Bobby crossed the street and followed, keeping the half-block distance. He had expected Bartholomew to go straight to the embassy, but instead, the man crossed the street and began walking east along the little park at the center of the square. Well, blimey, Bobby thought, he’s on to me already. Bobby didn’t follow; instead, he walked to a bench that offered a good view of the square, checked to be sure Bartholomew wasn’t looking at him, shucked off the raincoat, turned it inside out, and it became tweed. He stuffed his cloth cap into a pocket, sat down, opened his newspaper, and set his half-glasses on the tip of his nose, so he could look over them. In a practiced fashion, he would glance at Bartholomew, then down at his paper, turning a page occasionally, then look back at his quarry.

Bartholomew proceeded around the square at a march, swinging an umbrella and taking in the sunny morning like a tourist. He crossed the street again, but instead of walking into the embassy through the front door, he continued straight along the street toward the entrance of the passport office, disappearing around the corner of the building.

Bobby sat his ground, resisting the urge to run to the corner to see if he had gone inside. Bartholomew would go inside, Bobby was sure; the man worked there, didn’t he? What he would do now was go upstairs, then peer out the window to see if his tail was still here. Bobby, accordingly, got up, crossed the street, and went into the little chemist’s shop on South Audley Street, where he browsed for a few minutes, then bought a small tin of aspirin. Finally, he returned to Grosvenor Square, walked to the farthest point from the embassy, and took a seat on another bench to wait for lunchtime.

Bartholomew looked from his window down into Grosvenor Square. “He’s gone,” he said to his companion. “But I’m sure he was tailing me.”

“You’re getting paranoid in your old age, Stan,” the man said. “Who would want to follow you anymore? The Cold War is over.”

“Maybe for you,” Bartholomew replied.

At twelve o’clock sharp a handsome blonde woman in a black silk raincoat approached Bobby’s park bench. “Mr. Jones?” she asked.

Bobby stood. “Yes, indeed,” he replied.

“I’m Moira Bailey, Ted Cricket’s friend.”

“Glad to meet you,” Bobby said, shaking her hand. “Let’s take a stroll around the park, shall we?”

“Love to.” She took his arm.

They walked up and down the little park, always keeping the front door of the embassy in sight. “I’ll point him out when he leaves,” Bobby said, “then he’s all yours.”

“Right,” Moira replied.

They had to wait for three-quarters of an hour before Bartholomew appeared, walking with another man, no doubt the American that Ted Cricket had spotted him with the day before.