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own side or the IRA he could never be sure. On sick leave in London he had lunch at the Oxford and Cambridge Club and was totally delighted when he went into the bar to find his old friend sitting in a window seat enjoying a quiet drink.
     
     
    “You old bastard, how marvelous,” Lang said. “I thought you were in Russia?”
    “Oh. I’m back now at Trinity putting the thesis together.” Curry nodded at Lang’s arm. “Why the sling?”
    Lang had always been aware of his friend’s politics, and he shrugged. “I don’t expect you’ll want to speak to me. Bloody Sunday. I stopped a bullet.”
    “You were there?” Curry called to the barman for two Bushmills. “How bad was it?”
    “Terrible. Not soldiering, not the way I thought it would be.” Lang accepted his whisky from the barman and raised his glass. “Anyway, to you, old sport. I can’t tell you how good it is to see you.”
    “That goes double.” Curry toasted him back. “What are you going to do?”
    Lang smiled. “You could always read me like a book. Yes, I’m finished with the Army as a career. Not straightaway. My Captaincy’s coming up and I want to keep the old man happy.”
    “I see he’s a Minister at the Home Office now.”
    “Yes, but his health isn’t good. I think he’ll stand down at the next election, which will leave a vacancy for one of the safest Conservative seats in the country.”
    Curry said, “You’re going to go into Parliament?”
    “Why not? I’ve all the money in the world so I don’t need to work, and I’ll walk into the seat if the old man steps down. What do you think?”
    “Bloody marvelous.” Curry stood up. “Let’s have a bite to eat and you can tell me all about Bloody Sunday and your Irish exploits.”
    “Terrible business,” Lang said as they walked through. “All hell going on at Army Intelligence HQ at Lisburn. I heard the Prime Minister is going through the roof.”
    “How interesting,” Curry said as they sat down. “Tell me more.”
     
     
    Curry’s control was a thirty-five-year-old GRU Major named Yuri Belov, who was supposed to be a cultural attaché at the Soviet Embassy. Curry met him in a booth at a pub opposite Kensington Park Gardens and the Soviet Embassy. Belov enjoyed London and had no great urge to be posted back to Moscow, which meant that he liked to look good to his superiors back there. Curry’s version of Bloody Sunday and his account of the sensory deprivation methods used to break IRA prisoners at Army headquarters at Lisburn was just the sort of stuff Belov wanted to hear.
    “Excellent, Tom,” he said when Curry was finished. “Of course your friend has no idea you’ve been pumping him dry?”
    “Absolutely not,” Curry said. “He knew what my politics were when we were at Cambridge, but he’s an English aristocrat. Couldn’t care less.” Curry lit a cigarette. “And he’s my best friend, Yuri. Let’s get that clear.”
    “Of course, Tom, I understand. However, anything further you can learn from him would always be useful.”
    “He intends to leave the Army soon,” Curry said. “His father’s a Minister of the Home Office. I think Rupert will step in when the old man leaves.”
    “Really?” Yuri Belov smiled. “A Member of Parliament. Now that
is
interesting.”
    “Yes, well while we’re discussing what’s interesting,” Curry said, “what about me? This is the first time we’ve spoken in nine months, and I’m the one who’s come to you. I’d like to see a little action.”
    “Patience,” Belov said. “That’s what being a sleeper is. It’s about waiting, sometimes for many years until the time comes when you are needed.”
    “A bloody boring prospect.”
    “Yes, well spying usually is most of the time, and after all, you’ve got your work.” Belov stood up. “Hope to see you again soon, Tom.”
     
     
    But he didn’t and it was to be fourteen years before they met again. Belov was transferred back home, Tom Curry went