'So tell me your theory,' said Bret.

'What can I tell you: he's a good-looking guy. An airplane freak. Canadian. Soft-spoken, well-heeled, smartly dressed, very, very bright and muy simpatico. You get the picture? This Samson lady… she's a very attractive woman.' He stopped. A conversation with Bret, when he was in a touchy mood like this, was like a stroll through a minefield. He smoked his cigarette as if trying to decide what to say next. 'Maybe that kind of soft shoulder, and the Canadian charm this guy Kennedy peddles, is just what she's short of.'

'A good-looker, is he?'

'You saw the photos, Bret.'

'Looked like he was assembled from a plastic kit.'

'He's a natty dresser, I said that. But even people who don't like him admit he's brilliant. Good flyer, good doctor and good lover too maybe. He's one of those people who always come out on top in exams: fluent, adaptable and sophisticated.'

'And on the down side?'

'My guess is: neurotic, restless and unhappy. He can't settle down anywhere. But lots of women go for guys like that, they figure they can help them. And look at her husband. I've met him a few times. He's a really rough diamond, isn't he?'

'You said… '

'That I liked him. And I do up to a point. He's dead straight: I wouldn't like to cross him.' It was quite an accolade coming from Bernstein. 'He's a man's man: not the sort you'd expect to find hitched to a twin-set and pearls lady like that.'

Bret bit his lip and was silent for a moment before saying, 'Sometimes things are not…'

'Oh, I know what you're going to say. But I've been doing this kind of work for a long time now. Two people like that… She goes to his apartment: alone, never with her husband… He never goes to her place. And you only have to see them together to know he's crazy about her.' He flicked ash into an ancient ceramic ashtray around the rim of which the words 'Long May They Reign. Coronation 1937' were faintly visible. It was part of his wife's collection of commemorative china-ware. He moved it, so there was no danger of it being knocked and broken, and waited for Rensselaer to react.

'It's improbable,' pronounced Bret.

'You say it's improbable. Okay, you're the boss. But do my job for a little while, and maybe you'd start thinking you can't use that word improbable, because when boys and girls get together, nothing is improbable.'

Bret smiled but he felt sick at heart. In his own futile way he loved and cherished Fiona Samson, and didn't want to believe she was having a casual affair. 'Okay, Sylvy. You usually get it right.'

'There's always a first time. Maybe they just drink tea, look at pictures of his airplanes and talk about the meaning of life. But really I don't think so, Bret.'

Bret Rensselaer got up, overcome with anger. He looked around angrily, as if an escape from the room would bring with it escape from the facts he didn't want to face. He couldn't get out of his mind the wonderful relationship that he believed had developed between him and Fiona Samson over the weeks and months since he'd started preparing her for what would undoubtedly be the intelligence coup of the century. Fiona was the perfect pupil. 'Pupil' perhaps wasn't the right word and it certainly wasn't a word he would use to her about their relationship. Protégée, perhaps; although that wasn't the right word either. In a grimmer truth the relationship was more like the one a prizefighter has with a trainer, a manager, or a promoter.

She needed his support nowadays. The strain was beginning to tell on her, but that was only to be expected. He liked to help her, and of course Bret would not have denied that there was a certain frisson to the way that they had to meet covertly, in such a way that her husband wouldn't start suspecting. For by now Bret had reluctantly come round to the D-G's idea that advantages could be obtained from Bernard Samson's dismay at his wife's defection.

'How could she?' It was only when he stole a glance at Bernstein that Bret realized that he'd asked the question aloud. He turned away and went across to the dining table to lean upon it with both arms outstretched; he had to think.

Bret and Fiona, they had become so close that lately he'd dared to start believing that she was becoming fond of him. He'd arranged fresh flowers whenever she came, and she'd remarked on it. Her rare but wonderful smiles, the curiously fastidious way she poured drinks for both of them, and sometimes she brought silly little presents for him, like the automatic corkscrew which replaced the one he'd broken. There was the birthday card too: it came in a bright green envelope and said 'With all my love, Fiona'. Bad security, as he told her at their next meeting, but he'd placed it by his bedside clock; it was the first thing he saw when he woke up each morning. Bret closed his eyes.

Bernstein watched him twisting and turning but said nothing. Bernstein waited. He wasn't puzzled; he didn't puzzle about things he wasn't paid to puzzle about. He'd discovered over the years how mysterious could be the ways of men and women, and Bret Rensselaer's wild pacing and unrestrained mutterings didn't alarm him or even surprise him.

Bret hammered a fist into his palm. It was inconceivable that Fiona was having an affair with this man Kennedy. There must be some other explanation. Bret had come to terms with the fact that, when she said goodbye to him, Fiona Samson went home to her husband and children. That was right and proper. Bret liked Bernard. But who the hell was Kennedy? Did Fiona smile and make jokes with Kennedy? Even more awful to think about, did she go to bed with this man?

It was at that point that Bret Rensselaer steadied himself on the mantelpiece, drew back his foot and kicked the brass fender as hard as he could. The matching fire-irons crashed against the fireplace with such force that the grate sang like a tuning fork, and one of the tiles of the hearth was hit hard enough to crack.

'Take it easy, Bret!' said Bernstein in a voice that, for the first time, betrayed his alarm. He found himself standing up, holding, for safety, the two Queen Victoria Diamond Jubilee plates that were his wife's most treasured items.

This displacement activity seemed to release some of Bret's anger, for the desperate nature of his movements subsided, and he stepped more carefully about the room and pretended to look at the books and then out of the window to where his car was parked. It was not often that Bret was lost for words but he simply could not get his thoughts in order. 'Jesus Christ!' he said to himself, and resolved to get Fiona Samson assigned to Berlin right away, perhaps by the weekend.

When Bret sat down again both men remained silent for a while and listened to the dustmen collecting the garbage: they banged the bins and yelled to each other and the truck gave a plaintive little hooting noise whenever it backed up.

'Give me a butt, Sylvy.'

Bernstein let him take one and flicked the Zippo open. He noticed that Bret was trembling but the cigarette seemed to calm him down.

Bret said, 'What would you say to a regular job?'

'With your people?'

'I just might be able to fix it.'

'Are you getting tee'd off with paying me out of your own pocket?'

'Is that what I'm doing?' said Bret calmly.

'You never ask for vouchers.'

'Well, what do you say?'

'I wouldn't fit into a British setup.'

'Sure you would.'

'The truth is, Bret, that I wouldn't trust the British to look after me.'

'Look after you how?'

'If I was in trouble. I'm a Yank. If I was in a jam, they'd feed me to the sharks.' He stubbed out his cigarette very hard.

'Why do you say that?' Bret asked.

'I know I'm stepping out of line, Bret, but I think you're crazy to trust them. If they have to choose between you and one of their own, what do you think they are going to do?'