This time, there’s no shouting. Rachkovsky’s so angry that the intensity of his focus on Nicolas is almost sexual. ‘I’ve been through all the papers,’ he says, in a voice that’s singsong with the sound of deflected rage. ‘No mention in any of them of the pamphlet I gave you. From this, Nicolas, I conclude that you didn’t think it was worth leaving it there.’ Rachkovsky closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. The gesture’s a familiar one to Nicolas. The spymaster is fending off a migraine. ‘So here’s where I am now: you’re going to have to help me understand why it is that you would refuse what was clearly a direct order.’

Nicolas, as we know, is quite capable of riffing boldly at short notice. This time he doesn’t choose to. ‘Look, she left a note. It didn’t mention anything about us. It just specified how to wind up her financial affairs and said what kind of funeral she wanted. I thought we should respect the wishes of a dying woman.’

‘That’s a commendable sentiment in the context of a romance novel. We’re not in a romance novel. We’re in the middle of a war on terror. The importance of the work we do here seems to have escaped your attention. In the heat of battle, under enemy fire, do you stop to bury your fallen comrades? No, you don’t. First you win the war, then you put up the cenotaph. And by the way, since when was it up to you to determine the strategic policy of this department?’

Nicolas starts to answer.

‘Don’t fucking interrupt me!’ Rachkovsky shrieks.

The double bind is, patently, amusing. Nicolas smiles.

‘Oh! Oh! This is funny? This is funny! I tell you something, this is not funny!’

‘It is funny,’ says Nicolas. ‘You’re funny. Moreover, I quit.’

‘If you leave this room, young man, that’s it. You will never work for me again.’

It’s not just the indignity of being shouted at; it’s not just the revulsion he feels for Rachkovsky’s obscure plan; it’s not just that haberdashery suddenly seems like it will be better for his soul in the long run. It’s also that he senses that if he stays in the room, he will be letting down all the people who ever truly cared about him.

Nicolas nods to make it clear that he accepts the verdict, then he opens the door, and walks out of the building without collecting his stuff, leaving Rachkovsky, for once, at a loss for words.

‘Rachkovsky would have loved a machine like this one.’

Notovitch is standing to stretch his legs. He caresses the cherry-wood lid of the Imperator.