‘It went all right,’ said one of the trainees. It was exactly the sort of task they had looked forward to when first selected for assignment to MI6.

‘Let’s wait until we’re sure that no one took the licence number of that Rover and finds it’s registered in the name of old Tom Morris in the accounting department. Did you put the fear of God into the hotel staff? We don’t want anyone phoning the Evening Standard news desk.’

‘I did just what you told me, sir,’ said one trainee obsequiously.

‘You’ll go a long way, Parsons,’ said Stuart. ‘Paid his bill, and checked his room carefully?’

‘Just the way they showed us to do it at the training school.’

Stuart pulled a face. ‘No one’s perfect,’ he said. ‘I’m going home now. You can give him some gentle interrogation for the next two hours. I’ll take over when I return.’

‘What is the prime objective?’ asked the first trainee.

Stuart recognized the terminology. They had been talking about primary and secondary interrogation objectives decades ago when he had first passed through the school. ‘Just ask him questions,’ said Stuart. ‘Any questions. Don’t try to solve the murders-just keep him awake for me. I want him tired and worried by the time I take over.’

‘Are we certain that he didn’t murder the people in King’s ‘Cross?’

Stuart looked at him. Only these young trainees asked that sort of direct question, but he let it go without complaint. ‘The two men were discovered dead by one of our own operatives while Billy Stein was still in the USA.’

‘I suppose that clinches it,’ said the trainee.

‘Let’s just say that we’d need a very persuasive prosecutor,’ said Stuart and went home.

The top two floors of the Pentonville safe house, in a shabby part of north London, were converted into a separate apartment. Meetings were sometimes held there, although these were never the high-level ‘policy meetings’, or the monthly so-called ‘Soviets’, or even the finance meetings. All those were held in more luxurious environments: the house that overlooked the Thames at Marlow or the equally fine manor house at Abingdon. Places where, or so it was always insisted, the extensive parkland provided better security.

The Pentonville Road safe house was where men met to discuss such mundane matters as travel and petrol allowances, extra paid leave and postings-the sort of decisions that did not affect the lives of the men at the top. But Pentonville Road was comfortable enough in its bourgeois way. On the sideboard the duty officers could be sure of a bottle of Yugoslav riesling or a rather fierce claret, together with warm Schweppes and recapped bottles of Perrier water, long since gone flat. Even the key for the cupboard under the stairs, where the gin and whisky were kept, was hanging by the electric meter with the fuse wire. There was a temperamental gas stove and a seemingly endless supply of eggs and sliced Wonderloaf. The more adventurous of the department’s employees had found it a convenient place to entertain young-and even not so young-ladies, when marital commitments stood in the way of more conventional social meetings.

Whether Sir Sydney Ryden knew any of this was not easy to decide, but he looked about him with a quizzical eye, and duty officer’s desperate search for a bottle of port for him had not only been successful but had also brought to light some Worcestershire sauce, half a bottle of malt whisky and a pink plastic hair comb.

At first the DG did not sit down. He strode about the large sitting room, picking up ashtrays and broken fountain pens in the restless way with which he was known to react to department bad news. He had not removed his overcoat when Stuart was shown into the room. The back of his collar was turned up and his hair was in all directions. Under the long overcoat, the director was in evening clothes, complete with old-fashioned wing-collar and pearl shirt studs. It was the small hours of Saturday, and cold enough for the duty officer to have a coal fire going in the tiny grate. The DG warmed his hands at it.

‘I was celebrating,’ explained the DG.

‘Something upon which I should congratulate you, Director?’

The DG smiled. ‘A dear friend was awarded a medal by the Royal Central Asian Society. It’s a great honour.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The DG turned to the sideboard. ‘A drink, Stuart?’

‘No thank you, sir.’ Stuart looked at his watch. It was three o’clock in the morning.

‘They have found me some port. I’m going to try some. Are you sure you won’t change your mind? We have… ’ he picked it up, tore off its paper wrapping and read the label carefully, ‘a malt whisky, according to the label.’

‘Very well, sir. A whisky straight.’

‘So he sent his son, did he?’

‘Apparently, sir. Billy Stein. We waited for him to make a move. He went to the house in King’s Cross this morning… yesterday morning perhaps I should say.’

‘And got into it?’

‘Not much difficulty there, sir. Anyone with a child’s penknife would have been able to do it.’

‘And that’s what the young Stein did, eh? That’s excellent.’ The DG poured the drinks and brought the malt whisky to Stuart. ‘And then what?’ He threw the wrapping paper into the fire but it did not burn.

‘Thank you, sir. The man following Stein phoned in. Coordination told duty field control and I went to see Stein at his hotel.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He was shaken. I accused him of murdering the men. I said he’d face trial if he didn’t cooperate fully.’

‘And will he cooperate… fully?’

‘He says he will,’ said Stuart. ‘But he’s still in a state of shock. A man in that condition is likely to say anything. Stein is in a foreign country, without his friends and associates. Yes, he says he will cooperate.’ Stuart drank some of his whisky. He smelt the harsh, smoky flavour and let it linger on his tongue. Having the DG acting as his personal controller was an unprecedented development, and not one that he in any way enjoyed. It was impossible to argue back with the DG in the way that sometimes became necessary in these operations. To make matters worse, more than one of the London permanent staff seemed to think that he was using the opportunity and his father-in-law to further his career.

‘What do you propose we do?’ asked the DG.

‘Let young Stein speak to his father… ’

‘Release the son if dad gives us the Hitler Minutes,’ said the DG, completing what Stuart was about to say.

‘Yes, sir.’

The DG pulled a face, as if he had suddenly bitten into a particularly sour lemon. ‘Crude, isn’t it, Stuart?’

‘It is, sir. Very crude. Do you have a better suggestion?’

The DG looked up quickly and studied Stuart’s face closely for any sign of intended rudeness. Having failed to discover any, he said, ‘No, Stuart. At the present time, I do not.’

‘Father and son are very close, sir.’

‘Never been on a tiger shoot, have you, Stuart?’ The DG rested a hand on the mantelpiece and stared at the fire as a fortune teller might gaze at a crystal ball.

‘No, sir.’

‘You put out a line of beaters in the early morning, and they walk forward kicking up the very devil of a din. The guns are moving towards them, well strung out… on elephants, of course.’

‘Of course.’

The DG turned to face him. ‘Good beaters can get the creatures moving at just the right pace. You don’t want your tigers galloping past.’ The DG drank some of the port they had found him down under the stairs. It was Marks & Spencer’s own label and not the sort of vintage the DG favoured, but he sipped it without complaint. ‘There’s usually some bloody fool who fires too soon. He fires towards the beaters, you see. That’s not the idea at all. You’ve got to let your tiger come past; shoot him as he passes, or even after he’s passed. But never while he’s still coming towards you.’