Terrence Maldwin put down his fork and took a sip of his claret. “Well, let’s see,” he said. “I believe I can do this without notes. The brigadier got lucky a few nights back, while drinking at his local. He met a charming lady. They had dinner, and nature took its course. The day after that, a large Mercedes sedan arrived outside his flat and Fife-Simpson and another man got in. The curtains were drawn in the car, so we could not see who else was inside. We lost the car in the south London suburbs, so we’ve no idea where they went.

“Roger and the lady returned to Roger’s flat three days later, so we suppose they had a bit of a holiday. Then an odd thing happened: the following morning they left the flat and took a taxi to an address in Eaton Place, where they met a woman who seemed to be an estate agent. Inquiries were made, and we discovered that the couple had taken a flat—a very nice one—on the top floor. Over the next two days, they packed up Roger’s place and moved into the new flat, and the lady, whose name is Jennifer Sands, did a great deal of shopping for furnishings. We expect to have photographs in a day or two.”

“And who is Jennifer Sands?” Felicity asked.

“She’s English, thirty-nine, quite attractive, and has some considerable personal wealth from her father, now deceased. She got a first at Oxford in languages, one of them Russian. She was once a member of the Communist Party in Britain, but left a year ago, resigning over policy differences.”

“Sounds like Ms. Sands would be attractive to our Russian friends,” Felicity said.

“Yes,” Terry replied, “and one might think that Roger, too, would be someone who could hold their interest. Some of you have known the brigadier over the years. Does anyone think that he might be had by the Russians?”

Tim Barnes spoke up. “I think that, given his recent retirement, Roger might be bought by the Russians. By the way, it won’t hit the papers until tomorrow, but an old acquaintance of mine and Roger’s, Vice-Admiral Simon Garr, retired, was murdered early this afternoon, on Hampstead Heath. Looks like a professional job: two bullets to the head. No one reported hearing the shots.”

“That’s very interesting,” Terry said. “Roger left his new flat at mid-morning today.”

“Where did Roger go?” Felicity asked.

“He took a cab to Trafalgar Square, where he bought a newspaper and got into another cab. A traffic foul-up caused our people to lose him. He returned to his flat in the mid-afternoon.”

Everyone got quiet.

“I wonder,” Terry said, “does anyone think that Roger might have it in him to shoot an old acquaintance in the head?”