‘A dedicated fellow,’ said the DG bitterly, but there was a trace of respect in the irony.

‘A cynic perhaps,’ said Stuart. ‘A mercenary.’

‘Consistently anti-Communist, isn’t he?’ said the DG. Before Stuart could answer, he asked, ‘Still alive then?’

‘Very much alive,’ said Stuart. ‘Resident in Munich, at least that seems to be where he pays his tax. He is the senior partner of a security company. They own a small fleet of armoured cars used to transport bullion and bank notes… for bank and factory payrolls.’

‘What else?’ It was impossible to guess how much the DG really knew.

‘That’s all we have officially, sir.’

The DG smiled. ‘And unofficially, Stuart? Am I to be taken into your confidence about what you’ve learnt unofficially?’ The DG was able to imbue even the friendliest words with a tone of biting sarcasm.

‘He might be a Moscow Centre operative,’ said Stuart.

‘And who has provided us with this alarming scenario?’

‘The collator, sir.’

The DG was taken aback. He had been expecting Stuart to name some junior clerk in the Identity Department, or some long-retired field agent to whom Stuart had indiscreetly mentioned his quest. ‘So the collator says he’s Moscow Centre,’ said the DG thoughtfully. He pulled his nose, ‘Not such an anti-Communist as I thought, eh Stuart?’

‘If there is some sort of war-crimes guilt hanging over Kleiber’s head, the Russians might have used it to blackmail him into working for them.’

‘You read my mind, Stuart. We’ve seen that one before, haven’t we?’

‘We have indeed, sir. Many times.’

‘It’s a tricky one,’ admitted the DG.

‘We are still “red-flagged”,’ said Stuart. ‘No computer read-outs, no police files, no foreigns.’

‘Are you complaining, Stuart?’ He said it mildly.

‘Such a decision was obviously necessary, sir. But we are being overtaken by events. Unless we have a chance to use the normal channels and procedures, there is a danger that these people will do what they plan to before we have a chance to frustrate them.’

‘You put your case most judiciously,’ said the DG, but he gave no sign that he was swayed by it.

‘Shouldn’t we tell Washington about Kleiber, sir? They could help us such a lot on the German end.’

‘How would you go about it?’

‘A request for information exchange. Give them details of the King’s Cross murders, the explosion at Wever’s farmhouse and the photo of Kleiber. Ask them if they can link any of it with Max Breslow and so on.’

‘Very well, Stuart. Assemble a telex and let me have a look at it after lunch. I don’t like the idea of Moscow Centre getting involved.’

‘No, sir.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that at all, Stuart. Think what the Kremlin could do with the Hitler Minutes if the stuff was turned over to their propaganda machine.’

‘Exactly, sir.’

Boyd Stuart’s meeting with his opposite number in the CIA’s London station was unofficial.

‘And the old man agreed?’ said the CIA man.

Stuart swallowed some gin and tonic before answering, ‘He’ll make it official this afternoon.’

‘You told him what we think about Kleiber?’

‘I said our own collator thought Kleiber was a Moscow Centre agent,’ said Stuart.

‘Suppose he checks?’

‘That’s OK. I talked with the collator. The collator will hum and haw and say maybe. You know what Leslie is like. He’s been there too long to make the mistake of giving anyone a definite opinion.’

The CIA man laughed. ‘Especially when that opinion might explode in his face and dribble all down his Eton tie.’

‘ Harrow,’ said Stuart. ‘Leslie went to Harrow, and his tie is Guards Armoured Division.’

The CIA man punched Stuart playfully. ‘You’re a goddamned kidder, Boyd.’

‘It’s true,’ said Stuart. ‘I’m simply stating facts.’

‘And I like the way you tell ’em,’ said the CIA man. He waved a hand and ordered more drinks from the barman. They were in the Salisbury, an old pub in St Martin ’s Lane, glittering with cut-glass mirrors, shiny brass fittings and shiny brass show-biz people, getting into the swing of the midweek matinee performances which they would soon take on stage at the nearby theatres. A lady with pink hair and stage make-up blundered backwards into Stuart and spilt his drink. ‘Don’t worry about it, dear,’ she said, ‘no harm done.’

Stuart patted the whisky drops from his sleeve.

‘Even my station chief couldn’t beat that one,’ said the CIA man admiringly. ‘She blunders into you, and tells you there’s no need to apologize.’

Stuart moved backwards into a corner and took his companion with him. ‘What I need to know,’ Stuart said, ‘is whether Max Breslow is part of the Moscow Centre network. And I need to know fast.’

‘I’ve promised you the print-out,’ said the CIA man. ‘And you’ll have it as soon as it comes off the terminal. But I’ll have to retype it. I can’t risk the original going outside the building.’ There was a cheer from the other side of the bar as one of the regulars arrived, a pretty blonde girl in a white trouser suit. ‘For you alone, Boyd. That’s the deal, remember? No one you work with is to be told where this information is coming from.’

‘Was that the deal?’ said Stuart, as though trying to remember.

‘OK, Boyd, I apologize. We both got to live with our own people. I know you’re OK. You’re going to need the follow-throughs. I’ll be in Washington on Friday but I’ll check with you at home late Sunday night. Don’t try to reach me at the office, just in case.’

‘Kleiber’s security company,’ said Stuart. ‘Fill me in on that.’

‘You’re trying to measure him up for the killings, are you? No problem there, pal. He’s a rough asshole. That organization of his takes on some tough jobs: debt collection from clubs, bars and brothels where I wouldn’t go without I was inside a Tiger tank. Credit investigation, anti-terrorist stuff and anti-mob assignments. The decapitation is something he’d be able to handle, Boyd. He’s got to be a number one suspect as far as we’re concerned. Did I tell you that we’ve got a similar decapitation killing in Los Angeles?’

‘You told me.’

‘You think it connects up?’

Stuart looked at the CIA man, wondering how much he knew and how much he might have guessed. ‘Could be,’ he said finally. What the CIA man did not reveal to Stuart was that the preliminary scan was already done, and that it showed Kleiber was a one-time employee of the CIA.

‘If any of you people want Cokes or Seven-ups, get them now,’ said the project chairman. ‘We don’t want a lot of getting up and walking around, the way it was last week. OK?’ He looked over his spectacles, which he wore well down on his nose. He was a red-faced man with a shirt pocket full of pens. He had once worked the White House assignment and liked to mention it whenever the opportunity came; now he worked for the Domestic Operations Division of the CIA. This was one of the most demanding assignments in the entire agency, handling as it did covert operations in mainland USA where it so often came into acrimonious conflict with the FBI.

There was the sudden hiss of an opened drink, and in response to a raised eyebrow a cold can was sent sliding down the polished table to a graceful catch at the far end. It was a hot day. Even through the tinted glass the landscape of Virginia shone with a fierce glare. The air-conditioning made the temperature almost chilly but the CIA men were all in short-sleeved white shirts with unbuttoned collars.

‘The deputy director (DOD) has instructed us to open a new file on this one. You’ve got the agenda on the table in front of you. The Brits finally came through with something useful. It’s a “hottie” and I think it will take us right inside the Soviet embassy for a few PNGs.’ The project chairman picked up the pink data card, tilted his head well back and looked at it carefully through his spectacles. No one spoke. ‘OK, Sam. Why don’t you give us the linkage, the way it is so far?’ He looked at the electric calendar clock: it was 10.48 a.m., Friday, July 27, 1979.