'So you talked with this guy Stinnes?'

'I talked with him.'

'And?'

I shrugged.

Bret said, 'Do I have to drag every damned word out of you? What did he say? What do you think?'

'What he said and what I think are two very different things,' I said.

'I spoke with Dicky already. He said Stinnes will come over to us. He's in a dead-end job and wants to leave his wife anyway. He wants a divorce but is frightened of letting his organization know about it, in case they get mad at him.'

'That's what he said.'

'Does that fit in with what we know about the KGB?'

'How do I find out what "we" know about the KGB?'

'OK, smart ass. Does it fit in with what you know about them?'

'Everything depends upon what his personal dossier says. If Stinnes has been sleeping around – with other men's wives, for instance – and the divorce is the result of that… then maybe it would blow up into trouble for him.'

'And what would happen to him?'

'Being stationed outside Russia is considered a privilege for any Russian national. For instance, army regulations prevent any Jew, of any rank, serving anywhere but in the republics. Even Latvians, Lithuanians, Estonians, Crimean Tartars and people from the western Ukraine are given special surveillance when serving in foreign posts, even in communist countries such as the DDR or Poland.'

'But Stinnes is not in any of those categories?'

'His marriage to the German girl is unusual. Not many Russians marry foreigners. They know only too well that it will make them into second-class citizens. Stinnes is an exception, and it's worth noting the confidence he showed in doing it. His use of a German name is also curious. It made me wonder at first if he had come from one of the German communities.'

'Do German communities still exist in Russia? I thought Stalin liquidated them back in the forties.' He swung his chair round and got to his feet so that he could look out of the window. Bret Rensselaer was a peripatetic man who could not think unless his body was in motion. Now he hunched his shoulders like a prize fighter and swayed as if avoiding blows. Sometimes he raised his foot to bend the knee that was said to have troubled him since he was a teenage US Navy volunteer in the final months of the Pacific war. But he never complained of his knee. And it didn't give him enough trouble to interfere with his skiing holidays.

'The big German communities on the Volga were wiped out by executions and deportations back in 1941. But there are still Germans scattered across Russia from one end to the other.' His back was still turned to me but I was used to him and his curious mannerisms so I continued to talk. 'Many German communities are established in Siberia and the Arctic regions. Most big cities in the USSR have a German minority, but they keep a low profile, of course.'

He turned to face me. 'How can you be sure that Stinnes is not from one of those German communities?' He tugged at the ends of the grey silk bow-tie to make sure it was still neat and tidy.

'Because he is stationed in East Germany. The army and the KGB have an inflexible rule that no one of German extraction serves with army units in Germany.'

'So if Stinnes applies for a divorce the chances are that he'll be sent to work in Russia?'

'And probably to some remote "new town" in Central Asia. It wouldn't be the sort of posting he'd want.'

'No matter how he beefs about Berlin. Right.' This thought cheered him up. 'So that makes Stinnes a good prospect for our offer.'

'Whatever you say, Bret,' I told him.

'You're a miserable critter, Bernard.' Now he took his reading glasses off and put them on the desk while he had a good look at me from head to toe.

'Forget enrolling Stinnes,' I said. 'The chances are it will never happen.'

'You're not saying we should drop the whole business?'

'I'm not saying you should drop it. If you and Dicky have nothing better to do, go ahead. There are lots of other – even less promising – projects that the department are putting time and money into. Furthermore I'd say it would be good for Dicky to get some practical experience at the sharp end of the business.'

'Is that gibe intended for me too?'

'No reason why you shouldn't get into the act. You've never seen a Russian close to, except over the smoked-salmon sandwiches at embassy tea parties,' I said. 'Stinnes is a real pro. You'll enjoy talking to him.'

Bret didn't like comments on his lack of field experience any more than any of the others did, but he kept his anger in check. He sat down behind his desk and swung his glasses for a moment. Then he said, 'We'll leave that for the time being because there's some routine stuff I have to go through with you.' I said nothing. 'It's routine stuff about your wife. I know you've been asked all this before, Bernard, but I have to have it from you.'

'I understand,' I said.

'I wish I was sure you did,' said Bret. He slumped down into his chair, picked up his phone but before using it said to me, 'Frank Harrington is in town. I think it might be a good idea to have him sit in on this one. You've no objection, I take it?'

'Frank Harrington?'

'He's very much involved with all this. And Frank's very fond of you, Bernard. I guess I don't have to tell you that.'

'Yes, I know he is.'

'You're a kind of surrogate son for him.' He toyed with the phone.

'Frank has a son,' I pointed out.

'An airline pilot?' said Bret scornfully, as if that career would automatically preclude him from such paternity. He pushed a button on the phone and said, 'Ask Mr Harrington to step in.' While we were waiting for Frank to arrive he picked up a piece of paper. I could see it was a single page from his loose-leaf notebook. He turned it over, made sure there was no more of his tiny handwritten notes on the back of it, and then placed it on a pile of such pages under a glass paperweight. Bret was methodical. He ran his forefinger down the next page of notes and was still reading them when Frank came in.

Frank Harrington was the head of the Berlin Field Unit, the job my father had held long long ago. He was a thin, bony sixty-year-old, dressed in a smooth tweed three-piece suit and highly polished Oxford shoes. Seen on the street he might have been mistaken for the colonel of a rather smart infantry regiment, and sometimes I had the feeling that Frank cultivated this resemblance. Yet despite the pale but weather-beaten face, the blunt-ended stubble moustache and the handkerchief tucked into his cuff, Frank had never been in the army except on short detachments. He'd come into the department largely on the strength of his brilliant academic record; Literae Humaniores was said to demand accurate speech, accurate thought and a keen and critical intellect. Unfortunately 'Greats' provides no inkling of the modern world and no clue to the mysteries of present-day politics or economics. And such classical studies could warp a young man's grasp of modern languages, so that even now Frank's spoken German had the stilted formality of a kaiserliche proclamation.

Without a word of greeting Bret pointed a finger at the black leather chesterfield. Frank smiled at me and sat down. We were both used to Bret's American style of office procedure.

'As I said, this is just a recap, Bernard, so let's get it over and done with,' said Bret.

'That suits me,' I said. Frank took his pipe from his pocket, fondled it and then blew through it loudly. When Bret glanced at him, Frank smiled apologetically.

'Obviously…' Bret looked at me to see how I reacted to his question'… you never suspected your wife of working for the KGB prior to your mission to East Berlin.'

'That's correct,' I said. I looked at Frank. He had brought a yellow oilskin tobacco pouch on to his knee and was rummaging through it to fill his pipe. He didn't look up.