‘Breslow’s in his fifties… a well-preserved sixty perhaps. I’m not trained for the cloak-and-dagger stuff.’ The visitor smiled but, getting no response to his smile, continued. ‘Quite tall, lots of hair, no sign of going grey. Good firm handshake, if that’s anything to go by, and very friendly.’

‘Has anyone put him on the computer?’

The visitor drank his tea and looked at Stuart. In Washington they had hinted that he was going to meet one of the SIS’s best agents but the young man found Boyd Stuart older, wearier and far less polished than he had expected. ‘Ah well,’ he said, ‘that’s something I’m not supposed to know about, but I’d say it’s rather unlikely.’

‘Why unlikely?’

‘My briefing was rather circumspect, old chap, but I gathered that nothing is so far being communicated to our American friends. And we both know that anything that goes through the Bonn computer will be known in Washington within twenty-four hours.’

Stuart nodded and concluded that his visitor was less idiotic than his manner would indicate. ‘Have some more tea,’ he said, ‘and tell me what else you got out of him.’

‘You brought this with you, I suppose,’ said the visitor, watching the tea being poured. ‘It’s a damned funny thing, I buy the self-same brand of English tea in my supermarket in Washington and it never tastes the same.’

‘You think he’s going to make the film?’

‘He didn’t seem to be in a great hurry.’

‘I heard he has a script.’

‘It’s still not right, he says.’

‘Where is the front money coming from?’

‘He says it’s all his own.’ The visitor scratched his chin. ‘I think he’s fronting for someone. I don’t know what you’re up to with this fellow but I’d advise caution.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That your Porsche outside?’ It was a casual question. Too casual.

Stuart laughed. ‘What a hope! Back in London I spend most of my spare time on my back under a 1963 Aston Martin.’

The young man came to life. ‘A DB4! You lucky dog. In Washington, I’ve picked up a Sunbeam Tiger fitted with an American V8 engine but one of the bearings is giving me trouble. It’s all in pieces at the moment… That’s one of the reasons I cursed the orders that brought me here to the coast. You should see my garage-bits of the engine all over the place. If my wife goes in there and trips over one of those bowls in which I’m soaking the valves… ’ He pulled a face to indicate the pain it would cause him. ‘Not yours, eh, that Porsche?’

‘Which bloody Porsche?’

‘I saw it at the airport when I arrived. It was parked in the hotel car park. Then yesterday I saw it cruising slowly down Sunset Boulevard when I was talking with our pal Breslow.’

Boyd Stuart got up and walked to the window. ‘Where is it now?’

‘In a lot across the road, alongside the Pioneer Chicken.’

Stuart looked through the dark tinted glass which was advertised as a way of cutting air-conditioning costs. It gave the office privacy from passersby. Across the street he could just see the back of a black Porsche tucked behind a Chevrolet pick-up. Sitting inside the Porsche was Willi Kleiber, and behind the wheel Rocky Paz, a local strong-arm man turned car dealer. But even had Stuart seen their faces it would have meant nothing to him; he had never met either of them. ‘A Porsche,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Not exactly inconspicuous, is it?’

‘In this town it is. Look for yourself; the streets are full of them, especially black Porsches.’

‘In that case perhaps you’re overreacting,’ said Stuart. ‘How can you be certain that this was the same car you saw? Did you get the licence?’

‘It’s an Illinois licence. And he’s got a hand-operated spotlight mounted behind the windscreen slightly off centre-it’s a 1978 Porsche 928. It’s the same car all right.’

‘At the airport, you say?’

‘When I got off the plane from Washington. It was a million to one that I should notice him, but I notice cars like that.’

‘Always the same man driving?’

‘Couldn’t see who was inside, I’m afraid. I thought it was one of your people, to tell you the truth.’

‘You’ve got the green Datsun at the kerb?’

‘Hertz; from the airport.’

‘Give me three or four minutes to get my car ready to go. Then get in your Datsun and take a ride round Palos Verdes Drive. You know where I mean? Let’s take a look at him. Would you do that for me?’

‘You bet I would! Do you really mean it?’

‘And keep going until we find a nice lonely stretch of road, without any filling stations or McDonald’s. We’ll shake an explanation out of him.’

‘Depend on me,’ said the young man, galvanized by new-found enthusiasm.

‘And pull this door locked when you leave.’

Boyd Stuart opened the door of the battered cupboard that held two brooms and some telephone directories and rattled around the wire coat-hangers to get his jacket. He put it on and said, ‘Wait a minute, though. Let’s do it another way. Why don’t you take my car? It’s a white BMW with dark tinted glass.’

‘No rainbow-paint job or flashing light on top?’ said the young man sarcastically.

‘And I’ll take your Datsun. OK?’

The visitor got the car keys from his pocket and gave them to him. ‘It’s a rented car, remember. Don’t bend it.’

‘Good,’ said Stuart handing over the keys of his BMW. By this time Stuart had begun to have second thoughts about the chase but it was no longer socially possible to voice such thoughts.

‘If you lose me, phone me at the apartment tonight.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Let’s say about 10.30.’

‘I won’t lose you,’ said the visitor. ‘I’ve done enough rally driving to hang on to a Datsun with a BMW. But I can’t guarantee to keep the Porsche in sight if he tumbles to what’s going on.’

The temperature touched 100° Fahrenheit in Los Angeles that day. The hot Santa Ana wind brought the sour smell of the desert and made the city unbearable. Overhead the sky was white and baleful. Stuart hurriedly fitted the keys into the Datsun and started it up. He watched the BMW come into view and glanced in the mirror in time to see the driver of the black Porsche toss the remains of his chicken into the trash bucket, together with a shower of fried potatoes and a dollop of coleslaw. The tinted window closed with a purr and the car shivered in a blue haze as the engine came to life with a deep roar. By the time Stuart had the Datsun moving, the Porsche came bumping its way out of the Pioneer Chicken parking lot. He followed both cars on to Venice Boulevard.

The San Diego Freeway traffic was thin and fast on the southbound side of the elevated highway, He matched his speed to the other cars and trucks, and found the black Porsche and his own BMW in the number one lane. He pulled ahead of them and positioned himself so that he could see them in the mirror. Then the Porsche accelerated suddenly and the youngster from the embassy gave chase. It was a foolish thing to do.

Somewhere in the complex crossover of the Marina Freeway intersection Stuart lost sight of the other two cars. One moment they were clearly visible behind a huge Vons delivery truck. Then the great articulated vehicle changed lanes to find the westbound loop that would bring it to the Marina del Rey. It closed out the rearward view like the curtains closing upon the last act of a play. As the truck passed across the mirror, the highway reappeared but this time empty. Damn! They’d left the freeway. It was about half a mile before the next exit sign appeared. It seemed like a hundred miles. Stuart slammed his car into the slow lane and roared down the ramp at Centinela Boulevard. One way, the road dead-ends. Stuart swung down into the street and on to the pavement as he squeezed past an angry lady in a Buick to make an illegal U-turn at the lights, almost hitting the large sign which says such turns are forbidden here. He came back under the freeway, his engine roaring at its concrete confines. Only then did he realize that there was no entrance to the freeway here and he changed lanes to make a left turn. Coming through the amber he caused a panel truck to flash its lights as he narrowly missed hitting a motorcyclist. Stuart swore again. To get to the northbound side of the freeway he had to drive a block to find the next ramp.