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Washington rezidentura at the Russian embassy before defecting, because of his unsuspected love for Ann, rather than obey the statutory end-of-posting recall to Moscow. What else? There had not been any contact from the CIA or the Justice Department for years, once he’d been debriefed on the KGB’s Washington operations and staffing and given his shielded, video-linked evidence against Mason. So it was hardly surprising he didn’t recognize the name J Peebles. Or the telephone number or the Justice Department address: total secrecy and anonymity was the entire purpose and function of the Witness Protection Programme. At once the contradiction came up, like a halting flag. With all those provisos, why write him such an identifiable and identifying letter, its security guaranteed by nothing more protective than the correctly addressed envelope and the correct stamp, which wasn’t any sort of security guarantee at all. Why, all those years ago, hadn’t he been told there would be such a warning, as and when Mason came up for parole or release? The letter talked of conditions being amended but if the advice was an innovation after his case, he should have been told, not left all this time and then so abruptly confronted.
    All the uncertainties had to be resolved, all the unanswered questions answered and those answers double-checked before disclosing the approach to Ann. Which he would do, rather than keep the letter from her. The most solemn vow each had made to the other when they had embarked upon the life they now had – after their affair had begun and Slater risked everything by confessing that he was not her husband’s CIA friend but his KGB control – had been that there would never again be any secrets between them, most specifically of all about Jack Mason. And if … Slater refused to let the spectre form. To do so would be unprofessional. He paused at that thought, too, accepting a practical reality, not an unformed speculation. He had – briefly he hoped – to revert to what he had once been, a professional intelligence officer, believing nothing, trusting no one, confiding in no one, apart from, of course, Ann. Could he do it? This doubt unsettled Slater more than any other that morning. Of course he could do it, he told himself. He didn’t have any choice. It wasn’t any longer just Ann he had to protect and guard from danger. Now they had David – as precious to each of them as they were to each other – who had to be kept from all and any harm. He couldn’t – wouldn’t – fail either of them.
    Slater’s receptionist Mary Ellen Foley, a plain-featured, sheltered woman who at twenty-eight still lived with and supported her widowed mother whose hand-knitted shawls and sweaters Mary Ellen frequently wore, as she was that morning, showed no surprise at Slater’s announcement that he needed to go into DC to complete the last outstanding security report. She was to log all in-coming calls with a return number, identification and full address but not disclose where he was or offer any suggestion when he might be back in the office. If there was an unannounced, unexpected visitor she was to note the time. He’d keep in touch during the day to pick up any messages, but she shouldn’t wait if he hadn’t returned by 5.30. For the first time in the eight years she’d worked for him, Mary Ellen’s insistence upon writing down his instructions didn’t seem unnecessary. Her reminder to herself about unexpected visitors would be sufficient in turn to remind himself – although with his new professional determination he wouldn’t need reminders – of specific times to check the CCTV footage from the lobby, elevator and seventh floor upon which his office was located.
    As he left Slater said, ‘I like the sweater. Blue suits you.’
    â€˜My mother made it,’ smiled the woman, gratefully.
    â€˜I