Alex spooned tea into the pot, poured in the water, and allowed it to steep while he got down cups and saucers from a shelf, and pastries, too.

This was very unlike Alex, Roger thought. Today he was more host than spy.

“Milk or lemon?” he asked.

“Lemon,” Roger replied, and Alex supplied it.

“My real name is Wilfred Thomas,” he said as he poured the tea. He set the cups on the table next to him, picked one up, and sipped.

“How do you do?”

Wilfred smiled. “Very well, thank you. And so do you.”

“I do?”

“Roger, we did not recruit you merely as a matter of opportunism,” Wilfred said. “We picked you because you do not fit the profile of the usual asset. That person is a minion—a clerk, a janitor, a secretary—someone unnoticeable. You, on the other hand, are a difficult man—one who is always noticed and often disliked. The main thing noticeable about you is that you bear a grudge against the person who sacked you, and we have kept you well away from her.”

Roger nodded. “Your assessment seems correct.”

“Your grudge is, as the Americans would say, ‘gravy.’ As it was with Simon Garr.”

“You are correct.”

“Our British counterparts at MI-6 would not consider you a threat, because you would be so obvious.”

“That’s good thinking.”

“The other thing that makes you attractive to us is that you see things through. You are relentless, and not easily discouraged.”

Roger nodded. “Correct.”

“I share that trait,” Wilfred said, “but perhaps less noticeably.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, and I also have an unshakable faith in the decisions I make. You, for instance: I would not have told you my name if I believed you to be susceptible to betraying me to our fellow countrymen.”

“Thank you, Wilfred,” Roger replied.

“Nor would I have made you a Russian citizen, under the name in your new passport. That was a very strong signal to my superiors that I have absolute faith in you.”

“Thank you again,” Roger said.

“MI-5 or MI-6 will tumble to me in due course, because I am a scion of a famous British family name, Thomas. You would know my father as the Duke of Kensington.”

“Ah, yes,” Roger said, as if he hadn’t known.

“I am also,” Wilfred said, “your father-in-law.”

Roger permitted his eyebrows to rise. “You’re Jennifer’s father?”

“I am. Her supposed father and I were lifelong friends, until his death four years ago.”

“Did he know about Jennifer?”

“I expect so. The resemblance became stronger as she grew. Her mother, of course, knew. The two of us relished our secret.”

“Did you tell Jennifer?”

“No, I waited for her to suss it out, and she did. She was very pleased.”

“It must be unusual in the Russian service for a father to employ his child as an agent.”