The studio manager invited Harry to join Jacobs on the sofa. He was graced with a “Good morning, Mr. Clifton,” but then his host became distracted by a note yet another assistant placed in front of him.

“Sixty seconds to transmission,” said a voice from somewhere beyond the arc lights.

“Where will it be?” asked Jacobs.

“The page will come up on camera two,” said the floor manager.

“Thirty seconds.”

This was the moment when Harry always wanted to get up and leave the studio. Uncle Joe, Uncle Joe, Uncle Joe, he repeated under his breath. Don’t forget to keep mentioning the title of the book, Aaron had reminded him, because it’s not your name on the cover.

“Ten seconds.”

Harry took a sip of water as a hand appeared in front of his face, displaying five splayed fingers.

“Five, four…”

Jacobs dropped his notes on the floor.

“Three, two…”

And looked straight into the camera.

“One.” The hand disappeared.

“Welcome back,” said Jacobs, reading directly from the teleprompter. “My next guest is the crime novelist Harry Clifton, but today we’re not discussing one of his works, but a book he smuggled out of the Soviet Union.” Jacobs held up his copy of Uncle Joe, which filled the whole screen.

Good start, thought Harry.

“But let me make it clear,” continued Jacobs, “that it was not the book itself that Mr. Clifton smuggled out, just the words. He says that while he was locked up in a Russian prison cell with Anatoly Babakov, Uncle Joe’s author, he learned the entire manuscript by heart in four days, and after he had been released he wrote it out word for word. Some people might find this hard to believe,” said Jacobs, before turning to face Harry for the first time, and from the incredulous look on his face, he was clearly one of them.

“Let me try and understand what you’re suggesting, Mr. Clifton. You shared a cell with the distinguished author Anatoly Babakov, a man you’d never met before.”

Harry nodded, as the camera swung onto him.

“During the next four days he recited the entire contents of his banned book, Uncle Joe, an account of the eleven years he worked in the Kremlin as Joseph Stalin’s interpreter.”

“That is correct,” said Harry.

“So when you were released from prison, four days later, like a professional actor, you knew your part off by heart.”

Harry remained silent, as it was now clear that Jacobs had his own agenda.

“I’m sure you’ll agree, Mr. Clifton, that no actor, however seasoned, could be expected to remember forty-eight thousand words after only four days of rehearsal.”

“I am not an actor,” said Harry.

“Forgive me,” said Jacobs, not looking as if he wanted to be forgiven, “but I suspect that you are a very accomplished actor who has invented this whole story for no other purpose than to promote your latest book. If that’s not the case, perhaps you’ll allow me to put your claim to the test.”