The cricket ground was wide and shapeless, surrounded mostly by the back gardens of houses, but one stretch gave onto the main road, where the taxi from Littlehampton station dropped Agnes off. She walked up a gravel drive crowded with large cars, past an old-fashioned wooden pavilion and two clay tennis courts, ignored the adult game going on in front of her and started around the boundary to the second and much smaller game in the far corner.

Maxim was sitting on a wooden bench in the uncertain shade of a row of poplars and chatting to two small schoolboys in fresh whites. He stood up as she got near, taking off his sunglasses politely, and they shook hands. He wore a loose cottonblousonbuttoned at the waist over a blue tee-shirt and faded khaki slacks.

The bench was cluttered with cricket gear; Maxim asked the boys: "Could you find us a couple of chairs, do you think?" They rushed away with competitive enthusiasm.

"The word of command," -Agnes said admiringly. "An Army training has its uses after all."

"For finding a place to sit down, consult us first."

"Was one of those your boy?"

"No, he's batting now."

"Oh. Which one?" She put on her own sunglasses and looked out across the worn pitch. The umpires looked very big and the ten- and eleven-year-old schoolboys very small, like squat white fleas that stayed still or suddenly hopped about and often fell over.

"The bowler's end. Not taking strike."

The other two boys hurried back, each with a folding wooden chair that was probably less comfortable than thebench but certainly newer. Maxim had them set up a few yards away, thanked the boys gravely, and they sat down.

"It's a very nice rig," Maxim said, "but you didn't really need to get into your Number Ones. "

"Thank you, kind sir, but I didn't dress for you. I dressed for a meeting whose minutes will be classified Top Secret. "

"Ah. Sorry."

"You were one of the main items on the meeting paper. Afterwards, George asked me to come down and see if I could talk some sense into you. From what I learned at the meeting I can't see why he thinks I'm up to such a task, but maybela bête à ses raisons que la belle ne connaît pas. Doyou think you can have some sense talked into you?"

Maxim frowned out at the cricket. "You can always try. What did he say?"

"Do you want it with or without the four-letter words? Let me warn you that without them, it's very short. "

"I think I got most of those yesterday. Go on."

"Do you have any information – I imagine it would be in documentary form – concerning a certain East German politician?"

"What?" Maxim looked convincingly blank.

Agnes sighed. "I should have known it wouldn't be that simple. " She took off her pastel jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. "Aren't you rather hot in thatblouson?"

"I'm fine. " But he did look a little overheated, so why didn't he at least unbutton it? Because he had a shoulder holster on underneath, of course. Having the hounds from Six on his trail had made him wary – perhaps especially so around his only child. But, she realised, there was a pleasant incongruity about watchingcricket, of all things, next to a man with a concealed pistol.

"How much did your unwilling informant from Six tell you about Plainsong?"

"About which?"

'He didn't tell you much. Plainsong: that's their codename for the whole operation."

"All he told me was that he was working for the Sovbloc desk at Six, and they were looking for a deserter, but he didn'teven have Blagg's name. He knew who I was, and that's about all. He wasn't likely to run Sherlock Holmes out of business. "

"No…" She sat silent for a while, making a decision. "As I say, this is supposed to be Top Secret, but you'd better know if you're to be any help. You'd know anyway, if you'd got what they think you've got, whatever that is. Have you ever heard of Gustav Eismark?"

"New man in the East German Secretariat. Supposed to be a moderate, but has a lot of support from the not-very-political new managers and so on." Maximhad read that issue of The Economist.

"Correct." Agnes began to explain what little she had gleaned from the meeting. Maxim listened carefully, but with his eyes on the game. Untypically for his age, Chris preferred to play most of his shots to the off rather than drag everything round to leg. But the opposing school couldn't adjust to his rarity and left plenty of useful gaps in the offside field. So he made 32, including two perfect drives that stayed on the ground all the way to the boundary rope. Then, overconfident, he tried a late cut: there was a click, a squeal of joy, and first slip was doing a war-dance. Chris trailed back, dragging his bat in disgust, but loudly clapped by his team and the little group of parents around the scorer's shack in the corner of the field. In a prep school match, a score of 32 rates with a Test century.

When he had smiled uneasily through the congratulations, and taken off his pads, Chris came down to them. He looked at Agnes with cautious curiosity, and Maxim introduced them. "Miss Algar works for the Home Office and liaises with Number 10."

Chris shook her hand. He had the natural compactness of a good ball player and a Celtic paleness of skin and darkness of hair, with big golden-brown eyes that saw everything as wildly funny or desperately serious. His mother must have been a smasher, Agnes thought; he doesn't get those looks from our Harry. She glanced covertly at Maxim, who was watching Chris with his usual quiet self-protective smile.

She said: "A very good innings. "

Chris shook his head. "I should never have got out like that. "

"You know what they say in Yorkshire," Maxim offered. "Never make a late cut until September and then only on alternate Tuesdays."

"You've said that before, Daddy."

"I'll say it every time I see you contributing to the Slips' Benevolent Fund. "

Chris looked back at Agnes. "Are you talking work?"

"Just a spot," Maxim said quickly. "We'll come over for tea." In front of the hut, several mothers were setting a trestle table with crockery and unwrapping polite little sandwiches.

Who said we'll go for tea? Agnes thought, briefly annoyed. Chris smiled at her and walked away.

When he was out of earshot, Maxim asked: "Did Six actually admit they were involved in that shooting in Germany?"

"Yes, but only on the grounds that it wasn't their fault. Even that surprised me until I found out afterwards that George had known about it all along; I suppose they didn't want to risk him bringing it up first. And of course the woman wasn't really one of theirs, just some distant freelance, and the back-up with her was some nutty amateur they'd had to use at the last moment-"

"D'you mean Blagg? Did he get mentioned?"

"Not by name, rank or number; I got him out of George afterwards, as well. They said he'd lost his head and started shooting -"

"Blagg? They're claiming he started it?"

"Oh yes. George said you'd got a different version."

"Damned right I have. I've read the German accounts of it all, too. Blagg isn't the type to go off at half cock -"

Agnes held up a placatory hand. "I know, he's SAStrained. But don't waste it on me in any case: I wouldn't believe Six even if they told me they were lying. So then Sir Bruce got hopping mad because nobody would tell him who they were talking about, and asked why they were so certain you were involved, and Six – it was that luminous dong Guy Husband and some new pin-up boy who runs the East German section -said they had their reasons and George could explain more.

George justsat there looking like a State Secret. And Sladen didn't know what was going on, either, but I don't think he wanted to; he was just scared that somebody would start throwing coffee cups and he'd get the blame. The FO chap knew all about it, of course, and any time things looked like coming off the boil he dived in and assured us this could be the biggest coup since the Zimmerman telegram. Oh, it was the merriest morning I've spent in a cow's age, and all the work of little you." She beamed happily at Maxim.