'Then tell me.'

'The Cabinet memo that ended up in Moscow was about the security of certain very sensitive British establishments in West Germany. The Prime Minister had asked how secure they were, and some bright spark got the idea of asking us to attempt penetrations

of them. So that's what we eventually did. We assigned reliable people in West Germany to target those establishments. Operation Vitamin they called it. Then there was a report compiled so that security could be unproved.'

'So what?'

'It was a looney idea, but they say the PM liked the report. It was written up like an adventure story. It was simple. So simple that even the politicians could understand it. No one over here liked it, of course. The D-G was against it all along. He said we were creating

a dangerous precedent. He was frightened that we'd be continually asked to waste our resources checking out the security of our overseas installations.'

'What then?'

'MI5 were furious. Even though it was all done overseas, they felt we were treading on their toes. The Defence Ministry made a fuss too. They said they had enough problems keeping the Communists and protesters out without us making trouble for them too. And they said that the existence of that report constituted a security risk. It was a blueprint for Moscow, an instruction manual telling anyone how to breach our most secret installations.'

'And Bret signed the Vitamin report?'

'I didn't say that.' There were cigarettes in the house; there was an unopened packet of twenty Benson & Hedges that someone had left on the hall table. I'd put them in the drawer there.

'You didn't have to say it.'

'See why it's important? My wife saw the memo probably, but the report was done after she'd gone. Moscow had the memo; but has Moscow seen the full report? We really must know.'

She switched the light on and got out of bed. She was wearing a blue nightdress with a lacy top and lots of tiny silk bows. 'Would you like a cup of tea? It wouldn't take a minute.' The dim glow from the bedside lamp made a golden rim around her. She was very desirable.

'It might wake up the children and Nanny.' Maybe one cigarette wouldn't start me off again.

'Even if the report did get to Moscow, it might not have been Bret Rensselaer's fault.'

'His fault or not his fault, if that report got to Moscow the blame will be placed on Bret.'

'That's not right.'

'Yes it is. Not fair, you mean? Maybe not, but he masterminded our end of the Vitamin operation. Any breach in its security will be his, and this one could be the end of Bret's career in the Department.' Damn. Now I remembered giving the cigarettes to the plumber who fixed the immersion heater. I'd had no money for a tip for him.

She said, 'I'll make tea; I'd like a cup myself.' She was very close to me, standing in front of the mirror. She glanced at her reflection as she straightened her hair and smoothed her rumpled nightdress. It was thin, almost transparent, and the light was shining through it.

'Come here, duchess,' I said. 'I don't feel like tea just yet.'

My Department has been called a 'ministry without a minister'. That description is never used by our own staff. It's a description applied to us by envious civil servants suffering at the hands of their own political masters. In any case, it isn't true. Such a condition would equate the D-G with the career permanent secretaries who head up other departments, and permanent secretaries leave when aged sixty. One glance at the D-G and you'd know he was far, far over that hill, and there was still no sign of him departing.

Though in the sense that we didn't have a political boss, that fanciful description was true. But we had something worse; we had the Cabinet Office, and that was not a place I cared to tread uninvited. So I gladly accepted Gloria's suggestion that her friend in the govern-ment chief whip's office would answer all my questions about the distribution of Cabinet paperwork.

Downing Street is, of course, not a street of houses. It's all one house – that is to say it's all part of one big block of government offices, so that you can walk right through it to the Horse Guards, or maybe even to the Admiralty if you know your way upstairs and downstairs and through the maze of corridors.

Number Twelve, where the Whip's Office was situated, was quiet. In the old days, when the socialists were running things, you could always count on meeting someone entertaining over there. Obscure party officials from distant provincial constituencies, trade-union leaders swapping funny stories between mouthfuls of beer or whisky and ham sandwiches, the air full of smoke and slander.

It was more sedate nowadays. The PM didn't like smoking, and Gloria's friend, Mrs Hogarth, had only weak tea and ginger biscuits to offer. She was about forty, an attractive red-haired woman with Christian Dior spectacles and a hand-knitted cardigan with a frayed elbow.

She took me into one of the rather grand panelled offices at the back, explaining that her own office in the basement was cramped. She normally used this one when the politicians were on holiday, and that meant for much of the year. She gave me tea and a comfortable chair and took her place behind the desk.

'Any of the lobby correspondents could tell you that,' she said, in answer to my question about who saw Cabinet memos. 'It's not a secret.'

'I don't know any lobby correspondents,' I said.

'Don't you?' she said, examining me with real interest for the first time. 'I would have thought you'd have known a lot of them.'

'I smiled awkwardly. It was not a compliment. I had a feeling she'd smelled the whisky on my breath. Through the window behind her there was a fine view of the Prime Minister's garden and beyond its wall the parade ground of the Horse Guards, where certain very privileged officials had parked their cars.

'I haven't got a lot of time for chatting,' she said. 'People think we've got nothing to do over here when the House isn't sitting, but I'm awfully busy. I always am.' She smiled as if confessing to some shameful failing.

'It's good of you to help me, Mrs Hogarth,' I said.

'It's all part of my job,' she said. She measured one spoon of sugar into her tea, stirred very gently so it didn't spill, and then drank some unhurriedly. 'Cabinet memos.' She looked at the photocopy I'd given her and read some of it. 'There were eight copies of this one. I remember it, as a matter of fact.'

'Could you tell me who got them?' I said. I dipped my biscuit into my tea before eating it. I wanted to see how she'd take it.

She saw me, but looked away hurriedly and became engrossed in her notepad. 'One for the Prime Minister, of course; one for the Foreign Secretary; one for the Home Secretary; one for Defence; one for the leader of the Commons; one for the government chief whip;

one for the Lords; one for the Cabinet secretary.'

'Eight?' Two men had come into the garden carrying roses still wrapped in the nursery packing in a large box. One of them kneeled down and prodded the soil with a trowel. Then he put some of the soil into his hand and touched it to see how wet it was.

Mrs Hogarth swung round to see what I was looking at. 'It's a wonderful view in the summer,' she said. 'All roses. The PM's very fond of them.'

'It's a bit late to be planting roses,' I said.

'It's been too wet,' she said. She turned to watch the men. 'I planted some in November, but they're not doing well at all. Mind you, I live in Cheam – there's a lot of clay in the soil where I live.' The gardeners decided that the soil was right for planting roses. One of them started to dig a line of holes to put them in, while the second man produced bamboo canes to support the rosebushes that were already established.