'No,' said the D-G, watching the cricketers and wondering what was coming.

'We must take this woman and clear her mind of everything she knows.'

'Classified material?'

'I'm already making sure she sees nothing that would affect the Department.'

'How did she take that?'

'We have to make our plans as if she will be interrogated… interrogated in the cellars at Normannenstrasse.' In the silence that followed a big fly buzzed angrily against the window glass.

'It's a nasty thought.'

'The stakes are high, Sir Henry. But we're playing to win.' He looked around the hut. It was insufferably hot and the air was perfumed with linseed oil and weedkillers for the lawn. Bret opened the door to let a little air in.

The D-G looked at Bret and said, 'A good thunderstorm would clear the air,' as if this was something he could arrange. Then he added, 'You're making me wonder whether a woman is right after all.'

'It's too late to change the plan now.'

'Surely not?' Even the D-G was feeling the heat. He mopped his brow with a red silk handkerchief that had been protruding from his top pocket.

'Mrs Samson knows what we intend. If we change to another agent our plan is known to her. I have shown her the figures and the graphs. She knows that the skilled and professional labour force is our target. She knows that we want to bleed their essential people and she knows the sort of opposition groups we intend to support over there.'

'Wasn't that a little premature, Bret?'

'It will all depend upon her once she's there. She must understand our strategy so well that she can improvise her responses.'

'I suppose you're right. I wish it was you explaining it all to the Cabinet Secretary next week. All your charts and mumbo-jumbo… You see Bret, if we don't persuade him to go along with the fundamental idea… Do you have an operational name yet?'

'I thought it was better not to ask the Department for an operational name.'

'No, no, no, of course not. We'll think of one. Something that suggests the weakening of the economy without prejudicing the security of our operation. Any ideas?'

'I thought Operation Haemorrhage? Or Operation Bleeder?'

'Blood; casualties. No. And bleeder is an English expletive. What else?'

'Leaker?'

'Vulgarism with connotations of urinating. But Sinker might do.'

'Sinker then. Yes, of course, Sir Henry.'

'Oh, my God, this fellow is useless. Left-handed and look at the way he's holding the bat.' He turned to Bret. 'You understand what I mean about persuading him to the basic idea?'

Bret understood exactly. If the Cabinet Secretary didn't go for the economic target then they'd start having second thoughts about using Bret. Mrs Samson would be provided with a different case officer.

The D-G said, 'There still remains the problem of the Soviets engaging her for operational service over there. We can't leave that to chance.'

'Agent X has to be created from scratch,' said Bret, having decided that naming Mrs Samson might be creating doubts in the D-G's mind. 'I must deliver to them an agent who is so knowledgeable and experienced in one specific field of activity that they will have to put her in the place we want.'

'You've lost me now,' said the D-G without taking his eyes from the cricket.

'I shall spend this year studying the Russian links with the East German security police, particularly the KGB-Stasi operational command in Berlin. I'll come to you with a complete picture of their strengths and weaknesses.'

'Can you do that?'

'I spent most of last week reading Operational Briefs. Give me a closer look at the command structure over there, and my analysts could build a detailed picture. It will take time but we'll get what we need.'

'Their security is good,' said the D-G.

'We will be trying to discover what they need… the things they don't know. I have good people in my section. They are used to sifting through figures and building a picture of what is going on.'

'For economics, yes. It's possible to do that with statistics of banking, exports, imports and credit and so on because you're dealing with hard facts. But this is far more complex.'

'With respect, Sir Henry, I think you're wrong,' said Bret Rensselaer with a slight rasp to his voice that betrayed his tension.

The D-G forgot the cricket and looked at him. Bret's eyes were wide, his smile fixed, and a wavy lock of his blond hair had fallen out of place. Until this very moment he hadn't realized to what extent Bret Rensselaer had become consumed with his new task.

For the first time the D-G began to feel that this mad scheme might actually work. What a staggering coup it would be if Bret really did it: planting Mrs Samson into the East Berlin command structure where she could use their own secret records on protest groups, dissidents and other anti-communists to guide the Department as they planned the economic destruction of the communist regime. 'Time will tell, Bret.'

'Yes, indeed, sir.'

The D-G nodded to Bret. Was it the prospect of moving from a vitally important, but somewhat wearisome, world of committees into the more dashing excitement of operations that had so animated him? Or had the departure of his wife, now seemingly a permanent separation, provided him with more time? Or had the loss of his spouse to another man made it necessary for Bret to prove himself? Perhaps all of those. And yet the D-G had not allowed for Mrs Fiona Samson and the influence her participation had had upon Bret Rensselaer's strength and determination.

'Give me a free hand, sir.'

'But ten years…'

'Perhaps I shouldn't have given a time frame.' His sinuses hurt: he felt an overwhelming need to blow his nose again and did so.

The D-G watched him with interest. He didn't know Bret had sinus problems. 'Let's see how it goes. What about finance?' He turned back to the cricket. The left-handed batsman had hit a superb catch – up up up it went and curved down like a mortar bomb – but luckily for him there was no fielder able to reach it. One fellow ran in for it but was unable to judge where it would land. The ball hit the ground and there was a concerted groan.

'I'll need money and it must not be routed through Central Funding.'

'There are many ways.'

'I have a company.'

'Do it any way you like, Bret. I know you won't waste it. What are we talking about? Roughly?'

'A million sterling in the first year. Double that in the second and all subsequent years, adjusted for inflation and the exchange rate. No vouchers, no receipts, no accounts.'

'Very well. We'll have to concoct a route for the money.' The D-G shielded his eyes with a folded newspaper. The sun had come round to shine through the window. 'Have I forgotten anything?'

'No, sir.'

'I'll not keep you then. I'm sure you have things to do. Look at this: the captain has put another fast bowler on. And he's rather good. What do you think, Bret?'

'Very good indeed, sir. Very fast. A problem will arise when we send Mrs Samson to work in Berlin. Will they continue to use this Welsh socialist as the contact? If not we'll have to be very careful setting up the new one. Berlin is quite different to London: everyone knows everyone.'

'And everyone hates everyone,' said the D-G. 'You'd better have her float the possibility before them and see what reaction she gets.'

'The Welshman is very supportive,' said Bret. 'He's determined to believe that she's the KGB superspy. She's his protegee. She could make a terrible blunder and he'd still hold on to his trust in her. But when she goes to Berlin they'll be more suspicious. You know how it is when someone's treasure is scrutinized by a rival: the KGB will turn her over.'

The D-G frowned. 'Is this some narrative form of second thinking?' he said tartly.