Back at the turn of the century, the mews house had been the stables and coach house for Cyrus Rensselaer's grand London home. The first time Bret saw the big house in the square it was an Officers' Club run by the American Red Cross. After the war it had been sold but the uncomfortable little mews house had been retained. Just a couple of rooms with kitchen, bathroom and garage, it was used by various members of the Rensselaer family, and sometimes by lawyers and agents coming to London on the family's behalf. But because Bret lived in England, he had a key and, by the generous consent of other members of the family, he could use it when he wanted. In return Bret kept an eye on the place and had the leaky roof fixed from time to time. He hadn't slept there for years.

Bret was surprised that the D-G should remember that he had access to the house and was annoyed that he should suggest it for their meeting. He had no consideration; the place was terribly neglected now that there was no permanent tenant to maintain it. 'Go to the mews right away,' Bret told his driver. 'We'll try and get it straightened out before Sir Henry arrives.'

'We'll have half an hour or so,' said Albert, 'and Sir Henry might be late: he said that.'

'It's just as well I remained in London,' said Bret. 'You never know where Sir Henry will turn up.'

'No, sir,' said Albert Bingham.

Bret settled back in the leather seat of his Bentley. He had been tempted to spend the weekend with some horsy friends near Newmarket, and make a sidetrip to the D-G's house in Cambridgeshire. Then his wife had insisted that they met for Saturday lunch and he'd stayed in town. It was just as well. A sudden dash back to London at short notice, just to satisfy the old man's whim, was the kind of thing that gave Bret indigestion pains.

'I'm sorry if this was an inconvenient meeting place,' said Sir Henry Clevemore when he arrived in the tiny upstairs room above the garage. He had knocked his head against the door frame but now, having fitted his huge bulk into a big, somewhat dilapidated armchair, he seemed quite content. 'But it was a matter of some urgency.'

'I'm sorry that it's not more comfortable here,' said Bret. The room was dusty and damp. There were fingermarks on the mirror, unwashed milk bottles in the sink and dead flowers on the bookcase. The only festive note was provided by the carpet, which was rolled up, stitched into canvas and garnished with bright red plastic packets of moth repellant. Used by transients as a place to sleep, the house was sadly lacking in any sort of comfort. Even the electric kettle was not working. What a shame that Nikki was so difficult. This place would really benefit from a woman's touch.

Bret reached down to see if there was hot air coming from the convection heater. He'd put on the electric heating as soon as he arrived, but the air was musty. He resolved to do something drastic about refurbishing the place. He'd write to the lawyers about it. He opened a cupboard to reveal some bottles. There is a bottle of whisky…'

'Stop fussing, Bret. We needed somewhere to talk in private. This is ideal. No, I don't want a drink. My news is that Erich Stinnes is flying here from Mexico City together with young Bernard Samson. I think we've done it.'

'That's good news, sir.' He looked down to see where the D-G's black Labrador was sprawled, Why had the old man brought that senile and smelly creature up into this little room?

'It's going to be your show, Bret. Let Samson do the talking but keep a tight control on what's really happening. We must turn Stinnes round and get him back there.'

'Yes, sir.'

'But it occurred to me, Bret…' He paused. 'I don't want to interfere… It's your show. Entirely your show.'

'Please go on, sir.' Bret flicked the dust from a chintz-covered chair and sat down very carefully. He didn't want to get his clothes dirty.

The D-G was lolling back with his legs crossed, oblivious of the shabbiness of the room. The gloomy winter light coming through the dusty window was just enough to describe the old man's profile and make spots of light on the toes of his highly polished shoes. 'Should we collar this damned fellow Martin Pryce-Hughes?'

'The communist. Ummm.'

Bret's tone was too mild to satisfy the D-G. "That little tick who was the contact between Mrs Samson and the KGB hoodlums,' he said forcibly. 'Shall we collar him? Don't say you haven't given it any thought.'

'I've given it a lot of thought,' said Bret in the strangled voice that was his response to unjust criticism.

'You cautioned against pulling him in too soon after Mrs Samson went over. But how long are we going to wait?'

Bret said, 'You see, sir…'

The D-G interrupted him. 'Now with this fellow Stinnes arriving here, we have to consider to what extent we want Moscow to link Stinnes and Pryce-Hughes. If Stinnes is to go back there, we don't want them to think that he betrayed Pryce-Hughes to us, do we?'

'No, sir, we don't.'

'Well, for the Lord's sake, man. Spit it out! What is on your mind? Shall we grab Pryce-Hughes and grill him or not? It's your decision. You know I don't want to interfere.'

'You are always very considerate,' said Bret, while really thinking how much he would like to kick the D-G down the narrow creaking stairs and watch to see which way he bounced off the greasy garage floor.

'I try to be,' said the D-G, mollified by Bret's subservient tone.

'But another dimension has emerged. It is something I didn't want to bother you with.'

'Bother me with it now,' said Sir Henry.

'In the summer of 1978…' Bret paused, deciding how much he should reveal, and how he should say it. 'Mrs Samson… formed a relationship with a Dr Harry Kennedy.'

When Bret paused again, the D-G said, 'Formed a relationship? What the devil does that mean? I'm not going to sue you for defamation, Bret. For God's sake, say what you mean. Say what you mean.'

'I mean,' said Bret, speaking slowly and deliberately, 'that from about that time, until she went over there, she was having a love affair with this man.'

'Oh my God!' said the D-G with a gasp of surprise upon which he almost choked. 'Mrs Samson? Are you quite sure, Bret?' He waited until Bret nodded. 'My God.' The black Labrador, sensing its master's dismay, got to its feet and shook itself. Now the air was full of dust from the dog's coat: Bret could see motes of it buoyant on the draught coming from the heater.

Bret got his handkerchief to his nose just in time before sneezing. When he recovered he dabbed his face again and said, 'I'm quite sure, Sir Henry, but that's not all. When I started digging into this fellow Kennedy's past, I discovered that he has been a party member since the time he was a medical student.'

'Party member? Communist Party member? This fellow she was having it off with? Bret, why the hell didn't you tell me all this? Am I going mad?' He was straining forward in his chair as if trying to get up and his dog was looking angrily at Bret.

'I appreciate your concern, sir,' said Bret in the gravelly American accent that he could summon when he needed it. 'Kennedy is a Canadian. His father was a Ukrainian with a name that couldn't be written on an English typewriter so it became Kennedy.'

'I don't like the smell of that one, Bret. Are we really dealing with a Russian national wielding a Canadian birth certificate? We've seen a lot of those, haven't we?'

'Ottawa RCMP have nothing on him. Served in the air force with an exemplary record. Medical school: postgraduate and so on. The only thing they could turn up was an ex-wife chasing him for alimony. No political activity except for a few meetings of the party at college.' Bret stopped. The fact that the fellow was being chased for alimony payments made Bret sympathize.

'Well, don't leave it like that, Bret. You're not trying to break it to me that Mrs Samson might have been…' The D-G's voice trailed away as he considered the terrifying complexities that would follow upon any doubts about Fiona Samson's loyalties.