THE PHOTOGRAPHS OF Mironenko which Ballard had been shown in Munich had proved far from instructive.Only one or two pictured the KGB man full face; and ofthe others most were blurred and grainy, betraying theirfurtive origins. Ballard was not overmuch concerned. Heknew from long and occasionally bitter experience thatthe eye was all too ready to be deceived; but there wereother faculties - the remnants of senses modern life hadrendered obsolete - which he had learned to call intoplay, enabling him to sniff out the least signs of betrayal.These were the talents he would use when he met withMironenko. With them, he would root the truth from theman.

The truth? Therein lay the conundrum of course, forin this context wasn't sincerity a movable feast? SergeiZakharovich Mironenko had been a Section Leader inDirectorate S of the KGB for eleven years, with accessto the most privileged information on the dispersalof Soviet Illegals in the West. In the recent weeks,however, he had made his disenchantment with hispresent masters, and his consequent desire to defect,known to the British Security Service. In return forthe elaborate efforts which would have to be made onhis behalf he had volunteered to act as an agent withinthe KGB for a period of three months, after which timehe would be taken into the bosom of democracy andhidden where his vengeful overlords would never findhim. It had fallen to Ballard to meet the Russian face toface, in the hope of establishing whether Mironenko'sdisaffection from his ideology was real or faked. Theanswer would not be found on Mironenko's lips,Ballard knew, but in some behavioural nuance whichonly instinct would comprehend.

Time was when Ballard would have found the puzzlefascinating; that his every waking thought would havecircled on the unravelling ahead. But such commitmenthad belonged to a man convinced his actions hadsome significant effect upon the world. He was wisernow. The agents of East and West went about theirsecret works year in, year out. They plotted; theyconnived; occasionally (though rarely) they shed blood.There were debacles and trade-offs and minor tacticalvictories. But in the end things were much the same asever.

This city, for instance. Ballard had first come toBerlin in April of 1969. He'd been twenty-nine, freshfrom years of intensive training, and ready to live alittle. But he had not felt easy here. He found thecity charmless; often bleak. It had taken Odell, hiscolleague for those first two years, to prove thatBerlin was worthy of his affections, and once Ballardfell he was lost for life. Now he felt more at homein this divided city than he ever had in London.Its unease, its failed idealism, and - perhaps mostacutely of all - its terrible isolation, matched his. Heand it, maintaining a presence in a wasteland of deadambition.

He found Mironenko at the Germalde Galerie, andyes, the photographs had lied. The Russian lookedolder than his forty-six years, and sicker than he'dappeared in those filched portraits. Neither man madeany sign of acknowledgement. They idled through thecollection for a full half-hour, with Mironenko showingacute, and apparently genuine, interest in the work onview. Only when both men were satisfied that theywere not being watched did the Russian quit thebuilding and lead Ballard into the polite suburbs ofDahlem to a mutually agreed safe house. There, ina small and unheated kitchen, they sat down andtalked.

Mironenko's command of English was uncertain, orat least appeared so, though Ballard had the impressionthat his struggles for sense were as much tactical asgiammatical. He might well have presented the samefacade in the Russian's situation; it seldom hurt toappear less competent than one was. But despite thedifficulties he had in expressing himself, Mironenko'savowals were unequivocal.

'I am no longer a Communist,' he stated plainly,'I have not been a party-member - not here -' he put hisfist to his chest'- for many years.'

He fetched an off-white handkerchief from his coatpocket, pulled off one of his gloves, and plucked a bottleof tablets from the folds of the handkerchief.

'Forgive me,' he said as he shook tablets from thebottle. 'I have pains. In my head; in my hands.'

Ballard waited until he had swallowed the medicationbefore asking him, 'Why did you begin to doubt?'

The Russian pocketed the bottle and the handker-chief, his wide face devoid of expression.

'How does a man lose his ... his faith?' he said. 'Is itthat I saw too much; or too little, perhaps?'

He looked at Ballard's face to see if his hesitant wordshad made sense. Finding no comprehension there hetried again.

'I think the man who does not believe he is lost, islost.'

The paradox was elegantly put; Ballard's suspicionas to Mironenko's true command of English wasconfirmed.

'Are you lost nozi>?' Ballard inquired.

Mironenko didn't reply. He was pulling his otherglove off and staring at his hands. The pills he hadswallowed did not seem to be easing the ache he hadcomplained of. He fisted and unfisted his hands like anarthritis sufferer testing the advance of his condition.Not looking up, he said:

'I was taught that the Party had solutions to everything. That made me free from fear.'

'And now?'

'Now?' he said. 'Now I have strange thoughts. Theycome to me from nowhere ...'

'Go on,' said Ballard.

Mironenko made a tight smile. 'You must know meinside out, yes? Even what I dream?'

'Yes,' said Ballard.

Mironenko nodded. 'It would be the same with us,'he said. Then, after a pause: 'I've thought sometimesI would break open. Do you understand what I say?I would crack, because there is such rage inside me.And that makes me afraid, Ballard. I think they willsee how much I hate them.' He looked up at hisinterrogator. 'You must be quick,' he said, 'or theywill discover me. I try not to think of what they willdo.' Again, he paused. All trace of the smile, howeverhumourless, had gone. 'The Directorate has Sectionseven I don't have knowledge of. Special hospitals, wherenobody can go. They have ways to break a man's soulin pieces.'

Ballard, ever the pragmatist, wondered if Mironenko'svocabulary wasn't rather high-flown. In the hands of theKGB he doubted if he would be thinking of his soul'scontentment. After all, it was the body that had thenerve-endings.

They talked for an hour or more, the conversationmoving back and forth between politics and personalreminiscence, between trivia and confessional. At theend of the meeting Ballard was in no doubt as toMironenko's antipathy to his masters. He was, as hehad said, a man without faith.

The following day Ballard met with Cripps in therestaurant at the Schweizerhof Hotel, and made hisverbal report on Mironenko.

'He's ready and waiting. But he insists we be quickabout making up our minds.'

'I'm sure he does,' Cripps said. His glass eye wastroubling him today; the chilly air, he explained, madeit sluggish. It moved fractionally more slowly than hisreal eye, and on occasion Cripps had to nudge it withhis fingertip to get it moving.

'We're not going to rushed into any decision,' Crippssaid.

'Where's the problem? I don't have any doubt abouthis commitment; or his desperation.'

'So you said,' Cripps replied. 'Would you likesomething for dessert?'

'Do you doubt my appraisal? Is that what it is?'

'Have something sweet to finish off, so that I don't feelan utter reprobate.'

'You think I'm wrong about him, don't you?' Ballardpressed. When Cripps didn't reply, Ballard leanedacross the table. 'You do, don't you?'