Knox peeled his eyes away from White’s box and looked around him, registering how calm the department was. Normally it was busy with people in lab coats or rolled-up sleeves buzzing between control panels, but now it was as quiet as the School Hall. There were just a few technicians working at the huge Atlas computer that was the beating metal heart of Pipistrelle. And White, tinkering with his newest invention, which, now Knox looked at it again, he saw was surrounded on White’s desk by sea charts.

‘I’ve been spared that joy,’ Knox said. ‘Holland’s asked me to keep an eye on Laing and the Kosygin visit.’

‘Ah, passing on your knowledge to the next generation?’ White said as he gave up on the box and switched his attention to the charts.

Knox guessed White knew all about Laing’s inglorious return from Ottawa, and the bone he’d been thrown by Holland.

‘Something like that,’ Knox replied. ‘What do you think of him?’

‘Laing? I like him. He always files his requisitions correctly.’

‘He’s very young.’

‘Not compared to you when you signed up.’

Knox had still been a teenager, just, when Holland had persuaded him to join MI5 in 1945. But the world was different then—the war made everyone feel older than they were. Laing was twenty-five and had already been an SLO. It might not have gone perfectly, but it was still an impressive achievement at his age.

‘True,’ Knox conceded.

‘He also does what I tell him,’ White added, the usual clipped edges of his voice getting a little sharper.

‘Are you still upset about the tracker?’ Knox replied.

‘We agreed every Service car should have one installed. You were in the room when it was decided. So why are you the only officer who hasn’t had it done?’

‘Because my car doesn’t belong to the Service. It’s mine.’

For a professional spy, Knox was extremely protective of his own privacy. He’d accepted the need for a telephone in Rabley Heath, but he drew the line at someone being able to know where he was any time of day or night.

‘I’m in the phone book,’ he said. ‘And I promise I’ll use a pool car for anything serious.’

White shook his head and turned back to the sea charts.

‘What do you want, Richard?’ he asked.

‘Can’t I just have a chat with a fellow old-timer?’

‘No, because I’m busy and you’re moping.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Yes you are.’

Knox gestured at the desk.

‘Planning a sailing trip?’ he asked.

‘My latest headache,’ White replied. ‘The navy is convinced there’s a Russian submarine playing silly buggers in the Channel shipping lanes.’

‘Silly buggers?’