'Kessler says he'll do a cheese souffle for us.'

'That sounds delicious.'

'And a little Westphalian ham to start?' Anticipating her approval he put down the menu and whipped off the stylish glasses that he wore when reading. He was vain enough to hate wearing them but his attempts to wear contact lenses had not worked out well.

'Perfect.' Neither of them were interested enough in the food to read the menu all through. It was a relief, thought Fiona. Bernard could never sit down in a restaurant without cross-examining the waiter about the cooking in its most minute details. What was worse, he was always trying to persuade Fiona to try such things as smoked eel, tongue or – what was that other dish he liked so much? – Marinierter Hering.

'How are you enjoying Berlin?' Bret asked.

'Having Bernard with me makes a difference.'

'Of course. His mother went to England to look after the children?'

'It was sweet of her but I miss them awfully,' she said. A platter of ham arrived garnished with tomatoes and pickles, and there was a lot of fussing about as the waiter offered them a selection of bread rolls and three different types of mustard. When the waiter had departed she said, 'I suppose at heart I'm a housewife.' She spread butter on her black bread but she watched Bret's reaction. Exactly a week ago she'd decided that she would not be able to go through with this mad project of defecting to the KGB as some sort of superspy.

Fiona's life had become too complex for her. The clandestine meetings with Martin Euan Pryce-Hughes had not been too stressful. She was a sleeper: they met rarely. Her assignment had provided her with a smug feeling of serving her country, and the Department, while demanding little or nothing from her. Then had come the bombshell from Bret Rensselaer that the Prime Minister had asked the D-G for a long-term commitment to getting someone into the top echelons of the enemy intelligence service. Of course she hadn't entirely dismissed the thought that Bret had exaggerated the way it had happened, especially now that she saw the gain in prestige – and self-esteem too – that her planned mission brought to Bret.

Perhaps she could have handled the secret meetings with Martin and Bret, especially since at first Bret had been so understanding and sensitive about the strain on her. But that totally unexpected coup de foudre that had smitten her after the chance meeting with Harry Kennedy was the last straw. And while the meetings with Martin and with Bret could be kept to a minimum, cancelled at short notice with no questions asked, and no recriminations, the meetings with Harry were something quite different. She sometimes ached to see him. On the days when they were to meet, she became so consumed by the prospect that she could think of nothing else. It was amazing that no one – not Bernard, not Bret nor her sister Tessa – had seen the turbulence within her. Well, it all had to stop. No more Martin, no more Bret and no more Harry. She was even considering resigning from the Department. If Bret put up any sort of resistance to letting her go free she would do exactly that. She had enough money from her father to tell them all to go to hell. Bret would argue, whine and maybe yell, but she only had one life and what she did with it was going to be her decision.

When a woman reaches her thirties, she starts to ask herself some demanding questions. What was she doing with her life that was more important than having a real home and looking after her husband and her children? How could she contemplate prolonged separation from them? Let them send some other agent to the East. There must be dozens who wanted to make their name by such an operation. But not she.

She ate some ham and a piece of the warm bread roll. Since Bret had not spoken, she said it again. 'I suppose at heart I'm a housewife.'

If Bret guessed what was in store he gave no immediate sign of it. 'We're changing the name of my department. Instead of the European Economics Desk it's officially to be the Economics Intelligence Section and I am named "Department Head". Rather grand, isn't it?' It came as no surprise to either of them. When Bret had told her about his master plan – Sinker – for bringing down the German Democratic Republic by targeting the respectable middle class, she knew it was right. Anyone who'd read a history book could see that Hitler gained power by wooing the German middle classes while the communists disdained them.

'So congratulations are in order?' she asked.

'They surely are,' he said and they raised their glasses and drank. She smiled; how proud Bret was of his new appointment. She would never really understand him; she wondered if anyone did. He was so perfect and yet so contrived, right down to that perfect suntan. His navy blue cashmere jacket and grey slacks were probably chosen to show her how informal he could be but, together with the silk bow tie and starched shirt complete with cuffs long enough to reveal onyx links, he looked like a fashion plate. He was highly intelligent, charming, and, although no longer young, handsome; and yet he remained completely devoid of any sort of sexual attraction.

'Have you seen Frank?' she asked.

'About the big panic? Yes, I spent this afternoon with him.'

'Is there going to be a row?'

'Maybe but I don't think so. For us, in fact, it provides a perfect opportunity.'

'To fire Frank?' It was a mischievous and provocative question that she knew Bret would let pass.

Impassively Bret asked, 'Were you there when the intercept came in?' She nodded. Tell me about it.'

'It was in the small hours of the morning – I can look it up in the log if you want it timed exactly. The duty cipher clerk brought it, they'd deciphered it very quickly. It came through the Russian Army transmitter at Karlshorst with the authorization of the commanding general's office. It was an order that some military airfield in southwest Czecho be kept on a twenty-four-hour operational status.'

'Did Frank see it?'

'It was handed to him. Frank pooh-poohed it at first and then did his usual sitting on the fence routine.'

'Who was in charge of communications room security?'

'You must have got all this from Frank.'

'Who was in charge?'

'Werner Volkmann.'

'Bernard's German buddy?'

'Yes, that's him.'

'Good. It will all work nicely.'

'What will?'

'You're going to take a copy of that intercept and give it to Pryce-Hughes.'

'Give it to Martin?'

'That's what I said. Be precise. I've written down exactly what I want you to say.'

She drank some champagne. 'You know what will happen?'

'Tell me what will happen, Fiona.'

'Moscow will tell Karlshorst immediately, they're very touchy about military signals. No matter what I stipulate about secrecy, they'll send an intercepted traffic warning to the commanding general's office and change everything,'

'Yes, they'll change the codes and ciphers. We could live with that,' said Bret.

'I'm not an expert on signals,' said Fiona. 'But surely they change the codes and ciphers three or four times a week anyway? For a penetration like this they will change the system.'

'Whoever gave approval must know what they'll do,' said Bret, without concern for anything but his own plans.

'What is this all about?'

'I'm going to make you a star,' said Bret. 'I'm going to get the Soviets to sprinkle you with stardust and start thinking of you as a potential big-shot.'

'I don't like it, Bret.'

She was expecting him to ask why but he dismissed her reservations with a wave of his hand. 'I had to get the D-G's authority for this one, Fiona. It's a big concession and it shows that the old man is really convinced.'

'Won't NATO make a fuss? Moscow will change everything. Everything.'