Parkis wasn’t looking at me. He said: “He’d been following you. Did you know?”

“Of course I knew!”

“Where had he first got on to you?”

“Knightsbridge.”

He swung into movement again and said with sharp emphasis: “We received a complaint.”

“Oh, really? So you weren’t certain it was me.”

“Not until you admitted it. But surely that’s academic?”

He meant I would have admitted it anyway, if he’d asked me point blank.

I suppose I would have.

“Yes.”

We’re allowed some kind of a private life outside the Bureau; and this thing between Novikov and me had been a private matter. Parkis wouldn’t normally have the right to question me on it but of course I’d stirred something up and there was a risk of the Bureau’s being involved unless they could put out a massive smoke-screen. I thought there must have been another man on that train; someone who’d seen what happened; and I was relieved there hadn’t been because I’d been thinking I must have missed him.

“You realize, of course,” Parkis said, and one of his phones rang, ‘that the police are looking for you at this moment, and with great energy?” He picked up the phone and spoke with his back to me. “No. No clearance. No briefing. The first available. I would say within ten minutes.” He put the receiver back and faced me. “Well?”

“Looking for someone,” I said, but I didn’t feel so casual as I sounded.

“You killed Novikov,” he said with soft anger, ‘and they are looking for his killer. They are looking for you, don’t you understand? And you were seen on that train, by a great many people. The Yard is now questioning every passenger they can trace, asking for a description of anyone acting strangely.”

“No one saw me do it. They — ”

“How far do you think you’d gone before they saw him lying there dead? You imagine — ”

“Descriptions are notoriously vague, you know that.”

He came up to me and stared into my face with his ice-blue eyes and his voice was soft, though not quite steady. “Even if the police never found you by routine investigation, they’ll receive every possible help from the Russian Embassy, however anonymously. Don’t you realize that?”

I didn’t say anything; it wasn’t really a question. He was just getting rid of some shock and setting me up for the pay-off, in whatever form it would take. Of course he was perfectly right about the Russian Embassy: they’d give my description to the police out of sheer indignation. On any given day there are scores of people moving around London with a tag on their tail, with the action concentrated at the embassies and consulates; the Foreign Office and the headquarters of MI5 and DI6 are also under uninterrupted surveillance. The tags are second-class material for the most part: trainees, executives earning their pension after action in the field, sometimes an odd spook who’s after someone specific. All the services do it and everyone knows about it and we settle for that; it’s the routine chore of keeping tabs on each other in case the pattern changes and we can learn something new. And the thing is that we could all knock each other off if we wanted to, but there wouldn’t be any point; we’re doing our job and they’re doing theirs and if anyone really wants to go somewhere in strict hush then he first makes bloody sure he’s got a clean tail.

It’s been an unwritten law since the services became organized, and last night I broke it.

“Have you anything to say?” Parkis was asking me.

Wearily I said: “What like?”

“In your own favour.”

I thought about it.

“Not really.”

He went and sat down behind his desk and now I caught so much of the chill in the air that it reached my spine. I suppose I’d been holding back from the brink that I knew was there, hoping for some kind of luck that’d save me. As Parkis began speaking I knew it was strictly no go.

“I wasn’t able to see you the moment you arrived here this morning, Quiller, because I was in emergency conference with Administration. Two decisions were reached. One: that you should be sent out of London as soon as possible and in the utmost secrecy. Two: that your immediate resignation would be received with our unqualified approval. You will draw an overnight bag on your way out of the building, and there is transport waiting for you at the door. Your escort will facilitate your passage through London Airport Immigration as best he can.” He paused briefly. “Unless, of course, it’s already too late.”

Chapter Two: COCKROACH

The black widow dropped lower, until I could see the red hour-glass pattern on its abdomen. Soon it dropped lower again, stopping at intervals, the long thin legs spreading out.

The thread was visible now, very fine and very dark.

I moved my hand.

“Don’t do that,” Charlie said quietly.

I kept still. In a moment the spider dropped again, this time to the surface of the bench. Charlie turned the reel quickly, catching the thread fast enough to wind it into a helix on the twin rods.

“They’re sensitive,” he said, his voice quiet. “They don’t mind slow movements, but if you move quickly they get upset.” He took the probe and coaxed the spider on to its tip, endlessly patient. It was five minutes before he could lift it on to the reel again, and another five before it began dropping, letting out its thread. “She’s good for one more spin, this one. She’s made four today.”

The long pointed legs splayed suddenly and the widow stopped.

“I can feel a draught,” I said.

“So can she.”

He began winding the long reel as the spider dropped at regular intervals, sensing its environment.

“She’s out of sorts,” Charlie said, softly crooning. “They’re not normally active in winter.”

The widow began moving towards the edge of the bench and he teased it into the jar, giving it a fly to catch.

“They’ll only take living food they don’t eat carrion, like us.”

“Carlos!”

“Si?”

“Usted necesita leche?

“Por favor, Pepita!”

We could hear the woman going down the stairs.

“Voice like a foghorn, heart of gold. Does everything for me. Lost her son in the civil war. Now she’s got another one — me.” He wheeled his chair across to the other bench and took a hand frame out of the drawer, holding it up to the light. “I told you I’d show you. This thread’s four days old it’s dried now, lost its stickiness. This thing’s a micromanipulator. You put the lens in here they come already grooved. All I have to do is lay the thread into the grooves and Bob’s your uncle. Five dollars a go, okay? That little sweetheart spun me fifty bucks’ worth just now while you were watching.”

He dropped the lens into the foam-lined box and shut the drawer gently. “Next time you find yourself behind a long-distance rifle, you’ll know what the crosshairs are made of — if it’s a good one. This stuff’s stronger than platinum wire and about ten times as good as the plastic hairs they’ve got on the market now they’re too brittle and they’re not really black. Of course, I don’t get much call for this kind of thread these days they’re making everything of cold crap, aren’t they? No wonder civilization’s falling apart. What are you doing in Barcelona anyway?” He was looking at me over the edge of his half-moon glasses.

I didn’t answer.

“Silly question,” he nodded.

Charlie was one of our sleeper agents in the Mediterranean theatre, originally Codes and Cyphers, then operational for two years until the El Fatah took him for a Shin Bet executive and blew a Porsche from under him when he was nosing around in Cairo.

“I got thrown out of London,” I told him.

This must be the cleanest window in the whole of Barcelona: I suppose that was Pepita. A few dried brown leaves were still on the platanas down there along the Ramblas, and a wind from the harbour pulled at them Feliz Novedades! a torn banner said in red and blue letters.