Hepton smiled to himself as he listened. If intelligence and communications were good enough, he reasoned, there would be no arms race: everyone would know what everyone else had. That was why he felt no jab of conscience at his job, even when attacked at parties by people who could not understand why he did what he did. Not that he did very much. There would be the occasional full-scale surveillance operation, covering the movements of a suspected spy or some military attaché. Someone in a car might just notice that another car was following, but they couldn’t suspect that they were being watched from space. Mostly these jobs were for the security services. Now and again they were for the military. There had been illicit peeks at what this or that US listening post was up to; the one at Menwith Hill, for example. Against the rules, of course. Snooping on the enemy was all well and good, but spying on your allies …

Maybe that was why NATO was in such a shambles. European countries were squabbling with each other. America was pulling its defences out and retrenching back in its homeland. A ring of steel was going up around the USA: not just missiles and tanks and manpower, but economic steel and the steel of mistrust. The USA could be self-sufficient if it wished, and that was the way things were headed. Companies were finding it harder to export their goods to the States. Diplomacy had about it the air of the refrigerator. What had gone wrong? Just over a year ago, Hepton had been delighted with the way the world was going. The EuroGreens were keeping things sane as far as the environment went, the left wing of the European Parliament was pushing through some worthwhile legislation. The mood was distinctly upbeat. Even Britain was becoming more … well, European.

So what had happened? Hepton had blinked and the edifice had started to crumble: squabbles, economic downturns, the troubles in Pakistan and Turkey … And now the pull-out. He fumbled for the radio’s off-switch and made for the shower. Standing beneath the spray, he thought of the dream he’d had in the night. Mike Dreyfuss had been in it. So had Jilly. They’d been seeking each other, finding each other, but then losing each other again.

When he came out of the shower, he heard the telephone ringing. He ran, naked, to the living room and picked up the receiver.

‘Hello?’

‘Martin? Is that you? Thank Christ I’ve found you. I tried at the base but they said you were on leave.’

It was Paul Vincent, sounding edgy. No, more than that, sounding frightened.

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m still at the nursing home. I’ve been trying to reach you.’

‘What’s wrong, Paul?’