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to America, Harvard for five years, Yale for four, before returning to Cambridge where he became a Fellow of Trinity College.
    Rupert Lang’s father died in office and Lang promptly left the Army and put himself forward for the seat in Parliament, winning with a record majority. He and Curry were as close as ever. Lang often spent vacations with him during the American period and Curry always stayed, when in London, at Lang’s beautiful town house in Dean Court close to Westminster Abbey and within walking distance of the Houses of Parliament.
    In 1985 Curry became a Professor of Political Philosophy at London University and visiting Professor at Queen’s University, Belfast. His mother had been dead for some time, but he had his friendship with Lang, his work and the fact that due to his academic standing, he had been invited to sit on a number of important Government Committees. The arrangement made with Yuri Belov was so long ago that it might never have happened. Then one day, out of the blue, he received a telephone call at his office at the university.
     
     
    Belov had put on a little weight and there was a scar on his left cheek. Otherwise he had changed little: the same sort of Savile Row suit, the same genial smile. They sat in a booth in the pub opposite Kensington Park Gardens and shared half a bottle of Sancerre.
    The Russian toasted Curry. “Good to see you, Tom.”
    “And you. What about the scar?”
    “Afghanistan. A dreadful place. You know those tribesmen skinned our men when they caught them.”
    “But you’re back now?”
    “Yes, Senior Cultural Attaché at the Embassy, but you must treat me with respect.” He grinned. “I am now a full Colonel in the GRU and Head of Station here in London. You, by the way, have been promoted to Major.”
    “But I haven’t done anything,” Curry said. “Except sit on my arse for years.”
    “You will, Tom, you will. All these Government posts you hold, particularly on the Northern Ireland Committee, and your friend, Lang? He’s doing well. A Government Whip? That’s very important, isn’t it, and I hear Mrs. Thatcher likes him.”
    “Don’t set too much store by that. Rupert doesn’t take life too seriously.”
    “He still isn’t aware of your connection with us?”
    “Not a hint,” Curry told him. “I prefer it that way. Now what do you want?”
    “From now on full and intimate details of all those Committee meetings, especially Irish affairs and anything to do with the activities of our Arab friends and their fundamentalist groups. All over London these days. The English are far too liberal in letting them in.”
    “Anything else?”
    “Not for the moment.” Belov stood up. “You’re too valuable to waste on small things, Tom. Your day will come, believe me. Just be patient.” He took out his wallet and passed over a slip of paper. “Emergency numbers if you need me, Embassy and home. I’ve a cottage in a mews just up the road. I’ll be in touch.”
    He smiled and went out, leaving Curry more excited than he’d been in years.
     
     
    It was perhaps a year later on a wet October evening that Curry received a phone call at the Dean Court town house. Lane was at the Commons making sure in his capacity as a Whip that as many Conservative MPs as possible were available to vote on a bill crucial to the Government.
    “Belov here,” the Colonel said. “I must see you at once. Most urgent. I’ll pick you up at the entrance to Dean Square.”
    Curry didn’t argue. He’d seen Belov only twice in the previous year, although in that time he had passed on a continuous stream of information. It was raining hard outside, so he found an old Burberry trench coat, a trilby hat, and black umbrella and let himself out of the front door. He stood by the entrance to the garden in Dean Square and within ten minutes a small Renault car coasted in to the curb and Belov leaned out.
    “Over here, Tom.”
    Curry climbed in beside him. “What’s so