She split the two photographs, revealing both faces, and pointed at them in turn. ‘That’s Patrick Dixon, the NASA scientist, and that’s Phinneus Murphy, his CIA liaison.’

After saying goodbye to Bennett, Knox had taken the photos straight to Leconfield House. A single phone call by Holland to MI6 had established Dixon’s role in the Corona spy satellite programme, and a conversation with White had revealed why the Americans had been so suddenly interested in Valera. Knox was fascinated and terrified by what he’d learned about both. Pipistrelle and Atlas paled in comparison to the potential of Corona, and Valera might just be the greatest intelligence asset ever to slip through MI5’s fingers. It was some consolation that she was now in the hands of an ally, but not much.

For the last year, people at the top of MI5 and MI6 had been anxiously speculating about what Valera and the CIA might cook up together. Now, at long last, Knox thought, they were about to find out.

Chapter 66

Chapter 66

Knox crossed the secretarial pool on his way to the lifts. For once, discipline had completely broken down and no one minded at all. Desks had been cleared and a small television set in a wooden box had been set up in the middle of the room. A large group of people were already huddled around it. Knox checked his watch. He still had three minutes—plenty of time to reach Holland’s office.

Five floors up he found another group of people gathered in front of a considerably bigger television screen. The director general’s private sanctum was normally reserved for one-on-one meetings, but today the heads of all MI5’s various departments swarmed it en masse. Holland didn’t like this, which explained his hectoring of White, who was still adjusting the television as Knox made his way to the space that had been left for him next to Holland.

‘Perhaps we should adjourn downstairs,’ Holland said as he rubbed his glasses with a small square of chamois.

White ignored the thinly veiled criticism and continued tinkering with the set. A moment later the static on the screen cleared, revealing a baseball game in mid-play. Jokes rippled round the room. Had so much effort gone into the first-ever live transatlantic broadcast just to subject Europe to America’s bastardised version of cricket?

After a full minute of play and accompanying witticisms, the screen switched to reveal Richard Dimbleby, the BBC journalist, in crisp black and white. He explained that most of the historic broadcast between America and Europe that was about to begin would be taken up by President Kennedy’s weekly press conference, transmitted live outside America for the first time.