Lyudmila stares at him with distaste. He’s slovenly, this man. His shirt collar is stained, his teeth are indescribably yellow, his skin is slack and paunchy from incessant drinking, from overindulgence in rich food, from scorn for physical exercise. Possibly he’s the most undisciplined man she’s ever met, at least in this profession, and what’s worse, he’s an open homosexual who makes no effort at all to disguise or control his voracious carnal appetites. But while Lyudmila is suspicious and puritanical, she’s also fair. Burgess possesses a brilliant intellect and exerts enormous charm, when he chooses. He also knows everything about everybody.

She decides to lay a single card on the table.

“We have recently intercepted a communication from here in Moscow to a contact named ASCOT in London. Do you know who this ASCOT might be?”

He flicks some ash from his cigarette into the overflowing tray at his elbow. “Not the slightest idea. I’ve never heard of an agent named ASCOT. Where was the communication directed?”

“To a private address. A flat in West London that seems to be owned by a shipping company called Lonicera. We have the flat under surveillance at the moment, but we have not been able to determine anything of significance. We suspect, however, that this communication may be the key to a number of recent security leaks, for which we have been unable to identify the source.”

“Lonicera, eh? Doesn’t ring a bell.”

As an intelligence agent of nearly two decades’ standing, Burgess is a practiced liar. Still, Lyudmila can’t detect any sign of deception in his voice or his affect. He looks so at ease, he might be sprawled in his own living room, except Lyudmila suspects that Burgess’s living room—the one he left behind in London, anyway—is equally as squalid as Burgess himself.

“Very well,” she says. “You will, of course, inform us immediately should your memory ring a bell, after all?”

“With pleasure. I’m eager to be of service.”

If she were alone, Lyudmila’s mouth would curve with contempt. Defectors! Really, they’re such a nuisance. They know too much, they’re altogether too eager to be of service. Don’t they understand that defection means retirement? What use can a defector possibly be? He’s already given up all his information. He can’t go back to his home country for more. His only value is publicity—the triumph of Soviet intelligence. Otherwise, he’s just a drain on the state. You have to find him some job that will keep him out of trouble. You have to give him a nice apartment and access to luxury Western goods, so he doesn’t complain. You have to keep a close eye on him, to make sure he’s not getting restless and disillusioned.