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into the corridor. That was something else about safe houses: they were always freezing cold.
    ‘He’s inside now,’ said Teacher, his head inclining to indicate the room from which Pinky had emerged. ‘The shorthand clerk is still there. They’ll tell us when.’ So far he’d confided nothing, except that the debriefing was of a man called Valeri – obviously a cover name – and that permission for me to sit in on the debriefing was con ditional upon my not speaking to Valeri directly, nor joining in any general discussion.
    I sank down on to the couch and closed my eyes for a moment. These things could take a long time. Teacher seemed to have survived his sleepless night unscathed but I was weary. I was reluctant to admit it but I was too old to enjoy life in a slum. I needed regular hot baths with expensive soap and thick towels and a bed with clean sheets and a room with a lock on the door. To some extent I was perhaps identifying with the mysterious escaper next door, who was no doubt desirous of all those same luxuries.
    I sat there for nearly half an hour, dozing off to sleeponce or twice. I was woken by the sound of an argument coming, not from the room in which the debriefing was taking place but from the room with the typewriter. The typewriting had stopped. The arguing voices were women’s, the argument was quiet and restrained in the way that the English voice their most bitter resentments. I couldn’t hear the actual words but there was a resignation to the exchange that suggested a familiar routine. When the door opened again an elderly secretary they called the Duchess came into the room. She saw me and smiled, then she put two dinner plates, some cutlery and a brown paper bag, inside which some bread rolls could be glimpsed, on to a small table.
    The Duchess was a thin and frail Welsh woman but her appearance was deceptive, for she had the daring, stamina and tenacity of a prize-fighter. God knows how old she was: she had worked for the Berlin office for countless years. Her memory was prodigious and she also claimed to be able to foretell the future by reading palms and working out horoscopes and so on. She was unmarried and lived in an apartment in Dahlem with a hundred cats, and moon charts and books on the occult, or so it was said. Some people were afraid of her. Frank Harrington made jokes about her being a witch but I noticed that even Frank would think twice before confronting her.
    The arrival of the dinner plates was a bad sign: someone was preparing for the debriefing to continue until nightfall. ‘You’re looking well, Mr Samson,’ she said. ‘Very fit.’ She looked at my scuffed leather jacket and rumpled trousers and seemed to decide that they were occasioned by my official duties.
    ‘Thank you,’ I said. I suppose she was referring to my hungry body, drawn face and the anxiety that I felt, and no doubt displayed. Usually I was plump, unfit and happy. An angry cat came into the room, its fur rumpled, eyes wide and manner agitated. It glared around as if it was some unfortun ate visitor suddenly transformed into this feline form.
    But I recognized this elderly creature as ‘Jackdaw’. The Duchess took it everywhere and it slumbered on her lap while she worked at her desk. Now, dumped to the floor, it was outraged. It went and sank its claws into the sofa. ‘Jackdaw! Stop it!’ said the Duchess and the cat stopped.
    ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Samson?’ she asked, her Welsh accent as strong as ever.
    ‘Yes. Thank you,’ I said gratified that she’d recognized me after a long time away.
    ‘Sugar? Milk?’
    ‘Both please.’
    ‘And you, Mr Teacher?’ she asked my companion. She didn’t ask him how he drank it. I suppose she knew already.
    Drinking tea with the Duchess gave me an opportunity to study this fellow Teacher in a way that I hadn’t been able to the night before. He was about thirty years old, a slight, unsmiling man with dark hair, cut short and