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roasted beans from Mr Higgins in South Molton Street — chagga, no blends — and it had to be ground just before brewing.
    'That's good,' he said, sipping it with all the studied attention of the connoisseur he claimed to be. Having approved the coffee, he poured some for me.
    'Wouldn't it be better to stay away from Stinnes, Bernard? He doesn't belong to us any longer, does he?' He smiled. It was a direct order; I knew Dicky's style.
    'Can I have milk or cream or something in mine?' I said. That strong black brew you make keeps me awake at night.'
    He always had a jug of cream and a bowl of sugar brought in with his coffee although he never used either. He once told me that in his regimental officers' mess, the cream was always on the table but it was considered bad form to take any. I wondered if there were a lot of people like Dicky in the Army; it was a dreadful thought. He brought the cream to me.
    'You're getting old, Bernard. Did you ever think of jogging? I run three miles every morning — summer, winter, Christmas, every morning without fail.'
    'Is it doing you any good?' I asked as he poured cream for me from the cow-shaped silver jug.
    'Ye gods, Bernard. I'm fitter now than I was at twenty-five. I swear lam.'
    'What kind of shape were you in at twenty-five?' I said.
    'Damned good.' He put the jug down so that -he could run his fingers round the brass-buckled leather belt that held up his jeans. He sucked in his stomach to exaggerate his slim figure and then slammed himself in the gut with a flattened hand. Even without the intake of breath, his lack of fat was impressive. Especially when you took into account the countless long lunches he charged against his expense account.
    'But not as good as now?' I persisted.
    'I wasn't fat and flabby the way you are, Bernard. I didn't huff and puff every time I went up a flight of stairs.'
    'I thought Bret Rensselaer would take over the Stinnes debriefing.'
    'Debriefing,' said Dicky suddenly. 'How I hate that word. You get briefed and maybe briefed again, but there is no way anyone can be debriefed.'
    'I thought Bret would jump at it. He's been out of a job since Stinnes was enrolled.'
    Dicky gave the tiniest chuckle and rubbed his hands together. 'Out of a job since he tried to take over my desk and failed. That's what you mean, isn't it?'
    'Was he after your desk?' I said innocently, although Dicky had been providing me with a blow-by-blow account of Bret's tactics and his own counterploys.
    'Jesus Christ, Bernard, you know he was. I told you all that.'
    'So what's he got lined up now?'
    'He'd like to take over in Berlin when Frank goes.'
    Frank Harrington's job as head of the Berlin Field Unit was one I coveted, but it meant close liaison with Dicky, maybe even taking orders from him sometimes (although such orders were always wrapped up in polite double-talk and signed by Deputy Controller Europe or a member of the London Central Policy Committee). It wasn't exactly a role that the autocratic Bret Rensselaer would cherish.
    'Berlin? Bret? Would he like that job?'
    'The rumour is that Frank will get his K. and then retire.'
    'And so Bret plans to sit in Berlin until his retirement comes round and hope that he'll get a K. too?' It seemed unlikely. Bret's social life centred on the swanky jet setters of London South West One. I couldn't see him sweating it out in Berlin.
    'Why not?' said Dicky, who seemed to get a flushed face whenever the subject of knighthoods came up.
    'Why not?' I repeated. 'Bret can't speak the language, for one thing.'
    'Come along, Bernard!' said Dicky, whose command of German was about on a par with Bret's. 'He'll be running the show; he won't be required to pass himself off as a bricklayer from Prenzlauer Berg.'
    A palpable hit for Dicky. Bernard Samson had spent his youth masquerading as just such lowly coarse-accented East German citizens.
    'It's not just a matter of throwing gracious dinner parties in that big house in the Grunewald,' I said.