'Is Brody such a tough guy?'

'He can be: unless you know how to handle him.' He gave a foxy smile. 'He needs the velvet touch, if you know what I mean. You must know Brody?'

'We've met in Berlin.'

'Brody is itchy for a big promotion. The buzz is that he will go into Operations at a senior level.'

'Brody is too old.'

'In the CIA, old buddy, no one is ever too old. That's what keeps us all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and breathing down the necks of our bosses.'

'Brody?'

'And he's making sure Washington knows he's alive and kicking. Get the picture?'

'I thought Brody was in Vienna.'

'Forget Brody. I can handle Brody. Let me show you these files. You tick some boxes and tell me anything we're getting wrong, then we go and write off the rest of this month's expenses in the Connaught. What about that?'

'It's a deal,' I said.

'Look through this while I go and get the rest of the stuff from the safe upstairs.' He handed me a coloured file and a felt-tip pen.

I looked through the file. It had the expected pink addendum sheet at the back, arranged with a question and answer format that the CIA designed for 'day by day turn-around' of urgent material. There was nothing very difficult about the framed questions, even though I was depending entirely upon my memory. But there were a lot of them.

Harry came back with two more files and slammed them on to my knees. Noticing that my glass was empty he went and mixed two more of his 'perfect' Martinis.

'There's another file but I can't find it. One of the clerks says it went to Grosvenor Square. Could be Brody wanted it. It might arrive with the messenger at noon. Anyway do what you can and then we'll go and eat. Leave your parcel here. We'll come back after lunch and if that damned file's arrived maybe you'd take a look at that one too.'

'Okay.'

My work done, we walked to the Connaught Hotel in Carlos Place, the cold air only partially undoing the effect of Harry's Martinis.

He'd reserved a seat by the window and Posh Harry did everything he'd promised. We struck into the a la carte side of the menu and the wines he selected were appropriately excellent. It was the first time I'd ever had such a friendly conversation with Posh Harry. I'd known him for many years but met him only in the line of business.

If an agent's competence was measured by his personal cover then Posh Harry was one of the most proficient I'd known. For years no one seemed quite certain if he was linked to the CIA. Even now I was not sure if he worked for them on a permanent basis. Harry's brother – much older than Harry – had died miserably on a CIA mission in Vietnam, and the way I heard it Harry blamed the Company for his death. But that wasn't anything I'd ever mentioned to him, and if any trace of bitterness remained from that ancient episode there would be little chance of him revealing his feelings.

Harry, no less assertive and no less devious than Rolf Mauser, was everything the old man wasn't. Mauser was a bully who enjoyed the rough-and-tumble process of getting his own way. For Harry the end result was all that mattered. It was I suppose the fundamental difference between Europe and the Orient, between the visible and the concealed, between force and stealth, boxing and judo.

It would have been wiser of me to have given more weight to such reflections before lunch, for by the time I got back to the house in Brook Street I was unprepared for the furious reception that awaited us.

'Do you know what time it is?' yelled Joe Brody, whose lunch with the Ambassador had apparently been a briefer and more austere refreshment than ours.

'I'm sorry, Joe,' replied Harry, caught halfway up the stairs with a red-faced Joe Brody shouting at him from the upper landing. I looked at Brody with interest. Until now I'd never seen him in anything but a relaxed and gentle mood.

Brody was wearing a striped blue three-piece suit appropriate for lunch with the Ambassador. He was old, a bald man with circular gold-rimmed glasses that fitted tight into his face like coins that have grown into the trunk of a gnarled tree. At other times I'd seen him smiling sagely while holding a drink and listening indulgently to those around him. But here was a frenzied little fellow who could even plough furrows across Posh Harry's calm features. 'You're sorry. Goddamnit, you should be. Who's this? Oh, it's you Samson, I almost forgot you were coming over here. Have you finished?'

By that time we were at the upper landing. Joe Brody ushered the two of us back into the room we'd been in before lunch. He strode across the room, took off his jacket and tossed it on to a chair. Slowly, like some aroused reptile, the jacket uncoiled and slid to the floor. Brody gave no sign of noticing it.

I didn't answer. Brody looked at me and then at Harry. I felt embarrassed, as one feels when accidentally witnessing a blissfully married couple suddenly transformed by a savage domestic rift. In the silence one became aware of the traffic noise which provided an unending roar, like distant thunder.

When Harry realized that I had decided not to tell Brody whether we had finished, he said, 'Not quite, Joe.'

'Jesus Christ!' And then even more furiously, 'Jesus Christ!'

'Just one more file,' said Harry repentantly.

'Did you ask him about Salzburg?' Brody said, talking about me as if I wasn't present.

'I wasn't sure if you wanted me to bring that up,' said Harry.

'Sit down, Bernard,' said Joe Brody. He gave a nervous fleeting smile as if trying to reassure me that I was not a part of his row with Harry, but some of his wrath spilled over.

'Do you want a drink, Joe?' said Harry, still trying to assuage Brody's wrath.

'No I don't want a goddamned drink. I want to see some work done around here.' Brody grabbed his nose as if about to take a dose of nasty medicine. Harry muttered something about needing a glass of club soda and went and poured one for himself. I'd never known Posh Harry even slightly discomposed but now his hands were trembling.

Brody sank down into the armchair facing me and sighed. Suddenly he looked exhausted. His tie knot had loosened, his waistcoat was partly unbuttoned and a lot of his shin had become a rumpled lifebelt round his waist. His bad temper had made demands upon his attire and his stamina. But any expectations I had about his temper moderating were not encouraged by the harshness of his voice as he continued. 'One of our people was blown away: in Salzburg. You hear about that?'

'I was there,' I said.

'Sure you were there. What exactly happened, Bernard?'

'So that was one of your people?'

'I asked you what exactly happened.'

'I don't know what exactly happened,' I said.

'Now don't snow me, Bernard. I haven't got a lot of time and I'm not in the mood.'

'I can't tell you anything that the police investigation hasn't already revealed.'

'You saw the police report?'

'No,' I admitted.

'So how the hell would you know?' He grabbed his nose again, then finished the gesture by rubbing his mouth fiercely with the flat of his hand. I decided it was a gesture of self-restraint by a man who was on the verge of a real tantrum.

'Take it easy, Mr Brody,' I said. 'It was an explosive charge triggered by mains electricity. Your man Johnson died. That's about all I can tell you.'

'Would you please describe Johnson.'

'Pleasant manner. Tallish, in good physical shape but slightly overweight. Grey wavy hair; rim beard, no moustache. Gold-rimmed bifocals – '

'That's enough. Who set it up, kid?'

'I've no idea.'

'I think you have,' said Brody, letting his voice go a bit nasty.

'Then give me a clue,' I said.

'I'm asking the questions,' said Brody. 'Think again.'

'I've told you all I can tell you, Mr Brody.'