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hundred employees in this building, sir.’
    â€˜And who’s going to watch the watchers? Is that what you mean?’
    â€˜With respect, sir, you know very well what I mean.’
    â€˜Alas.’ The admiral reached into an inside pocket, brought out two cards, handed one to Wrinfield, the other to Bruno. ‘If you need me,call that number and ask for Charles. Any guesses you may have as to my identity – and you must be almost as stupid as we are if you haven’t made some – you will please keep to yourselves.’ He sighed. ‘Alas again, I fear, Fawcett, that your reading of the matter is entirely correct. There is no alternative explanation, not, at least, a remotely viable one. Nevertheless, getting our hands on this document overrides all other considerations. We may have to think up some other means.’
    Fawcett said: ‘There are no other means.’
    Harper said: ‘There are no other means.’
    The admiral nodded. ‘There are no other means. It’s Bruno or nothing.’
    Fawcett shook his head. ‘It’s Bruno and the circus or nothing.’
    â€˜Looks like.’ The admiral gazed consideringly at Wrinfield. ‘Tell me, do you fancy the idea of being expendable?’
    Wrinfield drained his glass. His hand was steady again and he was back on balance. ‘Frankly, I don’t.’
    â€˜Not even being interned?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜I see your point. It could be a bad business. Am I to take it from that that you have changed your mind?’
    â€˜I don’t know, I just don’t know.’ Wrinfield shifted his gaze, at once both thoughtful and troubled. ‘Bruno?’

    â€˜I’ll go.’ Bruno’s voice was flat and without colour, certainly with no traces of drama or histrionics in it. ‘If I have to go, I’ll go alone. I don’t know – yet – how I’ll get there and I don’t know – yet – what I have to do when I arrive. But I’ll go.’
    Wrinfield sighed. ‘That’s it, then.’ He smiled faintly. ‘A man can only stand so much. No immigrant American is going to put a fifth-generation American to shame.’
    â€˜Thank you, Mr Wrinfield.’ The admiral looked at Bruno with what might have been an expression of either curiosity or assessment on his face. ‘And thank you, too. Tell me, what makes you so determined to go?’
    â€˜I told Mr Fawcett. I hate war.’ 
    Â Â Â 
    The admiral had gone. Dr Harper had gone. Wrinfield and Bruno had gone and Pilgrim had been carried away: in three days’ time he would be buried with all due solemnity and the cause of his death would never be known, a not unusual circumstance amongst those who plied the trades of espionage and counter-espionage and whose careers had come to an abrupt and unexpected end. Fawcett, looking as bleak and hard as the plumpness of his face would permit, was pacing up and down the dead man’s apartment when the telephone rang. Fawcett picked it up immediately.
    The voice in the receiver was hoarse and shaking. It said: ‘Fawcett? Fawcett? Is that you, Fawcett?’

    â€˜Yes. Who’s that?’
    â€˜I can’t tell you over the phone. You know damn well who it is. You got me into this.’ The voice was trembling so much as to be virtually unrecognizable. ‘For God’s sake get down here, something terrible has happened.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Get down here.’ The voice was imploring. ‘And for God’s sake come alone. I’ll be in my office. The circus office.’
    The line went dead. Fawcett jiggled the receiver bar but dead the line remained. Fawcett hung up, left the room, locked the door behind him, took the lift to the underground garage and drove down to the circus through the darkness and the rain.
    The external circus lights were out except for some scattered weak illumination – it was already late