“Apparently he’s playing golf,” said Wavery.

“There’s a competition on top of the Rock. The idea is to see how far you can drive towards Africa. He’s been hitting balls into the sea all morning. I’ve been wanting to get hold of him myself.”

“I think he would vouch for me if he was here.”

Hoyter placed his cup on the desk. He said, “I suppose we could stamp a temporary passport.” In the circumstances there was something impressive, even dignified about the man sitting opposite. He dialled a number. “Gill? Get me Personnel Department, will you?” He exchanged a glance with Wavery. “In case you aren’t who you say you are. After all,” he said reasonably, “you could be pulling the wool over my eyes. You could be anyone.” He issued another bitter little laugh. He recalled the last time he had rung Personnel Department over a matter concerning his own future. They had no idea who he was either.

He opened a drawer from which he produced a white form and, after more ferreting, a book with a torn cover. He opened the book. “Dewsnap . . . Pulleyblank . . . Queesal . . . Wavery . . . Here we go. Wavery, Thomas. Deputy Head of Mission, Lima.” He wrote down the name. “Place of birth?”

“Mathon, Herefordshire,” said Wavery. Hoyter nodded. “Number of passport?”

Wavery could not remember.

“Date and place of issue?”

“London. But I’ve forgotten the date.”

“If it’s London I can probably speak to the records unit in Hayes,” said Hoyter. “Someone who knows you locally? Let’s leave that, shall we. Visible peculiarities?” The pencil hovered. “Mole? Scar? Tattoo?” he added helpfully.

“No.”

“Height? Let’s say about six foot. Occupation? We know that, I think. Also conditions of loss.” He chuckled. His concentration reverted to the Diplomatic Service Handbook. “Might I ask what your other posts were?”

Wavery listed them.

“Lima must have been nice.”

“It was horrible.”

Trapped in the six lines of Wavery’s life, Hoyter had no alternative but to press on. He reached for the second biscuit. “University?”

“Cambridge.”

“Where you read?”

“Classics.”

“Your wife’s name?”

“Penelope.”

“How many children do you have?”

“None.”

Hoyter bit into the biscuit. His nod was approving. “And how long have you been married?”

“Thirty-five years. But we’re getting divorced.”

Suddenly Hoyter knew who it was. It came back to him that the man across the desk might now be serving as Ambassador to Portugal had he not been discovered by the Permanent Under Secretary in the embrace of a woman not his wife.

He closed the book and relaxed. Then he thought of something else. “Of course, this is an HMSO publication. You could have boned up on it –”

The telephone rang.

“Hoyter.” He listened. He nodded. He looked across at Wavery and raised his thumb. “Personnel,” he whispered, winking. “How do you spell it?” He spelled out Wavery’s name. “Has he taken over from someone? Have you? No. He says he hasn’t.” His eyes returned to the desk. “You want me to describe him . . . ” A note of embarrassment crept into Hoyter’s voice. “Are you sure?”