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game of rugby together over the years, always on the same side, always on the winning side. And afterwards they’d gone to the pub together and talked. Over the years, Arwel had been one of the few people David could talk to about his troubles at home. He was a good listener.
    ‘I’m sorry about what’s happened, Mr Laing. I couldn’t help hearing.’
    ‘Don’t worry. If there’s one place you can’t keep a secret ...'
    ‘It’s the Secret Service. I know. But, it’s not right, all the same, sir. He’s your desk head, after all. It’s unforgivable to steal someone else’s wife at the best of times, sir, but ...’
    ‘He didn’t steal her, Arwel, you know that. She went of her own free will; in fact she was extremely willing. I’d better not say anything more, or you’ll be reporting me to our ever-vigilant masters.’
    David never liked to be reminded about Anthony Farrar, his boss and successful rival for his wife’s affections. He had always had a fundamental dislike of the man even from the early days of their acquaintance; that had been less because of his cuckolding ways, which were notorious, or his looks, which Bronzino might have painted, or his connections, which Madame de Stael might have envied, than by reason of Farrar’s inherent unfitness for the job. His appointment had ruffled the usual feathers on the usual birds, but in his case the feathers had stayed ruffled. Of course, the man would have been perfectly suited to the task if all anyone had demanded of him had been polish, an ability to command anything that moved, and an innate knowledge of how to behave in the best clubs. It had been a political appointment at a time when the Desk needed more than ever a man with different abilities. ‘What’s in room seven?’ he asked.
    ‘They have a boy in there, sir. Chinese or something. Around the age of our Megan’s Richard. Mr Barker brought him down from London.’
    ‘Who else?’
    ‘Miss Potter; that new man from Section Six, Donaldson.'
    ‘The one with the squint?’
    ‘That’s him. And a Mr Ross, a Scotsman.’
    ‘Don’t know him.’
    ‘He knows you, sir. Or your name.’
    David thanked him and set off along the corridor that led to rooms five to nine. The room numbers were an innovation of the Patterson years, part of the cold restructuring that had modernized and dehumanized the service. They’d done well enough in the old days with ‘second on the left’ or ‘the one at the end’. The house was small enough, after all, and homely enough. You could have fooled yourself into thinking you were spending the weekend with old friends. Now it was like a second-rate country house hotel, keeping up the pretensions but providing little of substance. Next thing the fry-ups would give way to pre-packed breakfasts from an outside contractor, and there’d be synthetic ice-cream on Formica tables in the evening.
    Like all the rooms on this floor, number seven had a glass pane set in the door. David stopped before entering and looked inside. His colleagues were seated round a small table at whose head sat a boy of perhaps ten. He was not Han Chinese, that much was certain. Possibly Tajik, but more likely Uighur. Sinkiang Province, then. That would provide a link with Matthew.
    He opened the door. Heads turned, but no one spoke. Softly, David closed the door behind him. Still no one spoke.
    ‘Something wrong?’ he asked. ‘Wasn’t I expected?’ It was the boy who spoke. He smiled at David, as though greeting an old friend.
    ‘Hello, David. You look surprised. I see you don’t recognize me.’
    David looked at him blankly.
    ‘I see no reason why I should,’ he said. He turned to Pauline Potter. Pauline, like himself, was China Desk staff, an old trooper from the Peking embassy. ‘Suppose somebody explains to me what’s going on.’ I’m sorry, David. We wanted to see if he recognized you. It seems he has.’
    ‘Clearly you all have the advantage of me. Who is the