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diplomatic answer. ‘But it make take a while,’ Russell added, hoping to maintain some sort of reputation for realism. ‘The Americans have their atomic bomb now.’
    ‘We shall soon have one ourselves,’ Nemedin said dismissively, ‘and partly thanks to your own efforts. But you have correctly identified the principal enemy of world socialism. The British are finished,’ he said contemptuously, his blue eyes scanning the vast crowd. ‘The Americans are all that matter now, and you will help us there.’
    ‘I’ll do my best,’ Russell said, in a resolutely deadpan tone. He wondered who the man was trying to convince – his brand new agent or himself? Nemedin was investing a lot in him, and clearly had mixed feelings about it. The Russian’s career might soar as a result, but he clearly resented his dependence on a foreign bourgeois. And if things went wrong, he would show no mercy.
    The teams were coming out beneath them. ‘Do you have any questions?’ Nemedin asked, in a tone that invited none.
    Why pick on me, was the one that came to mind, but he already knew the answer.
    Nemedin took his silence for acquiescence. ‘Then that is all,’ he said, leaning back in his seat to watch the game re-start.
    Russell decided he might as well enjoy the game and depress himself later. There would be plenty of time to run through the likely consequences of what he’d just been told..
    The Dynamos started the second half the way they’d started the first, repeatedly bearing down on the Chelsea goal, only to waste their chances. This time, however, the sustained pressure paid off, and one of their forwards finally scored with a fine shot. The Russians around Russell leapt to their feet, and he found himself doing the same.
    The Dynamos had recovered their confidence, and soon scored an equaliser. Chelsea responded, going ahead once more, but as the last fifteen minutes ticked away the Russians looked less tired than their opponents, and another equaliser followed with five minutes remaining. Nemedin thumped the seat in front in his excitement, causing its Russian occupant to swing angrily round, and then do a double-take when he recognised the source of his ire.
    The Soviets almost scored a winner, but had to settle for a draw, and the men around Russell seemed happy enough. All the British press experts had been wide of the mark, and the visitors had come away with a clear moral victory. The collie in the Kremlin would be one happy dog.
    Nemedin rose and moved away, without so much as a look. ‘We all leave for Cardiff tomorrow afternoon,’ Shchepkin told Russell, ‘so you and I must meet in the morning. We’re staying at the Imperial Hotel in Russell Square, and when I looked out of the window this morning I noticed a mobile canteen in the park. Can we meet there, say eleven o’clock?’
    He waited only for Russell’s nod, then also hurried off.
    On the long bus ride home, Russell went over what had been said, and wondered what to tell the others. They all knew why he’d beeninvited to Stamford Bridge, but he decided to save the inevitable family discussion until after his meeting with Shchepkin. And maybe not until he’d made contact with the Americans. Another meeting he wasn’t looking forward to. He sometimes wondered whether he should simply throw in the towel and go into hiding for the rest of his life. If his press contacts could be believed, South America was working for the Nazis.
    At home, the women and children were on the floor, playing a board game that Lothar had made in class that day, with Paul watching from an armchair. Russell shook his head in response to Effi’s questioning look, and went out to make a pot of tea. Paul joined him in the kitchen to ask about the game, having heard the BBC radio coverage of the second half. It wasn’t until eight-thirty, with the children in bed and It’s That Man Again finished on the radio, that Russell and Effi could walk down to the local pub for a