And she never prayed. Not once. Not really.

She appreciated the Greek Orthodox service for its theatricality. The entrance of the priest, the opening of the doors, the vesting, the reenactment of the Crucifixion with a loaf of bread, all accompanied by a polyphonic choir “Under the direction of Ernest Moss,” as a placard on an easel proclaimed when she came in. She had heard them often on BBC Radio. They were quite good today, especially with the echoing acoustics of the cathedral supporting them, and she allowed herself to take pleasure in the ancient beauty of the Byzantine chant.

The priest, now fully vested, took the censer and carried it up and down the aisles. Athanasios watched this portion of the ceremony with awe, his eyes swinging back and forth with the golden container as the smoke rose from it and the bells dangling from its chains tinkled sweetly.

Maybe religion is just a big rattle, thought Sparks. Something to distract us and keep us quiet.

She took advantage of the censing to scan the congregation again.

There. On the other side, settling into a seat. Constantine Torgos. The Greek Intelligence operative who had come to Talbot’s funeral.

She recognised him immediately, though it had been three years since she had last encountered him. He was in his late fifties, balding, with a thick black mustache under a long, thin nose. He was draping his arm around the shoulders of a younger man, giving the impression of avuncularity, but his expression was anything but affectionate as he poured a stream of urgent whispers into his companion’s ear. The other man began nodding in response, then shook his head in the negative twice.

That isn’t prayer, thought Sparks.

A woman sat in the seat behind Sparks, then leaned forwards, tapped her on the shoulder, and whispered, “Slumming, Sparks? Or are you on the prowl for unmarried Greeks? We have our own matchmakers, you know.”

“Kat! I was hoping I’d find you here,” Sparks said in delight, turning to face her.

There were shushing noises from nearby. Sparks quieted immediately, but got up and sat in the seat next to the newcomer.

Katina Kitsiou had worked with Sparks during one of her assignments with the Brigadier before going on to coordinate joint efforts with the Allies and the various factions of the Greek Resistance. Known to her English friends and colleagues as Katty Kit, she was a lively, sharply observant, and witty woman who knew everyone worth knowing and several worth avoiding. She was one of the contacts Sparks had hoped to make in coming, but the Great Litany was starting, so all they could do was clasp hands in greeting, then join in with the “Lord, have mercy” responses when they came up.

Sparks kept watching Torgos and the other man out of the corner of her eye, but they had succumbed to the formality of the doxology. Katina noticed her attention and glanced across the center aisle.

“Who have you got your sights set on this time?” she murmured. “Have you finally smartened up and got yourself a Greek boyfriend?”