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hope that’s understood.”
    “Of course, of course, it is,” White protested.
    “Apart from which it would be criminally stupid. The kind of information we will get from Sasanov in due course-and we will get it, I am quite confident needs to be interpreted by him over a period. That, my dear Home Secretary, is where his real worth lies. He knows the minds of our opponents, he can gauge their feel for a situation as it changes hourly. That was Philby’s value to the Russians. He knew the people at home because he’d been one of them for years. He’s still interpreting Western Intelligence for them.”
    “Yes. I know this of course; but at least I can say to the Prime Minister that you are confident of enlisting Sasanov as an active adviser to our own Service. No indication of time, I suppose? It would help to have some guide…”
    “Weeks,” the Brigadier said affably.
    “Not months. I have a very talented operative with him at the moment. I’m delighted with her progress.”
    “Her? Do you mean you’ve used a woman to debrief him?”
    “I have indeed,” White said.
    “Women have proved very able in my service. And now, after all, we have a lady in Downing Street.
    “He gave the Minister a sly look, daring him to disparage the female sex. He shifted in his seat and said briskly,” But I’m wandering from the purpose of my call. Briefly, the Russians have been making a fuss through their Embassy. It’s just tiresomeness on their part, because they know perfectly well Sasanov is with us. But they’re complaining because while our people insist he killed himself, we haven’t produced a body. I would like your authority to take the necessary steps to satisfy them. “
    “You’re going to find a body? How can you?” The Brigadier gave his little bark of a laugh. He was thoroughly enjoying himself.
    “Oh, we’re not going to kill anybody! Oh, lord no. I just want to be able to show them a dead man and keep them quiet. All I need is authorization to satisfy the local health authority if we hear of someone suitable. That’s all.”
    “I’ll send you the necessary memo,” the Home Secretary said. He pushed back his chair.
    “Now, I’m afraid I have someone waiting.” His expression indicated chill distaste. The Brigadier thanked him for his time and help, and walked out of the office with a springy step. He would get the memo, and it would be safely filed away. No politician would ever be able to accuse him of acting without authorization. Not on a trivial thing like substituting a corpse for a living man. Another make of car was waiting at the entrance; he jumped in, and told the driver to take him to his office. There he telephoned an old friend at the Special Branch of Scotland Yard. He invited him to lunch. Later that afternoon, sniffing a good Armagnac, the SB man asked the Brigadier what he meant by a favour. White was rubbing a cigar close to his ear, judging the tobacco by the crackle that it made. The old myth about the best Havanas being those rolled by the Cuban girls between their thighs still died a slow death among the older generation.
    “I need a corpse,” he said.
    “Damn good these. Try one.”
    “Too strong for me,” the policeman said.
    “I’ll stick to my cheap cigarettes.” They both chuckled. Long association and many off-colour deals had brought them to a curious condition of trust and friendship.
    “Cheap? There’s nothing cheap about you, Tim. You’ve cost me enough at times!” James White bit off the end of his cigar and lit it. He despised the fiddling tool for cutting them. Better men than he would ever be had used their teeth.
    “How much am I going to cost you this time, then?” The man puffing on his cigarette was a professional policeman, risen through ability from the ranks then on to the branch of (he CID that coped with terrorism, treason and subversion. He was a pleasant man, with a bluff sense of humour and a comfortable middle-class background. He