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Darrow replied. “She’s dead, anyway. Got killed in a car crash. I saw it in the papers.”
    “When?”
    “Long time ago,” Darrow said, pressing a tentative hand to his middle. “Roundabout the time of the Falklands thing.”
    “Your memory,” said Evan, “seems to suffer from a certain creative selectivity. Would you care to explain how you came to be entrapped by the lovely and late Jean?”
    “Ah, now, that I do recall. She had lots of very good chums, this lady, and she enjoyed a good party. Well–Jean invited Simon round for the weekend, arranged to render him absolutely blotto, tucked him into bed with a trio of naughty ladies, added evidence of an illicit drug or two to lend some intrigue, invited the photogs in—”
    “Ah, yes,” said Evan. “The inimitable photographers.”
    “Following which I was given certain options—much the same terms as the ones you offered the other day. I chose the path of least resistance…and I was summarily introduced to Clara, who thereafter commanded me to do her bidding.”
    “Clara,” Evan repeated, adding the name to his notes.
    “The KGB agent you wanted me to tell you about. The one I reported to. Her name was Clara—a pseudonym, I always assumed.”
    “English?”
    “Decidedly.”
    “Pretty?”
    “Nondescript,” Darrow said. “I believe she made herself plain. You know—spectacles, headscarf, no makeup. I couldn’t even begin to describe her face or her body to you. She was amazingly average in every way.”
    “And you met, how many times?”
    “Five. When I had shore leave. We’d set the time of the next meeting at the end of the one before. There was no other communication between us. She arranged to leave a signal if it was all right to keep the appointment. No signal, no meeting.”
    “How old was she?”
    “Difficult to say. Thirties, I thought. An old maid in her 30s, a prune of a woman.”
    “Would you be able to recognize her from pictures?”
    The cooperative veneer faded as quickly as it had developed. “You didn’t say anything about pictures the other day, Harris. You said a name and a description. I’ve given you what you wanted. I’m not prepared to jeopardize my safety any further. You know as well as I do, the KGB has never taken kindly to tellers of tales.”
    “Perhaps at some future meeting,” Evan suggested.
    “You bastard. It never ends, does it? Some poor sod capitulates once, and that’s it, he’s in it for life.”
    “That’s the general theory about blackmail, anyway, Simon.” Evan finished his notes with a flourish. “I’ll be in touch once I’ve had the opportunity to find out more about Clara. And Jean.”
    Simon Darrow shot his interrogator a look of vehemence, which was rapidly replaced by a shadow of painful uncertainty. He stood up, rolling his chair back across the floor, so that it struck the venetian blinds. His face was flushed red; his breathing had become rapid.
    Evan suspected the worst, and neatly stepped out of the way.
    “Down the hallway to your right,” he advised, as Darrow bolted.
    Simon didn’t often take the tube. He preferred driving—in spite of the delays, in spite of the roadworks, in spite of the appalling back-ups in Central London. Once he was clear of the city, the run down to Epsom was actually quite pleasant, and it was something Simon looked forward to on a regular basis.
    On this particular Wednesday afternoon, however, the Porsche was in the garage, its fuel pump having packed up the evening before. Simon had walked to Great Titchfield Street, trying to shake off the bug that had invaded his intestines and caused his temperature to soar.
    He hadn’t been successful. And now, the dreaded interview with Harris over and done with, the burden removed from his shoulders, he ought to have been relieved. He wasn’t, though. He wasn’t altogether certain what it was, precisely, that was niggling at him, that dogged little anxiety that wouldn’t go away. He felt like