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me.'
    He picked up the transcript and tried to find what he wanted in the muddle of humms and hahhs and 'indistinct passage' marks that are always a part of transcripts from such tape recordings. He put the sheets down again.
    'Well anyway, I remember there were two assignment codes: jake and ironfoot . Is that what's worrying you?'
    'We should follow it up!' I said. 'I don't like loose ends like that. The dates suggest that Fiona was ironfoot . Who the hell was jake ?'
    'The Fiona material is our worry. Whatever else Moscow got — and are still getting — is a matter for Five. You know that, Bernard. It's not our job to search high and low to find Russian spies.'
    'I still think we should check this woman's statement against what Stinnes knows.'
    'Stinnes is nothing to do with me, Bernard. I've just told you that.'
    'Well, I think he should be. It's madness that we don't have access to him without going to Debriefing Centre for permission.'
    'Let me tell you something, Bernard,' said Dicky, leaning well back in the soft leather seat and adopting the manner of an Oxford don explaining the law of gravity to a delivery boy. 'When London Debriefing Centre get through with Stinnes, heads will roll up here on the top floor. You know the monumental cock-ups that have dogged the work of this Department for the last few years. Now we'll have chapter and verse on every decision made up here while Stinnes was running things in Berlin. Every decision made by senior staff will be scrutinized with twenty-twenty hindsight. It could get messy; people with a history of bad decisions are going to be axed very smartly.'
    Dicky smiled. He could afford to smile; Dicky had never made a decision in his life. Whenever something decisive was about to happen, Dicky went home with a headache.
    'And you think that whoever's in charge of the Stinnes debriefing will be unpopular?'
    'Running a witch-hunt is not likely to be a social asset,' said Dicky.
    I thought 'witch-hunt' was an inaccurate description of the weeding out of incompetents, but there would be plenty who would favour Dicky's terminology.
    'And that's not only my opinion,' he added. 'No one wants to take Stinnes. And I don't want you saying we should have responsibility for him.'
    Dicky's secretary brought coffee.
    'I was just coming, Mr Cruyer,' she said apologetically. She was a mousy little widow whose every sheet of typing was a patchwork of white correcting paint. At one time Dicky had had a shapely twenty-five-year-old divorcee as secretary, but his wife, Daphne, had made him get rid of her. At the time, Dicky had pretended that firing the secretary was his idea; he said it was because she didn't boil the water properly for his coffee. Tour wife phoned. She wanted to know what time to expect you for dinner.'
    'And what did you say?' Dicky asked her.
    The poor woman hesitated, worrying if she'd done the right thing. 'I said you were at a meeting and I would call her back.'
    Tell my wife not to wait dinner for me. I'll get a bite to eat somewhere or other.'
    'If you want to get away, Dicky,' I said, rising to my feet.
    'Sit down, Bernard. We can't waste a decent cup of coffee. I'll be home soon enough. Daphne knows what this job is like; eighteen hours a day lately.' It was not a soft, melancholy reflection but a loud proclamation to the world, or at least to me and his secretary who departed to pass the news on to Daphne.
    I nodded but I couldn't help wondering if Dicky was scheduling a visit to some other lady. Lately I'd noticed a gleam in his eye and a spring in his step and a most unusual willingness to stay late at the office.
    Dicky got up from his easy chair and fussed over the antique butler's tray which his secretary had placed so carefully on his side table. He emptied the Spode cups of the hot water and half filled each warmed cup with black coffee. Dicky was extremely particular about his coffee. Twice a week he sent one of the drivers to collect a packet of freshly