“Mine. I’ve encountered unanswerable evidence that Mr. and Mrs. Fox are, as they claim, an ordinary married couple of decidedly amorous inclination.”

“What business do you have listening to surveillance recordings of my operation?”

“Why, I was called over by the specialists themselves to have a listen. You should endeavor to exert better control over your subordinates, Ivanova. This is basic KGB training.”

Lyudmila stares at him a moment. He stares back with his dark, piggy eyes. But he’s not unmoved. The tip of his nose turns an even brighter shade of red than usual, and his fingers flick the cigarette spasmodically above the brass ashtray on the corner of his desk. Lyudmila remembers—not altogether inconsequentially—what a terrible lover he was. Even in a convenient and merely physical transaction, the man should have some regard for his partner’s pleasure, and he had none. After a couple of meetings, she rebuffed him. It simply wasn’t worth the trouble of taking your clothes off, to sleep with a man like that.

“Tell me something, Comrade Vashnikov,” she says, in a pleasant voice, “wasn’t it you who put together that ring in Rome, during the thirties? You sent in ROSEBUD to recruit and handle agents.”

For an instant, he looks stricken. “Yes. What of it?”

“You were the one who gave ROSEBUD permission to recruit HAMPTON. Now, ordinarily a handler is not supposed to sleep with her agent, but for some reason you allowed ROSEBUD and HAMPTON to develop a sexual relationship alongside the professional one.”

Vashnikov shrugs. “It was a stroke of genius, actually. It was the perfect way to run HAMPTON. He was young and sexually inexperienced, he lacked confidence. She gave him what he needed, and in return, he gave her everything she asked for, and more. He was our most productive agent in Italy. He wanted to impress her, you see.”

“But then he outgrew her. He met Mrs. Digby, married her, had children with her.”

“ROSEBUD is a professional,” Vashnikov says. “She made adjustments. She ran him effectively, even after his marriage.”

“They resumed their sexual relationship in Zurich, however.”

Vashnikov lights another cigarette from the stub of the first. “You are remarkably well informed, Ivanova. Have you been up late reading files again? I can think of far more interesting nocturnal pursuits.”

“Don’t be vulgar, Vashnikov. I ask this question because it seems to me that the relationship between ROSEBUD and HAMPTON went well beyond the objective, professional association we prefer to see between agent and handler, and perhaps that is the root of our present trouble.”

“What does that mean? Are you saying I made a mistake, Ivanova?”