“Did the KGB give the tapes directly to the HVA?”

“No. For the purposes of establishing some sort of provenance they were first given to the BBC’s Berlin office on Savignyplatz. I believe one of the BBC’s local correspondents works for the HVA and he was ordered to sell them to Hennig, as if he’d considered using them for broadcast and then decided to make money from them instead.”

Anne paused and asked for a glass of water, which was duly provided, before she continued with her bravura performance.

“My job was to meet with Gunther and Hennig and to report their operational progress to my controllers in the HVA by coded messages on a shortwave radio. Gunther and Hennig were to extract a large sum of money from Maugham and by extension the British secret service, and to hand over yet more tapes containing other false and misleading information about other secret service personnel. I believe there are other tiny details on the other tape recordings that might also help to discredit Hollis. I’m afraid I don’t know what those are. Any money they made from the blackmail operation was to be split between the three of us as a reward for loyal service and to fund future operations in this theater.”

“And these are the tapes you’ve provided for us. The ones you were keeping in your office at your rented villa in Villefranche-sur-Mer.”

“That’s right.”

Anne lied so smoothly, so expertly, that I almost believed her myself. She never hesitated, not for a moment, and I wondered if she had ever considered the possibility that the British might actually shoot me or Harold Hennig. Her voice was even and, it has to be said, sexy, too; a couple of times there was even a quaver in it, as if what she had to say was upsetting. She was very good. Mielke had chosen his Judas very well indeed. I doubt if Jean Simmons or Deborah Kerr could have given a better performance in that room than Anne French. But the hardest part of listening to all that was knowing that I loved her.

“And what was it persuaded you to change your mind about your involvement in this elaborate plot?” The monk was smiling kindly at her now, as if he pitied her for being used so egregiously by such unscrupulous people as Erich Mielke, Harold Hennig, and me.

Anne sighed.

“Take your time, my dear. There’s no rush. We don’t want to make any mistakes here.” The monk’s tone was solicitous, as if Anne was finding it difficult to betray me and, it had to be faced, Harold Hennig, too.

“Yes, take your time,” I said. “But if it helps you can kiss me on the cheek.”

She didn’t flinch.