned. Billy was in his new pyjamas and carrying a toy crane that he felt he must demonstrate for Werner.

'Where's Sally?' I asked when I kissed Billy good night.

'She's a little tearful,' said Gloria. 'It's the excitement. She'll be fine after a good night's sleep.'

'Sally says Mummy is never coming back,' said Billy.

'Never is a long time,' I replied. I kissed him again. 'I'll come up and kiss Sally.'

'She's asleep,' said Gloria. 'She'll be all right, Bernie.'

Even after Billy was in bed and Zena had finished her long story, I worried about the children. I suppose Sally felt she had no one she could really confide in. Poor child.

'How did you remember the date of our marriage?' Zena Volkmann asked me.

'I always remember,' I said.

'He's a liar,' said Gloria. 'He made me phone Werner's secretary and ask.'

'You mustn't give away all Bernie's secrets,' Werner told her.

'It was a wonderful surprise,' said Zena. The two women were sitting on the sofa together. They were both very young, but they were as different as two young women could be. Gloria was blonde, fair-skinned, tall and big-boned, with that rather slow tolerant attitude that is often the sign of the scholar. Zena Volkmann was small and dark, with the coil-spring energy and the short fuse of the self-made opportunist. She was dressed expensively and adorned with jewellery; Gloria was in tweed skirt and roll-neck sweater with only a small plain silver brooch.

Werner was in a mood for reminiscence that evening, and he'd related story after story about the times we'd spent together in Berlin. The two women had endured our remembered youthful escapades with fortitude, but now they'd had enough. Gloria got to her feet. 'More coffee? Brandy?' she said. She poured the last of the coffee for me and for Werner. 'You do the brandy, Bernard. I'll make more coffee and tidy away.'