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heavy moustache.
    â€œCaptain! A wonderful surprise! Sit down, sit down. Coffee?” The waiter found another cup. “You have not yet eaten?” Ranklin asked for bacon and eggs. “If I had a magic carpet, I would every day breakfast in England. Except, I do not understand
porridge
.”
    â€œIt’s Scottish. A Presbyterian form of the confessional: after eating it, you can behave any way you like.”
    Gunther chuckled, adding more crumbs to the atmosphere. “And your Chief is well? Good. And Mr O’Gilroy? I thought of him only this morning. This weather hurts my side,” and he touched his right ribs. That dated from their first meeting when Gunther wanted to kill them and had rashly got into a bayonet duel with O’Gilroy. However, once he had convalesced, they had become . . .
    . . . not friends. Yet more than business associates. Looking idly around the room – not full, at this time of year – Ranklin thought smugly
They don’t know
. Here we sit, two men from the world of international espionage, and nobody here knows. Such thoughts were one of the few compensations of the job; it was like belonging to a secret family: you can’t choose your relatives, but they were still family . . .
    The waiter brought Gunther a plate of bacon, eggs and everything else, assuring Ranklin that his would be along in a moment. Then, professionally looking at neither of them, asked: “Are you gentlemen together?”
    â€œOn my room bill, of course,” Gunther said expansively. A clue? Since he watched the pennies, had he already concluded a good piece of business? But buying or selling?
    He held his knife and fork poised, deciding which part of the crowded plate to clear first, and asked before his mouth got full: “And is this just a sociable meeting?”
    â€œWhen one hears that a master dealer has set up his stall in town, naturally one hurries to view his stock.” Then Ranklin realised he had to go on, since Gunther’s cheeks were bulging. “We were just a little hurt that you hadn’t let us know you were coming.”
    Gunther swallowed. “Others have more money.” Of course he would claim he was selling, that was no crime. And the ministries were certainly richer than the Bureau. And Gunther had been in business longer than the Bureau: he must still have other clients in London.
    Gunther added: “I have an Italian naval code,” before restocking his mouth.
    â€œYes? When are they due to change it?” Gunther wouldn’t cheat by selling the same information twice: the code to you, then the fact that you’d got it to the Italians. But he’d sell a code that was about to be abandoned. It was a fine line, and a funny-peculiar one, but he trod it religiously in a world where heresy was a capital offence.
    Gunther grinned, shrugged, and suggested: “The Schlieffen Plan? Do you know the latest amendments of that?”
    â€œIf you can prove it really isn’t just a staff exercise,” Ranklin said, “we might swap it for something about the Spanish Royal Family.” Then his bacon and eggs arrived and the conversation became just nods and grunts, finely tuned to mean “Everybody knows that” or “You’re joking”. Ranklin was now convinced that Gunther hadn’t anything serious to offer and was mainly trying to find out what the Bureau knew or – just as important – wanted to know.
    So when they had finished, and called for a fresh pot of coffee, Ranklin asked bluntly: “So what are you doing here now?”
    Gunther’s eyebrows rose from his thick spectacles in mock surprise. “Selling cigars, it is my business. Have one.” He opened a silver pocket case. From their looks, they mighthave served to take away the taste of an over-hot curry, but not just after breakfast. Gunther lit one himself.
    The hotel didn’t exactly allow smoking at breakfast, but it