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cost.’
    Kit’s mind was still elsewhere: in a faraway land of cypresses, cicadas and hills scented with wild thyme. He wanted to say, ‘Artemis, leave it all and come with me.’ Instead he simply said, ‘I don’t know the details, but I’m sure the bomb programme is costing a lot.’
    But Kit did know the details, for one of his operatives had done a FININT ‘black bag job’ – Financial Intelligence burglary – at the Ministry of Supply and photographed the budget figures with a Minox spy camera. Kit was surprised at the amounts involved. The cost was staggering: the British government really wanted an H-bomb. The operative, posing as an electrical installation inspector , had done a marvellous job and copied over a hundred pages of expenditure estimates. Kit not only knew Brian’s salary, but also his travel and subsistence expenses. But there was one figure that left Kit totally confused. It came under a subheading titled Red Snow: the estimate was fifty-four million pounds. There were no explanatory details.
    ‘In any case,’ said Jennifer, ‘British tax money needs to be spent on schools and hospitals – and indoor toilets too. What do you think, really think? Does Britain need a bomb?’
    ‘You’ve already got one, fifty actually. It’s called Blue Danube – and it’s been in service for three years.’
    ‘You know what I mean, Kit, the fusion weapon – the H-bomb, the one that Brian’s working on. Do we need it?’
    Kit was surprised by her admission. He wondered if his cousin was a security risk. ‘I don’t know. The problem is that Whitehall doesn’t trust Washington. The British government knows there are a lot of American generals, and politicians too, who wouldn’t mind fighting a nuclear war in Europe to get rid of the Soviets – and the sooner the better.’
    ‘Before the Russians deploy TU-95s and R7s?’
    ‘You scare me, Jennie, you shouldn’t know these things.’
    ‘Everyone should know them, Kit.’
    They continued to walk along the shingle beach. Jennifer had got one fact wrong: the Tupolev 95 was just coming into service . It was the first Soviet long-range bomber capable of striking the United States. But the Pentagon was more worried about the development of the R7, a Russian intercontinental ballistic missile that would be impossible to shoot down. Consequently, there were crazies, like General Curtis LeMay, who were agitating for a pre-emptive strike while the US was still immune to Soviet retaliation . If the Russians knew that was about to happen, the US air-bases in East Anglia would be their first target. England would be obliterated in a nuclear holocaust.
    Jennifer seemed to read her cousin’s thoughts. ‘How many British dead, Kit?’
    ‘Forty million – and Europe too, the people, the paintings, the music, the vines of Burgundy, the olive groves, all those lovely languages and mellow buildings. The whole fucking lot turned into a radioactive ash heap.’ He turned to his cousin, but she was walking away. ‘Jennie?’
    ‘I need some fish for tonight.’
    ‘I’m sorry.’
    ‘You get wonderful fresh fish here. Look, there’s a boat landing – it’s Billy and his uncle.’
    The beach boats were clinker-built oak and broad beamed. None had cabins or shelter of any kind; they were open to rain, wind and salt spray. They weren’t elegant: they were designed for battling North Sea waves after being dragged down a shingle beach and launched into cold angry surf. According to the season , they long-lined, trawled, laid lobster pots or set herring nets.
    Jennifer checked her purse. ‘I’ve got enough. Let’s see what they’ve got.’
    As the boat ground on to the shingle, a man in a greasy smock ran forward with a cable and threaded a hook through a ring low down on the bow. Meanwhile someone started a donkey engine and the cable went taut. As the boat was winched up the beach, other men ran forward and placed boards black with axle grease under the bows