'Julius Caesar.'

'Of course.

Am I yourself,

But, as it were, in sort, or limitation,

To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed,

And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs

Of your good pleasure? If it be no more,

Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife.'

'What a memory you have.'

Fiona said, 'You're supposed to reply,

You are my true and honourable wife,

As dear to me as are the ruddy drops

That visit my sad heart.

Didn't you learn any Shakespeare at school?'

'I learned it in German,' I said.

That amused her. 'I read a lot nowadays: Dickens, Jane Austen, Trollope, Thackeray, Shakespeare.'

A note of alarm sounded somewhere deep in my mind. The books were all English ones. Most security people would be alarmed at what smelled awfully like home-sickness. But I didn't say that. I said, 'Portia will have a lovely costume; blue with gold edging.'

She held out her hand to me. I took it. I found an amazing intimacy in this formal gesture. Her hand was small and warm, she'd always had warm hands. She said, 'How absurd that it should be like this,' and then hurriedly, as though to preclude other discussions that she wanted to avoid, she added, 'There were so many difficulties about my leaving Berlin, and then suddenly I had to go to a conference in Prague and it was easy.' There was an unconvincing gaiety in her voice as she said it, the tone I remembered from times when she tried to make a joke about Billy getting the 'flu and spoiling his birthday, or her opening the car door angrily and scratching the paintwork. 'How much have they told you?'

I stood back to look at her. She was as lovely as ever. Her hair was drawn back tight in the severe style she'd adopted since going to the East. She wore a simple dark green suit that was almost Chanel, but I guessed it had been made by some wonderful little woman she'd found round the corner. Fiona could always find some 'treasure' to do things she wanted done. On her finger she had our wedding band. She looked down at our clasped hands as if in some renewed pledge of her vows. This was the ravishing girl I'd married so proudly. But that was a hundred years ago and the changes that the recent stressful years had brought were evident too. I could see within her something I'd never seen before: some weariness, or was it apprehension? Perhaps that's what at first I'd mistaken for smallness of stature.

She turned her hand in mine. I said, 'You've lost our engagement ring.'

'We'll get another.'

I said nothing.

'I was working in Dresden. A man was killed. It was a terrible night. I washed my hands at the infirmary. It was careless of me. I turned the car round and went back but it wasn't there and no one had seen it.'

She was clenching her hands as if telling me about the lost ring had been a fearsome ordeal. But I could also see that Fiona was as undaunted as she'd ever been. I knew the way she contained her fear by means of willpower, as some brilliant actress might play a role and bring an unconvincing character to life. Giving me no time to reply she added, 'They are not the trousers for that suit. The new lady in your life is not looking after you, dearest.' She was cool and relaxed now; the gruesome memories locked away again.

'I'm all right.'

'Does she iron your shirts? You were always so fastidious about your shirts. Sometimes, away from you, I have found my self worrying about the laundry. It's silly isn't it?' There was bitterness there. A trace of the real Fiona showing through. It was all jokes of course: the laundry and these exploratory probes about other women. Everything was a joke until Fiona blew the whistle and joking ended.

'She's decent: she's loyal and she loves me,' I blurted out in the face of Fiona's sarcasm. No sooner was it said than I regretted it, but it was what she wanted. Once I'd revealed my feelings, Fiona was ready to proceed. 'How much have they told you?' she asked again.

'Nothing,' I said. They told me nothing.' I thought back to Stowe's furrowed brow and guarded answers. Obviously Stowe had been told nothing either. I wondered who the hell did know exactly what was going on.

'Poor darling, but perhaps it was the best way.'

'You're coming out now,' I said, confirming by my words what my eyes found it hard to believe. 'I was right wasn't I?' Even now I was not unquestionably sure that she'd been working for London all the time.

'Not long now,' she said.

'You're not going back to Berlin?'

'Just for a little while.'

'Why?'

'You know how it is… there are other people who would be in danger. I'll have to tidy things up. A few weeks, that's all. Perhaps only days.'

I didn't reply. The dog in the yard barked as if at an approaching stranger. Fiona looked at her watch. I suddenly remembered how much I'd hated the way that Fiona's dedication to the Department came before everything. Competing with her career was worse than having to compete with an irresistible lover. She must have seen those feelings in my face for she said, 'No recriminations, Bernard. Not now anyway.'

I knew then that I had handled the whole thing wrongly. With grotesque misjudgement I had taken her at face value, and all women hate that. Some other kind of man would have swept her off her feet, made love to her here and now, and damn the consequences. Some other kind of woman might have provided the opportunity for me to do so. But we were us: two professionals discussing technique man to man.

She stepped away from me and, while studying her wedding ring, said, 'I'm the only one who can make that sort of decision and I say I must go back.'

'Why come here? Why take the chance?' I said. I'm sure she'd found a convincing excuse for this meeting with the enemy but it was madness for her to risk her life meeting me. I could remember so many good men who had been lost because of such foolishness. Men who had to see a girlfriend for the last time. Men who couldn't resist a meal in a favourite café, or men like old Karl Busch who hid me for three agonizing days in Weimar, then, after we'd got away, went back to get his stamp collection. They were waiting for him. Karl Busch was taken down to the security barracks in Leipzig and was never heard of again.

'Oh Bernard.' There was a sigh.

'Why?'

'Because of you. Don't be so dense.'

'Me?'

'You were raking through everything… About me…' She made a gesture of despair with her open hand.

'Are you telling me that you've made this reckless sidetrip just to tell me to stop digging out the facts?'

'London Central tried everything to reassure you but you carried on.'

'They tried everything, except simply telling me the truth,' I said emphatically.

'They hinted and advised. Finally they couldn't think of any way to persuade you. I didn't know how far they would go… I said you must hear it from me. We put together this official – but off-the-record – meeting. London has already made concessions: I go back looking like a skilful negotiator. It will be all right.'

'The bloody fools! Didn't you tell them how dangerous it is for you sitting out here talking with me?'

'They know it's dangerous but you kept snooping into everything. You were putting together a picture of the whole operation. Leaving a trail too. That was even more dangerous.'

'Of course I was snooping. What did you expect me to do? You are my wife.' I stopped. I was exasperated. Although my theory had been proved correct I could accept the enormity of it: London Central had sent Fiona to be a field agent in the East and decided not to confide in me. 'For God's sake