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would be very unusual, too, for anyone who had spent such a period in the west to become an intelligence officer, unless he had exceptional influence. Nevertheless, I have my own
private doubts, the reasons for which I won’t go into now. Suffice it to say, that I am very interested in Mr Koslov.’
    Hookey sipped his tea.
    ‘What no doubt you also know is that it is difficult for us to operate in our own names in this country, since our Foreign Office cover when in London is normally not sufficient to
withstand operational exposure, as in theory it should be when we’re attached to embassies abroad. Also, the Foreign Office is wary of the embarrassment that could arise from own-name
operations against foreign diplomats serving in London. Under normal circumstances, therefore, we could not consider using you in any operation against Koslov here in the UK. Ironically, because we
could do so anywhere else in the world, including Moscow – but not in the very place where it is most natural for you to be. But never mind that.’ Hookey’s lips suggested a smile,
for the first time. ‘Circumstances are not quite normal. Firstly, we are even more interested in what the Russians are doing here than we were, especially as we believe they are
reconstructing their operational base in this country following the expulsion of the 105 intelligence officers – actually, 104, we got one wrong – a couple of years ago. Secondly, we
are very interested in Koslov himself. He is married and accompanied by his wife, Tanya, as they have to be for postings here. Also, as usual, they have had to leave their child behind in Moscow,
as a hostage.’ Hookey pronounced the last word very distinctly. ‘According to surveillance and standard intercepts on the embassy, it seems a reasonably successful marriage, at least if
lack of open hostilities and the fact of survival mean success in marriage.’ Again, there was a suggestion of a smile. ‘Except for one thing: Koslov has a relationship with a
prostitute. This is of course highly unusual in a Soviet official serving in a hostile western country. Koslov knows the penalties but has visited the same woman at least twice. She lives in
Belgravia and he was first seen visiting her by an off-duty member of MI5 surveillance who happened to recognise him. She thought he was acting oddly, so prolonged her shopping and followed him to
the prostitute’s door, got close enough to see which bell he pressed and reported it. MI5 put him under surveillance for the next two weeks – they thought he might have been up to
something professionally as opposed to privately nefarious – but with no result, and no indication that he suspected or looked for surveillance. They concluded he was either very
professional, or very lazy, or very clean. Then, on the evening of the last day they could spare for him, he visited the lady again, whom by this time they had identified.’
    Hookey returned to his tea, obviously expecting no response yet. The window behind him offered a view of rush-hour trains creeping reluctantly in and out of Waterloo. ‘The case – as
it is already being termed, though it isn’t one yet – has been much discussed, as you might imagine. Traces on Koslov showed up your acquaintance and we concluded that, if there is to
be a case, it should be built on that, provided you are willing.’ Maureen put her head round the door to say that A1 was waiting. Hookey nodded. ‘Bring him in.’
    A1 was a balding, energetic, forty-ish man who wore a double-breasted suit with a red lining which flashed as he turned. His handshake was pointedly firm and his smile as welcoming as if he had
known Charles of old and greatly enjoyed meeting him again. The neat triangle of handkerchief in his top pocket matched his spotted tie.
    ‘Hugo March,’ he said, holding on to Charles’s hand and standing very close.
    ‘I’ve just met your wife.’ The statement, though factual, felt like a deceit