'Yes, goodnight, Bret.' She hung up. Bret was doing it for her sake but she knew that he enjoyed showing her how easy it was for him to control her husband in that way. He was another of these men who felt bound to demonstrate some aspect of their power to her. There was also an underlying sexual implication that she didn't like.

Somerset, England. Summer 1978.

The Director-General was an enigmatic figure who was the subject of much discussion amongst the staff. Take, for instance, that Christmas when a neat panel bearing the poker-work motto 'Only ignorance is invincible' was hung in a prominent position on the wall beside his desk. The questions arising from that item were not stilled by the news that it was a Christmas present from his wife.

His office was a scene of incomparable chaos into which the cleaning ladies made only tentative forays. Books were piled everywhere. Most of them were garlanded with coloured slips of paper indicating rich veins of research that had never been pursued beyond the initial claims staked out for him by his long-suffering assistant.

Sir Henry Clevemore provided a fruitful source for Bret Rensselaer's long-term anthropological study of the English race. Bret had categorized the D-G as a typical member of the upper classes. This tall shambling figure, whose expensive suits looked like baggy overalls, was entirely different to anyone Bret knew in the USA. Apart from his other eccentricities the D-G encouraged his staff to believe that he was frail, deaf and absent-minded. This contrived role certainly seemed to provide for him a warm loyalty that many a tougher leader would have envied.

One of the disagreeable aspects of working in close cooperation with Sir Henry was the way he moved about the country in such a disorganized and unplanned style that Bret found himself chasing after him to rendezvous after rendezvous in places both remote and uncomfortable. Today they were in Somerset. In the interests of privacy the D-G had taken him to a small wooden hut. It overlooked the sports field of a minor public school of which the D-G was a conscientious governor. The D-G had made a speech to the whole school and had lunch with the headmaster. Bret at short notice had had to be driven down at breakneck speed. There had been no time for lunch. No matter, on a hot day like this Bret could miss lunch without feeling deprived.

The school's surroundings provided a wonderful view of mighty trees, rolling hills and farmland. This was the English countryside that had inspired her great landscape painters: it was brooding and mysterious despite the bright colours. The newly cut grass left a pungent smell on the air. Although not normally prone to hay fever, Bret found his sinuses affected. Of course it was an affliction aggravated by stress and it would be unwise to conclude that the prospect of this meeting with the Director-General had played no part in bringing on the attack.

Through the cobwebbed window two teams of white-clad teenagers could be seen going through the arcane gymnastics that constitute a cricket match. Entering into the spirit of this event, the D-G had changed into white trousers, a linen jacket that had yellowed with age, and a panama hat. He had seated himself in a chair from which he could see the game. The D-G had wiped his piece of window clear but Bret saw the scene through the grimy glass. Bret was standing, having declined to sit upon the cushioned oil drum that the D-G had indicated. Bret kept half an eye on the game, for the D-G referred to it at intervals seeking Bret's opinions about the way it was being played.

'Tell the husband,' said the D-G, shaking his head sadly, 'and it's no longer a secret.'

Bret didn't answer immediately. He watched the left-handed batsman thumping his bat into the ground and waiting for the ball to come. The fielders were well spread out anticipating some heavy swings. Bret turned to the D-G. He'd already made it clear that in his opinion Fiona Samson's husband would have to be told everything: that she was a double agent and was being briefed to go over there. 'I will see her later today,' Bret said. He'd hoped to get the D-G's okay and then he would brief Bernard Samson too. By tonight it would all have been done.

'What are you doing with her at present?' the D-G asked.

Bret walked away a couple of paces and then turned. From that characteristic movement the D-G knew that unless he nipped it in the bud he was going to get one of Bret's renowned lectures. He settled back in his chair and waited for an opportunity to interrupt. Bret had no one else he could explain things to. The D-G knew that providing Bret with a sounding board at frequent intervals was something he could not delegate. 'If we are going to place her in the sort of role where she will pull off the sort of coup we're both hoping for, we can't just leave things to chance.'

'Bravo!' said the D-G, reacting to a stroke that sent the ball to the far boundary. He turned to Bret and smiled. 'We haven't got too much time, Bret.'

'We need ten years, Director, maybe twelve.'

'Is that your considered opinion?'

Bret looked at the old man. They both knew what he was thinking. He wanted Fiona Samson in place before he came up for retirement. Forget the modest, self-effacing manner that was his modus operandi, he wanted glory. 'It is, Sir Henry.'

'I was hoping for something earlier than that.'

'Sir Henry, Fiona Samson is nothing more than an agent in place as far as Moscow is concerned. She has never done anything. She has never delivered.'

'What do you have in mind?'

'She should be posted to Berlin. I want them to have a closer look at her.'

'That would speed things up. They would start thinking of getting her over there quickly.'

'No, they want her in London where the big stuff is hidden.' Bret got out his handkerchief and selfconsciously blew his nose, making as little noise as possible. 'Forgive me, Sir Henry. I think the newly cut grass…'

'Then why Berlin?'

'She will have to do something for them.'

The D-G looked at him and pulled a face. He didn't like these stunts which required that the KGB were given things. They were always given good things, convincing things, and that meant things that the Department should keep to itself. 'What?'

'I haven't got as far as that, Director, but we'll have to do it, and do it before the end of the year.'

'Would you acquaint me with a little of your thinking? Wait one moment, this fellow is their fast bowler.'

Bret waited. It was a hot day: the grass was bright green and the boys in their cricket clothes made it the sort of English spectacle that under other circumstances Bret might have relished. The ball came very fast but bounced and went wide. Bret said, 'Mrs Samson goes to Berlin. During her time there she gives them something substantial…' Bret paused while the D-G winced at the thought,'…so that we have a big inquiry from which she emerges safe. Preferably with their help.'

'You mean they arrange that one of their agents takes the blame?'

'Well, yes. That, of course, would be ideal,' said Bret.

The D-G was still watching the match. 'I like it,' he said without turning round.

Bret smiled grimly. It was an uphill struggle, but that was something of an accolade coming from Sir Henry Clevemore, although it could of course have been prompted by some cricketing accomplishment that Bret had failed to understand. He said, 'Mrs Samson comes back here to London and they tell her to keep still and quiet.'

'That's one year,' the D-G reminded him.

Bret said, 'Look, sir. We can deliver Mrs Samson to them right away, of course we can. She's like a box of nuts and bolts: an all-purpose agent they can use anywhere. But that's not good enough.'