Kaspar threw the remains of the bread into the Cam, sending the swans scrabbling, and held out his hand. Knox passed him the papers.

He waited for Kaspar to review them, to tell him that they were indeed important, connected to Russia, and, ideally, had Manning’s coded initials somewhere in them. But, after skimming over the first couple of sheets, Kaspar’s face darkened.

‘So,’ he said to himself, ‘I have become a joke.’ Then he turned, forced the bundle back into Knox’s hands, and started to walk away.

Knox, confused, followed him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Kaspar spun on his stick to face him, suddenly boiling with anger.

‘Who put you up to this? Those bloody first-years? Who told you where I was?’ He spat the questions at Knox.

‘Your assistant told me you were here.’

‘My assistant?’

‘This isn’t a joke,’ Knox insisted. ‘This is a matter of national security.’

But Kaspar wasn’t listening. ‘I won’t be your stupid summer prank. I know what they say about me and I won’t put up with this nonsense.’

‘What nonsense?’

‘These childish scribblings,’ Kaspar said, reaching out and crumpling the papers Knox still held to his chest. ‘Pathetic.’

‘They don’t mean anything?’

‘You know damned well they don’t. Now leave me alone.’ Kaspar turned his back to Knox, spinning again on his stick. But he didn’t walk away. His anger had tired him out.

After several long breaths he spoke again, his voice quieter, more defeated.

‘I never was a Nazi. Work or die. For what? I had no choice.’ He looked up at the sky, then down at the ground. ‘But no one accepts the grey of life any more. It’s all so black and white now. So much easier to decide who the heroes and villains are.’

After a few more breaths he started walking across the Green, back towards his little office up in the rafters. Knox let him go.

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

If Knox had been paying attention when he caught the next train back to London he might have noticed the woman with short dark hair lingering on the Cambridge station platform. But he didn’t. He climbed straight up into the first-class carriage, chose an empty compartment, sat in the middle seat—a sign to anyone looking for a seat to keep moving—and settled into his thoughts about his encounter with Kaspar for the whole journey.

Knox also didn’t notice the same woman following twenty feet behind him as he walked along the platform at King’s Cross and down into the Underground. He was still lost in thought when he boarded a Piccadilly Line train and accidentally ended up in a smoking carriage. He rode the single stop north to Caledonian Road in a thick miasma of old, hot smoke.