From the household next door there came the sudden sound of a piano. These were tiny cottages built a century ago for agricultural workers in the Kent fields, and the walls were thin. At first there came the sort of grandiose strumming that pub pianists affect as an overture for their recitals, then the melody resolved into a First World War song: 'The Roses of Picardy'. The relaxed jangle of the piano completed the curious sensation Fiona already had of going back in time, waiting, trapped in the past. This was the long peaceful and promising Edwardian Springtime that everyone thought would never turn cold. There was nothing anywhere in sight to suggest they were not sitting in this parlour sometime at the century's beginning, perhaps 1904, when Europe was still young and innocent, London's buses were horse-drawn, HMS Dreadnought unbuilt and Russia's permanent October still to come.

'They're never late,' she said, looking at her watch and trying to decide upon an explanation which would satisfy her husband if he arrived home before her.

'You seldom deal with them,' he said. 'You deal with me, and I'm never late.'

She didn't contradict him. He was right. She very seldom saw the Russians: they were all too likely to be tailed by MI5 people.

'And when you do contact them, this is the sort of thing that happens.' He was pleased to show how important he was in the contact with the Russians.

She couldn't help worrying about this Russian who'd tried to defect. He'd seen that she was alone and approached her in what seemed to be an impulsive decision. Had it all been a KGB plot? She'd seen him only that once, but he'd seemed such a genuine decent man. 'It must be difficult for someone like Blum,' she said.

'Difficult in what way?'

'Working in a foreign country. Young, missing his wife, lonely. Perhaps shunned because he is Jewish.'

'I doubt that very much,' he said. 'He was a third secretary in the attaché's office: he was trusted and well paid. The little swine was determined to prove how important he was.'

'A Russian Jew with a German name,' said Fiona. 'I wonder what motivated him.'

'He won't try that stunt again,' said Martin. 'And the attaché's office will get a rocket from Moscow.' He smiled with satisfaction at the idea. 'Everything will go through me, as it was always done before Blum.'

'Could it have been a trick?'

'To see if you are loyal to them? To see if you are really a double: working for your SIS masters?'

'Yes,' she said. 'As a test for me.' She watched Martin carefully. Bret Rensselaer, her case officer, who was master-minding this double life of hers, said he was certain that Blum was acting on orders from Moscow. Even if he wasn't, Rensselaer had explained, it's better we lose this chance of a highly placed agent than endanger you. Sometimes she wished she could look at life with the same cold-blooded detachment that Bret Rensselaer displayed. In any case, there was no way she could defy him, and she wasn't sure she wanted to. But what would happen now?

Martin gave a cunning smile as he reflected upon this possibility. 'Well if it was a test, you came through with flying colours,' he said proudly.

She realized then, for the first time, what a stalwart supporter she had in him. Martin was committed to her: she was his investment and he'd do anything rather than face the idea that his protegee was not the most influential Soviet agent of modern history.

'It's getting late.'

'There there. We'll get you to the train on time. Bernard's coming back from Berlin today, isn't he?'

She didn't answer. Martin had no business asking such things even in a friendly conversational way.

Martin said, 'I'm watching the time. Don't-fret.'

She smiled. She regretted now the way that she had snapped at him. The Russians had decided that the two of them were joined by a strong bond of affection: that Martin's avuncular manner, as well as his unwavering political belief, was an essential part of her dedication. She didn't want to give them any reason to re-examine their theory.

She looked round the tiny room and wondered if Martin lived here all the time or whether it was just a safe house used for other meetings of this sort. It seemed lived-in: food in the kitchen, coal by the fireplace, open mail stuffed behind the clock that ticked away on the mantelpiece, a well-fed cat prowling through a well-kept garden. A clipper ship in full sail on the wall behind spotless glass. There were lots of books here: Lenin and Marx and even Trotsky stared down from the shelves, along with his revered Fabians, an encyclopedia of socialism, and Rousseau and John Stuart Mill. Even the tedious works of his father. It was an artful touch. Even a trained security man was unlikely to recognize a KGB agent who was so openly familiar with the philosophies of the dissidents, revisionists and traitors. That was Martin's cover: a cranky, old-fashioned and essentially British left-wing theorist, out of touch with modern international political events.

'It's my son Billy. His throat was swollen this morning,' said Fiona and looked at her watch again. 'Nanny should be taking him to see the doctor about now. Nanny is a sensible girl.'

'Of course she is.' He didn't approve of nannies and other domestic slaves. It took nun back to his own childhood and muddled emotions about his father that he found so difficult to think about. 'He'll be all right.'

'I do hope it's not mumps.'

'I'm watching the time,' he said again.

'Good reliable Martin,' she said.

He smiled and puffed his pipe. It was what he wanted to hear.

It was a long-haired youth who arrived on a bicycle. He propped it against the fence and came down the garden to rat-a-tat on the front door. The canary awoke and jumped from perch to perch so that the cage danced on its spring. Martin answered the door and came back with a piece of paper he'd taken from a sealed envelope. He gave it to her. It was the printed invoice of a local florist. Written across it in felt-tip pen it said: 'The wreath you ordered has been sent as requested.' It bore the mark of a large oval red rubber stamp: 'PAID'.

'I don't understand,' she said.

'Blum is dead!' he announced softly.

'My God!' said Fiona.

He looked at her. Her face had gone completely white.

'Don't worry,' he said soothingly. 'You've come out of it as pure as the driven snow.' Then he realized that it was the news of Blum's death that had shocked her. In a desperate attempt to comfort her he said, 'Our comrades are inclined to somewhat operatic gestures. They have probably just sent him home to Moscow.'

'Then why…?'

'To reassure you. To make you feel important.' He took a cloth from the shelf and wrapped it carefully round the bird cage to provide darkness.

She looked at him, trying to see what he really believed, but she couldn't be sure.

'Believe me,' he added. 'I know them.'

She decided to believe him. Perhaps it was a feminine response but she couldn't shoulder the burden of Blum's death. She wasn't brave about the sufferings that were inflicted upon others, and yet that was what this job was all about.

She got home after half-past eight, and it was only about ten minutes later that Bret Rensselaer phoned with a laconic, 'All okay?'

'Yes, all okay,' she said.

'What's wrong?'

Bret had heard something in her voice. He was so tuned to her emotions that it frightened her. Bernard would never have guessed she was upset. 'Nothing's wrong,' she said carefully, keeping her voice under control. 'Nothing we can speak about.'

'Are you alone?'

'Yes.'

'Usual time: usual place.'

'Bernard's not here yet. He was due back.'

'I arranged something… delayed his baggage at the airport. I wanted to be sure you were home and it was all okay… '