He picked up a small hand mirror with shells on the handle, of the sort he had seen sold in Prague markets. It was, to put it kindly, garish, as was the plastic flag in the Czech colours which he recognized from innumerable Party conventions. Beside them was a stone, which he was pretty sure was the one he had picked up at Tunnel 15.

Who knew what connections Laure made between these things?

The roses placed on the side table, Laure took two glasses out of the cupboard and a bottle of whisky. ‘Your favourite, if I remember?’

He nodded. Nursing the whisky, he gestured at the room. ‘You seem to be comfortable.’

‘I am. I’m lucky and grateful.’

‘I never asked you when we last met about your family.’

‘My mother’s in Paris. My brother’s all over the place.’ Her eyes sparked with humour. ‘We’ve turned into nomads. Brympton can’t get over it.’

He gestured to a briefcase parked by the table. ‘It’s no coincidence that you’ve ended up in the foreign office? They helped you get out of Prague and, no doubt, you were grateful. Is it a good job?’

‘Berlin isn’t exactly a barrel of laughs at the moment. But that’ll change,’ she said, ‘and, yes, it’s a good job.’

‘I suppose the lure of gathering intelligence got to you.’

He was testing the water.

A faintly surprised expression crossed her face. ‘I’m a cultural attaché. Nothing more. Nothing less.’

‘But you have access to information.’ He was thinking of the document she had produced in the car.

‘Every embassy keeps files. It’s the business,’ she said, cool and matter-of-fact.

Nevertheless, an undercurrent flowed strongly, even ominously, through the comfortless room. He felt it. She would too. Petr went over to the window, which looked down at a small square, edged by young lime trees.

She came and stood beside him but kept a distance. ‘Do you remember the time you came with me and the children to the park in Prague?’

‘Very well.’

‘You kept looking at me. I remember being frightened. Not quite understanding.’

‘What exactly?’

He needed those few extra seconds to marshal his thoughts.

‘That you…’ she squared up to Petr, ‘that you wanted me. Or rather, not so much me, but my youth. Am I wrong?’ She added, ‘It’s an old story, Petr. Father of the house fancying the au pair.’

He didn’t care for the way she had summarized his torment at the time and defended himself. ‘Laure, protest away if you like, but you did understand. You were having an affair, yourself. You knew exactly what goes on between men and women. But, yes, you’re not wrong.’

‘That’s honest,’ she said gently.

‘I was very careful not to take advantage.’