"Sure I do, but you don't. You weren't even born then."

"Just barely. But I heard about it in training. Would anybody still have lists of those people, Mo?"

"Jeez, no. I never had lists myself. All that stuff, you just don't have lists. Washington wanted them, we said the hell, the whole thing is busted if you have lists. We gave them codenames and radio frequencies, they never got lists out of us. All this is long gone; long, long gone. "

"Well…" Agnes seemed momentarily lost; Maxim did nothing except sit still and watch, as Agnes had told him to. She fumbled a cigarette from her bag and lit it. "Well… did you ever arm these people?"

Agnes's head was down over her cigarette; it was Maxim who caught the moment of stillness in Magill's big restless body.

"Arms? Never, no way at all. This was then, we wereindenting for paperclips one by one in those days. We just didn't have arms." He laughed abruptly, an afterthought.

"Good, that clears that one up. So it can't be the old Winter Garden crop."

Magill smiled. "I still don't know what you're talking about."

"I suppose I'd better tell, just in case you've got any thoughts. Things have been happening in the UK. You must have read about the Reznichenko Memorandum? Somebody faked it: Russian typewriter, letter heading, Reznichenko's signature-all backed up by a first-class tail job. Then somebody got a leading anti-NATO speaker drugged and he blew an important speech." Agnes was putting all her cards on the table; "-and then there was the Abbey. Somebody took a shot, not at the President, they could have killed him easily, but knocked off a man who could have swung thirty votes in favour of a Berlin settlement. That was with a Russian rifle; then he blew himself up with a Russian grenade. How does all that grab you?"

"Your people will think all that stuff ties up together, hey?"

"It's a pattern, Mo."

Magill put his elbows on his desk, clasping the dainty china cup in front of his mouth with both hands. He wore a plain white shirt as fresh as new snow, tiny gold cufflinks and a polka-dot tie. There was no sign of his jacket, but there was a second door to the room, so probably he had a private bathroom and clothes closet as well.

"I don't know anything except what I read in the papers, but from what I do read, your government can't see this pattern."

"Governments? When did you start caringwhatgovernments can and can't see?"

Magill grinned behind his cup. "Getting old, I guess. But your Service wants to get it all sorted and gift-wrapped for them? Or is it just you? and the unknown soldier here."

"Harry? He was heading up the President's getaway operation at the Abbey. He shot the chap who did the shooting."

Magill gave Maxim a steady, searching look, and Maxim smiled self-consciously back. "Over here for the After Action Study, hey?"

"Was that in the papers?" Agnes asked innocently.

Magill gave another shout of laughter. "Okay… but I'll tell you what I think, sweetie. I don't think your new Director-General knows anything about this. I don't even think he's the sort of guy who'd want to know anything about this. And I further think you're working all on your ownsome on this and that's why you've come to good old Uncle Mo instead of going to the boys at Langley. Am I right? 1'

Agnes's smile was small but seemingly frank and cheerful. "The boys at Langley don't do much talking to us just at the moment. And suppose I did get through, all they'd say is it's nothing to do with them, they weren't even in the Company at that time-and how many of them were?"

"If you're worried about Winter Garden, there's nobody left who had any status aroundthat time, sure. But I'm telling you, forget Winter Garden. It's long gone-we didn't give them arms, we didn't give them the sort of training you're talking about. And they're old men like me, now. Forget it."

"There was some talk of replanting it, in the late Sixties, when you were back in London. That I do remember."

"But maybe you also recall how your Service dumped all over us on that one? Hell, the first time we met, you were bringing in some by-hand-of-bearer letter telling us we were trying to depose the monarchy, devalue the pound and make the natives play baseball instead of cricket. I recall that. Great days, great days."

"I do remember. But actually"-Agnes's voice became pure Oxford (the university, not the town)-"that was just Track One, wasn't it?-cover, in case we noticed anything on Track Two, which was a smalldéstabilisationgroup. The right training, the right arms, everything that's coming to the surface now. Were you running that, Mo?-or who?"

In his own gaping reaction, Maxim almost missed Magill's. This time the lawyer didn't freeze, he wavered.

Between denying Agnes's guesswork and denying his own responsibility, as she had intended. And now, small and neat, she overrode the big man behind his own -undoubtedly genuine eighteenth-century-desk as he opened his mouth to reply.

"Don't say anything for the moment, Mo. Just let's look to see if we can make a case, all right? Those were the days when the Company was really into the Track One, Track Two stuff, cover within cover, mostly to fool Capitol Hill, I dare say, but other governments too, and all to hidedéstabilisation. That was something you wereright into at that time: Africa, Chile, South-East Asia-so why not Europe? We were all set up for it in Britain: a Labour government, anti-nuclear movement, swinging along on borrowed money with Carnaby Street and the Beatles-they were going to bring World Peace all by themselves-fat, dumb and happy. But your Company could see the writing on the wall, even my Service didn't like the way things were going. They were positively glad when the Russians went into Prague: it reminded people… But, Mo, don't snow me that the Company didn't see all that and start a Track Two behind the comeback of Winter Garden."

She was speaking quietly but fast, and pausing for breath in the wrong places, the way politicians do when they fear interruption.

"Well, that's the case, anyway: whether it would stand up in court, you're the lawyer, you'd know better than I -but we're not talking about courts and proof, just leaks and public opinion. Because when my government does see the pattern-you're quite right, they don't want to see it right now, and my D-G isn't helping them-but when these people do the next thing, and it'll have to be something big-they're up against a deadline on Berlin, they've already escalated it from forged documents to drugging people to shooting them, God knows what comes next -well, when something new happens, the lone psychopath theory will be dead, dead, dead. And then what? Who are they going to blame next?-Moscow Centre? I'll tell you something, Mo, my government isn't in the business of blaming Moscow Centre right now. I think it wouldprefer to blame somebody who's already responsible-as you'll know if you really do read the papers-for every dead dog and blocked drain right across the world. The Company."

There was a silence, then Magill heaved a grunt of laughter out of his big chest. "And you think it really is the Company?"

"What I think won't matter by then. It'll be what my government thinks."

"And you want to be first in line to give it them."

"Let's say I don't want to be last in line, not if it's what they want anyway. I'm a career-oriented girl. Oh, and there's one thing I didn't tell you: Moscow Centre's on to the pattern. Not surprising, really, since they know they didn't do these things. Harry ran across their tracks the other day; he killed one of them, but he's a bit like that. Career-oriented, you know."

Magill looked hard at Maxim. "That didn't make the papers."

"No," Agnes said, "and I don't think anybody can prove it. Did you ever meet a Miss Tuckey?"