'Yes, but he's only just got back to Berlin. And Werner isn't one of his agents. He has no contact number for Werner.'

'Only for Zena?' said Dicky sarcastically. Such caustic remarks about senior staff – let alone their misconduct – were most unusual. I began to wonder if Dicky was running a fever.

Werner phoned me that evening, just as I was about to leave the office. The whole floor was almost empty; Dicky had gone home, Gloria Kent had gone home, my secretary had gone home. The switchboard staff had already connected the outside lines to the duty office but luckily Werner came through on my private phone. 'Where the hell have you been?' I asked him angrily. 'I've had Dicky kicking my arse all round the office about you.'

'I'm sorry,' said Werner. He could be mournful without sounding apologetic. 'But you'd better get over here right away.'

'Where are you? Berlin?'

'No, I'm in England. I'm in that old safe house you used to use… the one near the sea at Bosham.'

'Chichester? What are you doing there, Werner? Dicky will be furious.'

'I can't talk. I'm using a call phone in a pub. There is someone waiting. I'll meet you at the house.'

'It's about seventy miserable miles, Werner. I hate that road. It will take an hour or more.'

'See you then. You remember how to find it?'

'I'll see you there,' I said without enthusiasm.

Bosham, which the English – as a part of their chronic conspiracy to baffle foreigners – pronounce 'Bozzam', is a collection of cottages, old and new, crowded on to a peninsula between two tidal creeks that give on to inland waters, and eventually to the Channel. Here are sailing boats of every shape and size, and sailing schools and sailing clubs. And here are pubs crammed with nautical junk, and clocks that chime ships' bells at closing time. And noisy men in sailor's jerseys who tow their boats behind their cars.

The safe house was not too far from Bosham's little church. It was a neat little 'two up and two down' with a freshly painted weather-boarded front, and bright orange roof-tiles. Even in the years of depressed property prices such little weekend cottages with their view of the boats, and sometimes even a glimpse of the water between them, had kept their value.

Summer had gone but it had been a fine day for those lucky enough to spend it sailing. But now there was an offshore wind and when I arrived and got out of my car the air was chilly and I needed the coat I'd thrown on to the back seat. It was twilight when I arrived. The yellow lights of the houses were reflected in the water and there were still people on some of the boats, folding their sails and trying to prolong the perfect day. Werner was waiting for me, sitting at the wheel of a Rover 2000 that was parked close up against the house. He opened the car door and I got in beside him.

'What's the story, Werner?'

'A black girl… woman, I should say. West Indian. Was married to an American airman stationed in Germany. She's divorced. Lives in Munich; very active political worker, very vocal communist. Then two years ago she became very quiet and very respectable. You know what I mean?'

'She was recruited by the KGB?'

'It looks that way. Last week she came to Berlin for a briefing. I followed Stinnes one evening after I'd noticed him looking at his watch all through dinner. Then I followed her. She came here.' Werner smiled. He was a boy scout. He loved the whole business of espionage, as other men are obsessed with golf, women or stamp collections.

'I believe we met,' I said.

'Came here,' said Werner.

'To England. Yes, I know.'

'Came here,' said Werner. He had the car keys in his hand, and now he tapped them against the steering wheel to emphasize his words. 'To this house.'

'How is that possible? This is a departmental safe house.'

'I know,' said Werner. 'I followed her here and I recognized it. You sent me here. It was a long time ago. I brought a parcel of documents for someone being held here.'

'Is she in there now?'

'No, she's gone.'

'Have you tried to get in?'

'I've been inside. I came out again. There's a body upstairs.'

The girl?'

'It looked like a man. I couldn't find the main switch for the electricity. You can't see much with only a flashlight.'

'What sort of body?'

'The shutters were closed so there was no daylight and I didn't want to trample through the house leaving marks everywhere.'

'We'd better take a look,' I said. 'How did you get in before?'

'Kitchen window. It's very messy, Bernard. Really messy. Blood on the floor. I've left footmarks, I'm afraid. Blood on the floor. Blood on the walls. Blood on the ceiling.'

'What happened? Do you have an idea?'

'Looks like the body's been there a couple of days. Gun-shot wound. High-velocity head shot. You know what happens.'

'We'd better take a look,' I said. I got out of the car. From somewhere near by I could hear merry holiday-makers leaving the pub, their voices raised in song.

As Werner had already found, it was not difficult to get the kitchen window open, but my forced entry was not the demonstration of expertise that I'd intended. Werner did not comment on the way my shoes left mud in the sink and my elbow knocked a teacup to the floor, and for that restraint I was grateful to him.

I let Werner in through the front door and went to the cupboard under the stairs to find the fuse box and put the lights on. Nothing much had changed since I'd last visited the house. We'd had an East German scientist there for a long debriefing session. I'd taken my turn on the rota with him. To alleviate the misery of his internment he'd been allowed some sailing trips. The house brought back happy memories for me. But since that time two Russian air-force officers had been held here. One of them had eventually returned to the USSR. Despite the way in which all such internees were brought here in a closed vehicle, there had been fears about the address being compromised.

Officially the house had not been used for such defectors for some years but, such was the dogged plod of departmental housekeeping, all the arrangements about its upkeep had obviously continued. Not only was the electricity still connected and paid for; the house was clean and tidy. There were signs of use: crockery on the draining board and fresh groceries in evidence on the shelf.

I went upstairs to the front bedroom first. I opened the doors and switched on the light. It was just as messy as Werner had described. The pale-green floral wallpaper was spattered with blood, there was more on the ceiling and a sticky pool of it on the floor. Exposure to the air had discoloured the blood so that it was no longer bright red but brownish and in places almost black.

It was small room, with a single bed made up with loose covers and cushions to look like a sofa. In the corner there was a dressing table with a large mirror in which was reflected the body of a man sprawled across the cheap Indian carpet. He had been thrown forward from a small kitchen chair in which he'd been sitting. The chair was on its side; its back-rest showed bare white wood where a bullet had torn a large splinter from it.

'Do you recognize him?'

'Yes,' I said. 'It's one of our people, a probationer. A bright kid. His name is Julian MacKenzie.' The light shone on a circular disc of plastic and I picked it up from the floor. It was a watch glass with a scratch on it. I recognized it as the one from my old Omega. After it stopped I'd put the watch and the crystal in an envelope and never taken it for repair. I wondered who had found it and where.

'Did you know he was coming here?' Werner asked.

I switched off the light and pulled the door closed on the dead boy. I looked into the next room. It was another bedroom, with another single bed. 'Single bed,' I said, trying to keep my mind from thinking about MacKenzie's body. 'No one could believe that this was a weekend cottage. Weekend cottages are always crammed with beds.'