He sat there glowering at me.

'I'm going to ask you again, Bernard. I want to put this on a formal footing.'

'You can put it on any kind of footing you choose,' I said. 'I've told you once and I'll tell you again. I don't know.'

'Our guy,' he said and paused. I'd forgotten the way senior CIA men always said 'our guy'. When he continued he spoke in that disjointed way that people do when they are upset. 'Our guy was named Bart Johnson. He was a good man… worked out of Frankfurt. I've known Bart twenty years. We were together in Moscow: a long time back. Toughed out some bad ones. I lunched with the Ambassador today. I wanted him to know that Washington has authorized me to follow this one up as forcibly as my resources permit.'

'I'm gratified to hear that, Mr Brody, because if I should get blown away like your friend Johnson, I'd like to be up there knowing that someone is following me up as forcibly as resources permit.'

'Okay, Bernard, we know you were in contact with Bart Johnson. No one is saying that you were implicated in the killing but I want to know exactly what was going on in that damned hotel right up to that explosion.'

'The only thing I can tell you that was going on in that hotel up until the explosion was a stamp auction.' I was trying to keep my voice calm and polite but not entirely managing it.

'Try harder.'

'Try easier questions.'

'Okay. Here's an easier question: why are you being such an asshole?'

I got to my feet and went across the room. Inconspicuously fitted into the oak panelling, and flanked by two horse-racing prints, there was a door. In front of the door there was an occasional table with an inlaid chequered top upon which chess pieces had been arranged by some interior decorator. I turned. Brody was standing up. I kicked the table aside, chess pieces and all, and tried to open the door. It was locked. 'Will you open the door, Mr Brody? Or shall I do it?'

Perhaps without that bottle of Chateau Talbot and the double measure of malt whisky with which my meal had ended I would have had neither the rashness nor the force to do what I did next. I raised my boot and kicked the door almost off its hinges. It swung into the next room with a noise like thunder.

For a moment I thought I'd made a terrible miscalculation, but I hadn't. Standing up blinking in the sudden light were two shirt-sleeved men with headphones clamped over their ears. Their faces were set in an expression of horror. Beyond them there were some TV monitoring screens shining in the gloom. The operators had jumped to their feet. One of them leapt back so that his headphones' lead pulled a piece of equipment from the table. It fell to the floor with a crash. Then the heavy door, with a prolonged squeaking noise, twisted on its remaining hinge and sank slowly to the floor, landing finally with a resounding bang. Neither operator said anything: perhaps it happened to them frequently.

They were of course putting me on videotape. I suppose it would have been stupid of them to hear what I knew without having some sort of record of it, but that didn't mean that I had to sit there and cheerfully confess to anything that might later be construed as making me an accessory to a murder.

'Okay, smart ass, you've made your point,' said Brody calmly. It was a different sort of voice now. I still don't know how much of his former bad temper was feigned. And if it was feigned to what extent it was a device to intimidate me or to intimidate Posh Harry. 'Come and sit down again. We'll talk off the record if that's what you want.' To the two video operators he said, 'Take off you guys. We'll cut the crowd scene,' and he smiled at his own joke.

Posh Harry hadn't moved. He was still standing near the refrigerator sipping his soda water.

'Could we go downstairs and talk in another room?' I asked. 'The kitchen for instance?'

'With the water running and the fluorescent light on?' offered Brody sarcastically. He went and picked up his jacket from the floor, frisking it to make sure his wallet was still in place. 'Sure. Anything that will make you feel good, Bernard.' His manner was warmer now, as if he preferred the idea of talking about his friend Johnson's death to someone who could kick doors in.

We went downstairs to the tiny kitchen in the basement. It had the same well-preserved look that the rest of the house had. Here was a kitchen where no meal was ever cooked. There were wet cups and saucers in the sink and some glasses on the draining board. On the shelf above it there were packets of coffee and a huge box of tea bags and a big transparent plastic container marked sugar. A grey slatted blind obscured the window.

Joe Brody opened a refrigerator filled with canned drinks. He helped himself to a Pepsi, snapped the top open and drank it from the can. He didn't offer anyone else one: he appeared to be lost in thought.

I sat with Harry at the circular kitchen table. Brody gripped an empty chair, rested his foot on a bar of it and said, 'Were there two Americans, or just the one?'

'Two,' I said, and described Thurkettle and the way he'd come out on to the terrace and talked about sharing an office with Peter Underlet, and the way in which Johnson had approached me after the auction. I didn't say that I'd bid in the auction and I left out any mention of my wanting the cover.

Brody sat down and said, 'We know about the auction.'

'Why don't you tell me what you know, Mr Brody? I'll try and fill in the spaces.'

'Thurkettle, you mean?'

'That's what I mean,' I said.

'Well, now you see why I wanted to leave a few of the details out,' said Brody. 'We're trying to establish that both men were there at the time of the explosion.'

'I heard Johnson speak to Thurkettle as he went into his room. At the time I thought he was talking to himself. Afterwards… well, I don't know.'

'When was that?' said Brody. He up-ended his Pepsi and drained the last of it with obvious relish. I suppose he needed the sugar.

'Maybe half an hour before the explosion,' I replied.

'What did he say?' Carelessly Brody tossed the empty can across the room. It landed with a clatter in the rubbish bin.

When Brody's eyes came back to me I said, 'I think he said "What about that?" It was the sort of remark a man might make to himself. But it might have been a greeting.'

'To someone already in his room?'

'He knew Thurkettle was there the previous day.'

'How do you know that?'

'He talked about it. He asked me if I knew who he was.'

'He asked you that?'

'He said he'd met Thurkettle before but didn't know who he worked for or what he did.'

'Do you know who Thurkettle is? Really know?'

'I do now,' I said.

'Let me ask you a speculative question,' said Brody. 'Why would Thurkettle go back to the hotel and go to that room? The bomb was already in the razor. Why didn't he keep going?'

'Ummm,' I said.

'Don't umm me. You must have thought about it,' said Brody. 'Why didn't he keep going?'

'I don't know,' I said. 'But when I went back to warn him who Thurkettle was…'

'Hold the phone,' said Brody. 'Are you expecting me to believe you were going to tip Johnson off about Thurkettle? You? The guy who sits there stonewalling all questions about the death? No sir, I don't buy that.'

'I'm not sure what I was going to do. I went along to his room to find out what the hell was going on.'

'Okay, keep talking.'

Posh Harry got up and went to the refrigerator and after looking at everything on offer, and selecting a tumbler from the cupboard, poured himself a drink of soda. Harry must have been very fond of soda. Or perhaps he was trying to sober up. Brody glared at him to show that such movement disturbed his concentration. Harry sipped his soda and didn't look at Brody.