‘Not from me,’ says Paolo, who’s answered the question plenty of times and knows how best to disguise the answer. ‘But if you tell me the basics I can approach a features editor and see what we can work out between us. I’ll see you right, of course. You can trust me, though that’s probably not a reassuring sentence to hear from a journalist.’

Mr Erskine pauses again. There’s a soft crackle as he lights a new cigarette from the burning tip of the last one. ‘I’m seventy-nine years old, if you’re interested,’ he says, quietly. ‘Mad age, when you think on it. Not so well, as it happens. The doctor says my heart’s on its arse.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ says Paolo, opening a blank page on his laptop and making a note of the glorious diagnosis. ‘Still, modern medicine can do marvellous things.’

‘No, no need for platitudes, son. I can hear death sharpening his scythe. It’s not a bother. I’ve drunk a loch of whisky and smoked a forest of fags. Three wives, five kids, a couple of step-bastards who reckon I used to knock ’em about … seen most of the world and not just the tourist spots. Can’t complain, really. And if it all starts to hurt I won’t be hanging about to get too weak to sort myself out. If it comes to it, I’ll pull the trigger and save the NHS the money of seeing me off.’

Paolo rearranges himself in his seat. He’s really paying attention now. Mr Erskine just got very interesting. ‘Are you able to tell me anything now? Your involvement? Your own contribution? I don’t have my files in front of me but it started at Kew, funnily enough. Had to make a Freedom of Information request that took up the best part of a day but I got enough on Operation Octopus to make for a decent yarn.’

‘A decent yarn?’ asks Mr Erskine, with a little smile in his voice. ‘Aye, it’s that. Bet you were surprised they approved the request, eh?’

Paolo wipes his hand across his mouth. Scratches at his moustache. ‘Sometimes you get lucky.’

‘They threw you a bone, son. Gave you enough to stop you asking the next lot of questions. What happened in the jungle, that weren’t more than the tip of it. My hat’s off to you, you’ve got closer to uncovering something real than anybody else has in all my years as a Quaker, but you fell off the horse well before the finish.’

‘A Quaker?’ asks Paolo.

‘One of the Friends,’ says Mr Erskine, slowly, as if it were important.

Paolo picks up his pen and chews the end. A little window opens in his memory. Quakers. Friends. Wasn’t that a euphemism? The gentlemen at Century House. MI6 before it moved to Legoland down by the Thames.