'It's awfully good of you to come and talk to me, Quiller.'

A soft manicured hand, a brilliant smile. Tonight he'd pulled a polo sweater over his pyjama trousers: he was in the top echelon, London Control level, and sometimes slept in one of the small dormer rooms under the eaves of the building, where a hundred years ago the servant girls had slept two in a bed for warmth, nursing their chilblains.

'You found things interesting, I'm sure, at No. 10.'

'A bit too political for my taste.'

His bright smile came again, like a flicker of lightning. 'She does wax a shade rhetorical, I know. But as long as you got the background. A little brandy?'

'I'd like to get down to business, if that's all right with you.'

'At once.' The pale blue eyes glittered slightly, lighting the fixed smile. Some people said he had a face massage once a week; others said he'd come back from a tricky one as a young shadow executive and they'd had to stretch a brand new skin graft right across his face; in some lights it did have the look of a mask. 'We would very much like you to go and fetch something for us,' he said, 'from Germany, or thereabouts.' A brief smile, as an apology for being so vague. 'It's only a small package.'

He stopped right there. He wouldn't say any more until I asked questions. At this stage, before briefing and before clearance, they want you to know as little as possible in case you turn down the job.

'When?'

'Soon, I believe. I'm sorry I can't be more explicit. Within a day or two.'

'From a courier?'

'Yes.'

'Which border?' If they wanted anything from West Germany itself they'd just shove it in the diplomatic bag or put a Queen's messenger on special assignment.

'Again,' he said in his soft tone of apology, 'we're not absolutely sure. Not yet.'

'Running like hell somewhere, is he?'

He didn't smile now. He looked at me with his bright eyes losing all expression as he took me another inch towards the heart of the matter. 'They're not on to him yet. But yes, he's running hard with it.'

'With the package?'

'Yes.'

'Is he trying to get into Norway?'

He shook his head. 'No. That would be too difficult.'

'But he started from Murmansk?'

'Yes,' he said straight away, and the lightning flickered faintly in the depth of his eyes.

I didn't want this.

'I don't want this,' I told him.

'Why ever not? There's nothing very complicated.'

I turned to look through the black glass of the window, where the rain made silver rivulets across the Houses of Parliament in the haze. 'I'm not a bloody messenger boy.'

'Oh, come.' I watched his reflection. 'You don't really think I'd encroach on your evening's leisure and ask you to spend all that time in Downing Street just to propose our using you as a messenger boy, surely?'

'It's too political,' I said.

'You're just dodging the issue.'

'I know.'

His soft laugh came. 'Now please don't equivocate.'

Wrong word. Before he'd come into the Bureau he'd been a schoolmaster, and it still showed.

'Cliff can do a job like this,' I told him. 'Or Wainwright.' I turned to face him. 'I'm ready to go out again, but not just to fetch the paper.'

'Certainly we could send Cliff, or Wainwright. But this is extremely important, as you should realize. You know what's in that package, don't you?'

'Proof.'

'Quite so.'

If certain information I received earlier tonight is reliable, we may shortly be in possession of absolute proof that the US submarine Cetacea was in fact attacked and sunk by Soviet arms.

'Anyone can bring that package in,' I said. 'Tuft, Malone, Flood, why on earth don't you use them?'

He watched me with the light playing in his eyes. He'd be in a towering rage by now, I knew that, because I wouldn't do what he wanted me to do. But this was as much as he'd show: just this shimmering light at the back of his eyes.

'You know, of course, that the Vienna conference may depend on whether we can bring this package across. That is why I sent — that is why I asked you to go along to Downing Street. You know we're not being specious. You know we're not just asking you to fetch and carry. We are asking you to do what you can to ensure that in four weeks' time the president of the United States and the Chairman of the Presidium of the USSR Supreme Soviet will meet in Vienna and call an armistice in the Cold War.'

'Bullshit.'

He gave a gentle sigh. 'If you're trying to test my patience, Quiller, it happens to be infinite.'

That was true. The last time out, Wainwright had smashed up three Avis cars and left an Arab contact in a doorway of the kasbah with an icepick in his brain and got himself photographed in bed with the wife of the French ambassador to Morocco knowing bloody well that the KGB had stuck a camera in the wall of the Hotel Palais Jamai, and Croder had debriefed him personally and given him the keys of his flat on the Croisette with a chef and maid service and instructions to get his nerves back into shape. That was patience.

'There just isn't enough to it,' I told him.

'You're so terribly egotistical.'

'Didn't anyone tell you?'

'Oh yes. But I didn't realize how much it got in your way.'

'So I go and bring this thing in and they tell the Soviets they've got proof about the sub and they'd better apologize or they'll wreck the summit and I get a pat on the back, is that it? For Christ's sake, give me something more interesting.'

'I would have thought you'd be interested in the fact that Chief of Control has decided to stay up through the early hours to do his utmost to persuade one of his elite shadow executives to take something on that has international dimensions. Since you're not, why don't you think about him?'

'Who?'

'The courier.'

'The courier from Murmansk?'

'Yes.'

I turned away from him again, and wished I hadn't, because he could see I was ready to think, and wanted to do it without his eyes on me.

'Who is he?'

'Brekhov.'

I thought about him, about Brekhov. I'd only worked with him once, but he'd been very good: he'd taken three days to bring me something to my hotel in Moscow from our contact at the border, but that was quick because he'd had to get through a militia road check and hole up at a blown safehouse and chance his arm with the kind of papers I wouldn't even show a bus conductor. He even got to my room without going through the lobby, using a fire escape the KGB never bothered to watch because the bottom section had been taken away and they'd put chains across.

Brekhov, a short man with sturdy legs and a big black moustache and a pair of mild brown eyes that could stare — had stared — a hundred militiamen in the face with the look of an innocent child. Brekhov, running hard now through the frozen ruts of Leningrad or Minsk or Lvov or Warsaw if he'd got across by now, with his sturdy legs working under him and never stopping, never tripping, never taking him an inch away from the course he'd set for himself through the night of a Russian winter, not literally of course — they could be flying him through or bringing him out by road in the hollowed floor of a vegetable truck — but he'd be moving as steadily as that, as doggedly, all the way from the Arctic Circle to some overheated gasthaus west of the wall, where he'd sit with a beer and swap code-identities and look around him before he took out the package and put it down on the table, covering it with his hand until you were ready to take it, here it is, what about another beer, here it is, it's warmer in here than up there in the north, I can tell you, here it is.

A good courier, Brekhov. Reliable. The best.

Croder hadn't spoken. He'd wait for me all night, but he knew now that he wouldn't have to. The bastard had got right inside me when I wasn't looking.