I’m becoming maudlin, he thought; I must pull myself together.

He stood up and picked up the bicycle. He mopped his face with the handkerchief she had given him. It had a bluebell embroidered in one corner, and he wondered whether she had done that herself. He mounted the bicycle and headed for the Old Kent Road.

It was suppertime but he knew he would not be able to eat. That was just as well, for his money was running low and tonight he did not have the spirit to steal. He looked forward now to the darkness of his tenement room, where he could spend the night alone with his thoughts. He would go over every minute of this encounter, from the moment she emerged from the house to that last good-bye wave.

He would have liked a bottle of vodka for company, but he could not afford it.

He wondered whether anyone had ever given Charlotte a red ball.

The evening was mild but the city air was stale. The pubs of the Old Kent Road were already filling up with brightly dressed working-class women and their husbands, boyfriends or fathers. On impulse, Feliks stopped outside one. The sound of an elderly piano wafted through the open door. Feliks thought: I’d like someone to smile at me, even if it’s only a barmaid. I could afford half a pint of ale. He tied his bicycle to a railing and went in.

The place was stifling, full of smoke and the unique beery smell of an English pub. It was early, but already there was a good deal of loud laughter and feminine squeals. Everyone seemed enormously cheerful. Feliks thought: Nobody knows how to spend money better than the poor. He joined the crush at the bar. The piano began a new tune, and everyone sang.

Once a young maiden climbed an old man’s knee

Begged for a story, “Do, Uncle, please,

Why are you single, why live alone?

Have you no babies, have you no home?”

“I had a sweetheart, years, years ago;

Where is she now, pet, you will soon know

List to my story, I’ll tell it all;

I believed her faithless, after the ball.”

The stupid, sentimental, empty-headed damn song brought tears to Feliks’s eyes, and he left the pub without ordering his beer.

He cycled away, leaving the laughter and music behind. That kind of jollity was not for him; it never had been and never would be. He made his way back to the tenement and carried the bicycle up the stairs to his room on the top floor. He took off his hat and coat and lay on the bed. He would see her again in two days. They would look at paintings together. He would go to the municipal bathhouse before meeting her, he decided. He rubbed his chin: there was nothing he could do to make the beard grow decently in two days. He cast his mind back to the moment when she came out of the house. He had seen her from a distance, never dreaming…

What was I thinking of at that moment? he wondered.

And then he remembered.

I was asking myself whether she might know where Orlov is.

I haven’t thought about Orlov all afternoon.

In all probability she does know where he is; if not, she could find out.

I might use her to help me kill him.

Am I capable of that?

No, I am not. I will not do it. No, no, no!

What is happening to me?

Walden saw Churchill at the Admiralty at twelve noon. The First Lord was impressed. “Thrace,” he said. “Surely we can give them half of Thrace. Who the devil cares if they have the whole of it!”

“That’s what I thought,” Walden said. He was pleased with Churchill’s reaction. “Now, will your colleagues agree?”

“I believe they will,” Churchill said thoughtfully. “I’ll see Grey after lunch and Asquith this evening.”

“And the Cabinet?” Walden did not want to do a deal with Aleks only to have it vetoed by the Cabinet.

“Tomorrow morning.”

Walden stood up. “So I can plan to go back to Norfolk late tomorrow.”

“Splendid. Have they caught that damned anarchist yet?”

“I’m having lunch with Basil Thomson of the Special Branch-I’ll find out then.”

“Keep me informed.”

“Naturally.”

“And thank you. For this proposal, I mean.” Churchill looked out of the window dreamily. “Thrace!” he murmured to himself. “Who has ever even heard of it?”

Walden left him to his reverie.

He was in a buoyant mood as he walked from the Admiralty to his club in Pall Mall. He usually ate lunch at home, but he did not want to trouble Lydia with policemen, especially as she was in a rather strange mood at the moment. No doubt she was worried about Aleks, as Walden was. The boy was the nearest thing to a son that they had: if anything should happen to him-

He went up the steps of his club and, just inside the door, handed his hat and gloves to a flunky. “What a lovely summer we’re having, my lord,” the man said.

The weather had been remarkably fine for months, Walden reflected as he went up to the dining room. When it broke there would probably be storms. We shall have thunder in August, he thought.

Thomson was waiting. He looked rather pleased with himself. What a relief it will be if he’s caught the assassin, Walden thought. They shook hands, and Walden sat down. A waiter brought the menu.

“Well?” said Walden. “Have you caught him?”

“All but,” Thomson said.

That meant no, Walden thought. His heart sank. “Oh, damn,” he said.

The wine waiter came. Walden asked Thomson: “Do you want a cocktail?”

“No, thank you.”

Walden approved. Cocktails were a nasty American habit. “Perhaps a glass of sherry?”

“Yes, please.”

“Two,” Walden said to the waiter.

They ordered Brown Windsor soup and poached salmon, and Walden chose a bottle of hock to wash it down.

Walden said: “I wonder if you realize quite how important this is? My negotiations with Prince Orlov are almost complete. If he were to be assassinated now the whole thing would fall through-with serious consequences for the security of this country.”

“I do realize, my lord,” Thomson said. “Let me tell you what progress we’ve made. Our man is Feliks Kschessinsky. That’s so hard to say that I propose we call him Feliks. He is forty, the son of a country priest, and he comes from Tambov province. My opposite number in St. Petersburg has a very thick file on him. He has been arrested three times and is wanted in connection with half a dozen murders.”

“Dear God,” Walden muttered.

“My friend in St. Petersburg adds that he is an expert bomb maker and an extremely vicious fighter.” Thomson paused. “You were terribly brave, to catch that bottle.” Walden gave a thin smile: he preferred not to be reminded.

The soup came and the two men ate in silence for a while. Thomson sipped his hock frugally. Walden liked this club. The food was not as good as he got at home, but there was a relaxed atmosphere. The chairs in the smoking room were old and comfortable, the waiters were old and slow, the wallpaper was faded and the paintwork was dull. They still had gas lighting. Men such as Walden came here because their homes were spick-and-span and feminine.

“I thought you said you had all but caught him,” Walden said as the poached salmon arrived.

“I haven’t told you the half of it yet.”

“Ah.”

“At the end of May he arrived at the Jubilee Street anarchist club in Stepney. They didn’t know who he was, and he told them lies. He’s a cautious man-quite rightly so, from his point of view, for one or two of those anarchists are working for me. My spies reported his presence, but the information didn’t come to my notice at that stage because he appeared to be harmless. Said he was writing a book. Then he stole a gun and moved on.”

“Without telling anyone where he was going, of course.”

“That’s right.”

“Slippery fellow.”

A waiter collected their plates and said: “Will you have a slice off the joint, gentlemen? It’s mutton today.”