Sonia Brotton was drunk again. Not soddenly so, but well on the way. Petr wondered how the liability was tolerated and whether she had damaged her husband’s career. She plonked herself down next to Petr and said, ‘Laure has told me a little of her time with you in Prague. About the puppets and visits to the country.’

Petr sneaked a look at Laure. ‘The Czechs love to pretend they are country dwellers, particularly the…’ he searched for the word, ‘… the townees. At weekends, the cities empty and everyone makes for their chata. In summer, it’s possible to live outside for much of the time. The forests and woods are very popular. So many of our stories and folk tales are set in the forest.’

He spared a smidgeon of compassion for Sonia. Her lipstick had smudged, the hand holding her glass was unsteady and she was drinking in this anodyne stuff with embarrassing enthusiasm.

‘I remember the barbecues,’ said Laure. ‘They gave off such a smoky smell. The children loved it. I remember the sound of the trees as you lay in bed with the windows open.’

Sonia slumped back against her chair. ‘I’m tired.’

David Brotton glanced at his watch. ‘The car will be here any minute.’ He turned to Petr. ‘I gather you know Paris very well.’

‘Yes. I enjoyed living there.’

David helped himself to some ice which had arrived in a glass with the drinks. ‘It’s the paradox. If you’re sent abroad you should make the most of it. At the same time, it’s unwise to become overfond of somewhere.’

Petr’s English was good, but not as good as his French, but he had an excellent comprehension and not a bad grasp of idiom. ‘Don’t the British call it going bush?’

‘That’s it.’ Sonia was beginning to slur. ‘Some of those boys take to wearing grass skirts and flowers behind their ears. Head office try frantically to think up penalties but what can you do? If the sunset’s got to you and the girls are willing.’

‘Shut up, darling,’ said David.

Petr reflected that a woman like Sonia did not the know the half of it and would scream blue murder if she did. In his neck of the woods, there were things that could be done to those who had gone bush. And were.

The lessons in surveillance tutored on how to spot the signs and there had been quite a trade in hauling people in. If cooperation was unforthcoming, there was always scopolamine, the truth drug. In the worst case, execution and a subsequent dumping of human ashes on the road outside Prague.

During his danger years, his fondness for the West had gone on record and he knew that he had eaten into his luck. On the other hand, he had delivered results.