Gareth sat with his legs crossed, his left elbow on the table, the gun in his right hand and resting in his lap. He seemed at ease with it, with himself and with Charles. ‘Timber Wolf enjoyed the lunch you gave him. Very happy bunny. Showed me what he’d got.’

Charles had already decided to feign ignorance. ‘What had he got?’

‘The notes, the figures and thinking on the paper you so carelessly left for him to find. Not like the old Charles I knew. Becoming chief must have blunted your operational edge. Nice touch, though. He’s like a dog with two tails. Couldn’t wait to report back.’

There was no point in further pretence. Gareth would treat denial with contempt. ‘What did you say to him about it?’

‘Don’t worry, I didn’t give your little game away. Not yet, anyway. If that’s what London wants them to think, that’s fine by me. No skin off my nose. Probably even has the virtue of being true, doesn’t it?’

‘And will Tessa Mountfield be equally pleased? I understand she’s been here.’

Gareth paused, then recovered with a smile. ‘Put surveillance on me, have you? Really pulling out all the stops. Local station or a Z team? The latter, I hope. Safer. They need the exercise, anyway.’

‘What are you doing with her?’

‘Reinsurance. In case I can’t return to London without suffering the indignity of inquiries and inquisitions. We had an introductory talk, that’s all. She knows in general what I’ve got for sale but no detail, as yet. If she and the outfits she works for buy my story I should be able to survive – maybe even thrive – abroad in reasonable comfort.’

‘Which story? You must have many to choose from.’

‘All of them. Everything. My career. All the operations I know about or have been involved with, past and present. Not just the one that brings you here, which would be big enough on its own. There’s plenty of others, Operation Tresco, for instance. How’s that submission going, by the way? Are they going to let our old friend Herm do his job?’ When Charles didn’t respond he smiled again. ‘Fancy a drink?’

Charles shook his head. Gareth poured from a half-full bottle of whisky on the table that Charles hadn’t noticed before. There were several glasses by it. What Gareth was now contemplating was a clear breach of the Official Secrets Act, which would mean prison if he set foot in the UK again. Outside UK jurisdiction, even within the EU, it might be difficult to enforce, and if he chose to flee to Russia, impossible. ‘Why, Gareth?’

‘Why what?’