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there was a separate bathroom and lavatory adjoining the office. White was sitting in an armchair, looking relaxed, when the Home Secretary came in. They shook hands, and exchanged banalities about the weather. Neither man was at ease with the other; a truce existed, but the threat of open war was always there. The Minister was an academic who had come late into politics. He was a gentle man, steeped in the humanities, trusted completely by the Prime Minister who valued his loyalty and integrity in public life. These virtues were said to offset his dislike of authoritarian methods, and a penchant towards mercy. He offered the Brigadier a cigarette, and took his place behind the desk. The Brigadier was a type of man he abhorred. Hard, ambitious, lacking in scruple, capable of anything. The Minister had once heard James White described as a man of honour, and had almost lost his temper with the speaker. There was an imperialist attitude in the Brigadier’s approach to problems that the Home Secretary found not only offensive, but positively dangerous He settled into his leather chair and took up a defensive position.
    “Could we come to the point of your visit, Brigadier? I don’t want to seem discourteous, but I have a hellish morning and a dozen people to see.”
    “I appreciate your giving me the time, Home Secretary,” James White responded.
    “Actually it’s concerned with the Soviet defector, Ivan Sasanov.”
    “Oh? What’s happened to him?”
    “Happened why nothing. He’s in excellent health and enjoying a stay in our place in the country. I assure you, he’s our guest, not a prisoner.” He allowed himself a slight sneer.
    “He did come to us of his own accord.”
    “So you informed me.” The answer was brisk.
    “Which was about eight months ago, as I recall. I’ve had interim reports since then, to pass on to the PM. But so far he seems to be marking time. You led me to believe that he was the most important Soviet official since Perekov to come over to the West. Otherwise it hardly seems worth while to have antagonized the Russians to the extent that we did. Isn’t it time we had some results?” The Brigadier kept the half-smile on his face; his eyes gleamed with dislike for a second or two, long enough to convey it to the man opposite to him. He called him a contemptuous obscenity in his mind, and answered with infuriating patience, as if he were explaining something simple to someone unusually stupid.
    “Sasanov is even more important than Perekov. He was the coordinating officer in charge of that section of the Soviet Ministry of External Affairs that deals with the Middle East. His section is, of course, the KGB. Soviet activity in that part of the world has increased in terms of expenditure and agents in operation by fifty percent since last year since the overthrow of the Shah. They are aiming at the oil sheikdoms, Home Secretary. And Sasanov knows the details of the operation being mounted against Kuwait and Saudi Arabia, and the United Arab Emirates.”
    “Then why hasn’t he told us?” the Minister demanded.
    “Because he wants to be in the best possible bargaining position before he plays a hand of such importance. Defection is not an easy thing to adjust to; it entails a great deal more than catching a taxi and presenting yourself at Scotland Yard, asking for asylum. The psychological upheaval is acute; it takes months before a man like Sasanov can orientate himself to betraying his own country. Properly betraying, anyway. He’s given us a few snippets of information; enough to whet the appetite, so to speak. He has been acclimatizing, as we call it. Settling in, coming to terms with himself and the decision he’s made. You can’t hurry this process; I’m sure you’d be the last person to authorize forceful methods to get the information.” He gave his opponent a cool stare. The Home Secretary said freezingly, “No such permission would ever be given. In any circumstances. I