He said: "Thank you, no, I'm just picking up a book George promised me."

"And a quick jar," George called from the cloakroom. "Go on in, Harry, help yourself, you know where."

"I'll get some ice." Annette vanished.

Alone in the big drawing-room, where Annette's choice of bright fabrics had fought hardest, albeit still without winning, against her dead in-laws' passion for dark-panelled gloom, Maxim went straight to the telephone. It was the same old-fashioned type as Miss Tuckey's, and he unscrewed the mouthpiece carefully but found nothing extra inside. Looking around, he remembered it was difficult to plant bugs actually inside panelling, but even his half-trained eye could see that the elaborate cornices and mouldings gave a myriad opportunities to a good wire man.

Annette came back, shining with suspicious goodwill. "You haven't got yourself anything yet, Harry. It's usually Scotch, isn't it? Water and ice?"

He took the glass, although he disliked iced drinks after the brief British summer, and asked: "Had a busy day?"

She ignored that. Glancing over her shoulder, she whispered: "Whathappened on Saturday night? George came in looking likedeath. Can you tell me what it was?"

"Misunderstanding, all cleared up now," he said, and her look told him how much use that reply had been.

"Isee," she said, smiling lopsidedly. "Youare getting into our little Whitehall ways, Harry. Oh well," gaily now, "these things blow over. Have I had a busy day? I made it seem like one. I got out to the shops this afternoon, and have you noticed they're into Christmasalready? Two and a half months ahead. The Americans do it much better, having Thanksgiving to space it out so they only have a month of Christmas, though they do seem to let their elections creep back, just as we do with football…"

George bustled in, rubbing his hands. "A drink, a drink, my kingdom for…" He gave Annette a piece of paper and put his finger to his lips. Annette stared, but took it silently while George clanked and prattled over the tray of bottles. "Had a good day, sweetie? Harry, the book, I was forgetting, it's over there…"He pointed to a rack of video tapes. "Dig it out for yourself, will you? It's quite good on D'Urbino and Speckle particularly, if you were ever thinking of going back to that monograph."

"One of these days, when I've got the time." Maxim found the tape of the Abbey shooting. Annette passed the paper back to George, her eyes wide.

"Of course, what I'm really interested in," Maxim went on, "is where D'Urbino gothis ideas from." He looked at the paper George held out. "Was he really the innovator they make out? I'm not trying to run him down, but…"

He read: The place could be bugged. Did anybody get in here today?

Annette had written: Somebody lost his u/ay going to a lunch party at the Metcalfes', but I didn't let him in. I was out for 2 hours from about 2.30.

Still talking about the designer of Antwerp's city walls, Maxim reached and scribbled: Exploration, then penetration.

"I've got an idea," George said. "Why don't we take Harry out to dinner at the club? As long as he stops talking fortresses. Or we can get that over with while you change -right?"

With silent frightened eyes, Annette went to the bedroom.

Theclichéimage of London clubs being full of government officials muttering Top Secrets over the cold steak-and-kidney pie had, Maxim was coming to see, not only a lot of truth but also a lot of sense. The essence of a club is that it is select and private; you cannot be followed in there. A club servant might be taking Moscow gold, so perhaps one should not share secrets with them, and so might another club member-but since he is likely to be a government official as well, you already have a far bigger problem than just his being a member of your club. As to planting electronic bugs, you would need an ant colony of them and an army of listeners before you could be reasonably sure of covering every room in London where George Harbinger might whisper an indiscretion.

"I'll put in a request for them to check out Albany," George grumbled, "but it takes months to get them to do your office, never mind your home. I've been trying to get routine security stepped up, but you come right up against the lords of the wallet: who's going to pay for it? I've got another meeting tomorrow, but…"

"George, are they really doing this to us?" Annette demanded. "In our own home? It's absolutely hateful."

"There's a war on. Orthey are determined there should be."

"But why now? You're not even in Downing Street any more." She glanced quickly at Maxim, then back to George. "Or is this something to do with last Saturday?"

George shivered. "Let's say it could be."

"Oh." She stared into the dregs of her gin and tonic. "If that was all to do withthem, I don't mind so much. That's a bit silly, isn't it? I just thought it might be something, well, personal and rather awful. But I expect you'll tell me, one of these days."

"One of these days," George promised, and they smiled quickly at each other,. isolating Maxim in a twinge of envy. People who have been married, apparently happily, for a long time can make you feel an outsider with just one private glance.

George went to make sure there was a table for dinner; Annette said: "I'm so sorry I acted the way I did with you… somehow I'd got to blaming you, you know how it is…"

"It could have been my fault. Some of it."

"No, I'm sure you were doing your best." With a sharp memory of the darkened cottage, Maxim wondered: my best? My most direct, but perhaps not my best. "I do trust George completely," Annette went on, "I just have to, with his work and so much he can't tell me, but when he came back in that state, I just couldn't help… I don't know if I was thinking about Another Woman, but if George was being blackmailed about something like… and he'd taken you along because you were tough and… you see the silly fantasies I get into when I'm alone?"

"It was nothing like that," Maxim said with huge relief.

"I suppose I read too many thrillers, but in the end I'd convinced myself you'd got too tough and killed somebody and George was mixed up in that!" She laughed cheerily.

"Ha, ha," Maxim agreed feebly.

Back at the Barracks, Maxim had to wait until after midnight before he had the officers' mess video machine to himself. He ran through the sequence of the shots, listening carefully and timing the spacing with the seconds hand of his watch. Then he picked up a long poker from the fireplace and held it like a rifle when he played the tape again. At each shot he jerked the 'rifle' up, as the recoil would kick it, then re-aimed as fast as he could.

"So you've finally lost your last marble," a voice said from the far end of the room. It was the duty officer, prowling with a cup of tea in his hand. Shamefaced, Maxim twirled the poker casually.

"It's that SAStraining," the duty officer went on. "Learning to live on seaweed and beetles. Bound to have an effect. Can I help by uttering a strangled cry and falling at your feet? Anything for one of the Army'sélite."

"Piss off," Maxim suggested.

"Or have I stumbled on the trials of the Regiment's new secret weapon? Fear not, my lips are sealed. Gad, I never realised what Total War really meant until this moment…"

Maxim left him cackling and slopping his tea with mirth. In his room he unpacked the little portable typewriter that had once been Jenny's, and stared at a blank paper until his embarrassment had faded. Then he began to tap: 'I. The range from the firing point to where the rounds impacted was between 35 metres (the shot that hit Barling) and 30 metres (the ones that hit the pillar)…'

Twenty minutes later he had reached paragraph 9 when a voice from the next room told him that if he were typing anything other than his bloody resignation he should bloody well do it at a more civilised bloody hour. It sounded a senior voice; Maxim went to bed.