‘The plug sockets are type F, which doesn’t narrow it down much. But it looks like there’s a newspaper in Kazakh. It’s dated two weeks ahead, 13 December.’

Stevenson wrinkled his brow.

‘Strange that the date’s visible?’

‘Seems overdetermined. The message it came with is a duress code. It means the sender needs to get out of the country, that I’m in danger too.’

He sighed and shook his head.

‘Why so cryptic?’

‘That’s what I’ve been wondering. Maybe the sender was interrupted or in a hurry. It takes time to encrypt files. Perhaps if I’d got the accompanying phone call more would have been explained. Or perhaps the whole thing’s deliberately mysterious because it’s a trap, a lure. An attempt to play with our minds.’

‘By her?’

‘More likely someone who’s got information out of her.’ I regretted saying it immediately. This touched on the world he didn’t operate in, and deepened the darkness around us.

‘What’s going on in Kazakhstan at the moment?’ I asked.

‘Desert, I imagine. Some oil. Benign dictatorship and shaky post-Soviet nationalism. Why?’

‘Who’s on it for Six?’

‘There’s no permanent station. I think the ambassador’s Suzanna Ford, but we haven’t had cause to use her much.’

The dog barked and we both fell silent. A figure passed up by the pond, male, hunched, hands in the pockets of a short jacket. He continued towards Hampstead Lane.

‘How was the debrief?’ Stevenson asked.

‘They’re covering their backs. I’m starting to feel somewhat isolated. What’s going on?’

‘All I know is there’s changes: changes in priorities, in tactics maybe. Heads have rolled, morale is low. Russia’s got the wind in their sails, seems to be the common belief. Syria’s a test bed.’

‘For what?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Maybe Joanna knows.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Think Russia’s got penetration of Vauxhall?’

Stevenson shrugged – the kind of shrug that says: of course, who can say, what do you think, where does one start?

‘They’ve penetrated people’s minds,’ I said.

‘That’s paranoid.’

‘No it’s not.’

‘Why would they isolate you? You’re celebrated.’

‘As what? Their gun runner?’

‘You delivered.’

‘That’s the problem.’

‘What do you mean?’

What I meant: success is never straightforward in intelligence work. You sink deep, you produce invaluable product. It also means people will do deals with you. They prosper, and you become irreplaceable to both ends. You get an aura, a reputation for making things happen. Then you become a repository of other people’s guilt.

‘It was fun while it lasted, but you know how that goes. You do people’s dirty work and it just means you’re the last to be cleaned away.’