“I know it doesn’t make any sense,” said Giles. “But if it was just a one-night stand, I have to tell you I’ve never spent a night like it.”

“For which she was undoubtedly well rewarded.”

“So what will you do, now I’ve made my decision?” Giles said, ignoring the comment.

“If you’re really not going to fight the seat, I’ll have to appoint a subcommittee to select a new candidate.”

“You’ll have a flood of applications, and while inflation is at ten percent and the Tories’ only solution is a three-day week, a poodle wearing a red rosette would be elected.”

“Which is precisely why you shouldn’t just throw in the towel.”

“Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

“Every word. But if you really have made up your mind, I hope you’ll be available to advise whoever we select as candidate.”

“But what can I possibly tell them that you can’t, Griff? Let’s face it, you were organizing elections when I was still in short trousers.”

“But not as the candidate, that’s a unique experience. So will you accompany him—”

“Or her—” said Giles, smiling.

“—or even her,” said Griff, “when they’re out walking the streets and canvassing the estates?”

“If you think it will help, I’ll make myself available whenever you want me.”

“It could make the difference between just winning, and securing a large enough majority to make it tough for the Tories to overturn at the next election.”

“My God, the Labour Party’s lucky to have you,” said Giles. “I’ll do everything I can to help.”

“Thank you,” said Griff. “I apologize for my earlier outburst. Truth is, I’ve always been a cynic. Goes with the territory, I suppose. So let’s hope I’m wrong this time. Mind you, I’ve never gone much on fairy tales. So if you do change your mind about standing, I can hold off appointing a selection committee for at least a couple of weeks.”

“Won’t you ever give up?”

“Not while there’s the slightest chance of you being the candidate.”

* * *

As Giles sat alone in the first-class carriage on the way to Truro, he thought carefully about what Griff had said. Was he sacrificing his whole political career for a woman who might not even have given him a second thought since Berlin? Had he allowed his imagination to override his common sense? And if he did meet Karin again, would the bubble burst?

There was also the possibility—the strong possibility, which he tried to push to the back of his mind—that Karin had been no more than a Stasi plant, simply doing her job, proving that his veteran agent was not a cynic, but simply a realist. By the time the Penzance Flyer pulled into Truro station just after six, Giles was none the wiser.

He took a taxi to the Mason’s Arms, where he had agreed to meet John Pengelly later that evening. Once he had signed the register, he climbed the stairs to his room and unpacked his overnight bag. He had a bath, changed his clothes and went down to the bar a few minutes before seven, as he didn’t want to keep Karin’s father waiting.