‘We know the Mullahs are desperate for any edge in the nuclear stake. The rhetoric coming out of Tehran suggests they might have got hold of something. That’s what the Americans feel.’

‘You mean Cubbage?’ It came out uncalculated and Dyer instantly regretted it.

Updark stopped chewing. He lifted his chin. ‘Now why would you say that?’

‘I can put two and two together as well as anybody.’

‘Did Marvar talk to you about Ralph Cubbage?’

‘He had his suspicions about him.’

‘So he did talk about Cubbage,’ Updark insisted in a berating tone.

‘Only that he suspected Cubbage of working for the CIA.’

‘A moment ago, you said Marvar hadn’t told you about his work.’

‘I said he told me a little.’

‘Partial to a bit of flower-arranging with the truth when it’s inconvenient, are we, John?’

‘Look, what’s the point of asking questions if you’ve made up your mind?’

‘You’re still fobbing us off,’ said Updark, anger further colouring his face, ‘is what’s poking out at me like a dog’s balls.’

‘Well, you’d know more about dogs’ balls than I would,’ said Dyer in a defiant voice.

Silence.

‘How are the flapjacks?’ came Lorna’s cheerful voice.

Hissop stood behind her.

She handed Dyer his mug, full to the brim with more warm black coffee.

Dyer smiled at her. ‘Exceptional.’

Updark groaned: ‘Marvar knew about Cubbage.’

Hissop let out with irritation: ‘Cubbage is a real pain in the orchestra stalls.’

Unbothered, Updark looked over at Dyer. He conceded sulkily: ‘We’re not happy with the Americans.’

Dyer was conscious of Lorna bringing over a cube to sit on. ‘Why is that?’

‘Why. Is. That,’ Updark repeated very slowly. ‘Let’s ask Lorna,’ and to Dyer: ‘Lorna’s our Chief Analyst. She knows all about Americans. Please tell John what you know, Lorna.’

Lorna impressed from the moment she opened her mouth. She was like his straight-talking aunt when Vivien showed her training and danced. Under that skirt, that smile, all sinew and steel.

She looked directly into Dyer’s eyes. She didn’t need notes. She was in command of her material.

‘Where do I begin?’ in her North Country voice that summoned up for Dyer a small front drawing room in which his grandmother only ever used to serve tea on a silver tray with home-made Eccles cakes, exactly as she had taught both her daughters to bake.

‘Do I start in the 1950s, when the Americans refused to share their nuclear secrets? Which didn’t stop us going from zero to having the H-bomb within three years.

‘Or do I jump to 1975, when Henry Kissinger agreed to sell nuclear energy equipment to Iran for six billion dollars’ worth of business, with his besties Cheney and Wolfowitz and Rumsfeld?

‘Or to the year of our Lord 2000, when those selfsame individuals stopped at nothing to deny Iran access to identical technology?