Cometh the Hour

8

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said Giles.

“Why not?” demanded Griff. “Most people won’t even remember what happened in Berlin, and, let’s face it, you wouldn’t be the only Member of Parliament who’s been divorced.”

“Twice, and both times for adultery!” said Giles. This silenced his parliamentary agent for a moment. “And I’m afraid there’s another problem I haven’t told you about.”

“Go on, surprise me,” said Griff with an exaggerated sigh.

“I’ve been trying to get in touch with Karin Pengelly.”

“You’ve been what?”

“In fact, I’m on my way to Cornwall to find out if her father can help.”

“Are you out of your tiny mind?”

“Quite possibly,” admitted Giles.

The Labour agent for Bristol Docklands covered his face with his hands. “It was a one-night stand, Giles. Or have you forgotten?”

“That’s the problem. I haven’t forgotten, and there’s only one way to find out if it was more than that for her.”

“Is this the same man who won an MC escaping from the Germans, then built a formidable reputation as a cabinet minister, and when he’s thrown a lifeline which would allow him to return to the House of Commons, rejects it?”

“I know it doesn’t make any sense,” said Giles. “But if it was just a one-night stand, I have to tell you I’ve never spent a night like it.”

“For which she was undoubtedly well rewarded.”

“So what will you do, now I’ve made my decision?” Giles said, ignoring the comment.

“If you’re really not going to fight the seat, I’ll have to appoint a subcommittee to select a new candidate.”

“You’ll have a flood of applications, and while inflation is at ten percent and the Tories’ only solution is a three-day week, a poodle wearing a red rosette would be elected.”

“Which is precisely why you shouldn’t just throw in the towel.”

“Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

“Every word. But if you really have made up your mind, I hope you’ll be available to advise whoever we select as candidate.”

“But what can I possibly tell them that you can’t, Griff? Let’s face it, you were organizing elections when I was still in short trousers.”

“But not as the candidate, that’s a unique experience. So will you accompany him—”

“Or her—” said Giles, smiling.

“—or even her,” said Griff, “when they’re out walking the streets and canvassing the estates?”

“If you think it will help, I’ll make myself available whenever you want me.”

“It could make the difference between just winning, and securing a large enough majority to make it tough for the Tories to overturn at the next election.”

“My God, the Labour Party’s lucky to have you,” said Giles. “I’ll do everything I can to help.”

“Thank you,” said Griff. “I apologize for my earlier outburst. Truth is, I’ve always been a cynic. Goes with the territory, I suppose. So let’s hope I’m wrong this time. Mind you, I’ve never gone much on fairy tales. So if you do change your mind about standing, I can hold off appointing a selection committee for at least a couple of weeks.”

“Won’t you ever give up?”

“Not while there’s the slightest chance of you being the candidate.”

As Giles sat alone in the first-class carriage on the way to Truro, he thought carefully about what Griff had said. Was he sacrificing his whole political career for a woman who might not even have given him a second thought since Berlin? Had he allowed his imagination to override his common sense? And if he did meet Karin again, would the bubble burst?

There was also the possibility — the strong possibility, which he tried to push to the back of his mind — that Karin had been no more than a Stasi plant, simply doing her job, proving that his veteran agent was not a cynic, but simply a realist. By the time the Penzance Flyer pulled into Truro station just after six, Giles was none the wiser.

He took a taxi to the Mason’s Arms, where he had agreed to meet John Pengelly later that evening. Once he had signed the register, he climbed the stairs to his room and unpacked his overnight bag. He had a bath, changed his clothes and went down to the bar a few minutes before seven, as he didn’t want to keep Karin’s father waiting.

As Giles walked into the bar, he spotted a man seated at a corner table, at whom he wouldn’t have taken a second look had he not immediately stood and waved.

Giles strode across to join him and shook his outstretched hand. No introduction was necessary.

“Let me get you a drink, Sir Giles,” said John Pengelly, with an unmistakable West Country burr. “The local bitter’s not half bad, or you might prefer a whisky.”

“A half of bitter will be just fine,” said Giles, taking a seat at the small, beer-stained table.

While Karin’s father was ordering the drinks, Giles took a closer look at him. He must have been around fifty, perhaps fifty-five, although his hair had already turned gray. His Harris Tweed jacket was well worn, but still fitted perfectly, suggesting he hadn’t put on more than a few pounds since his army days, and probably exercised regularly. Although he appeared reserved, even diffident, he clearly wasn’t a stranger to these parts, because one of the locals seated at the bar hailed him as if he were a long-lost brother. How cruel that he had to live alone, thought Giles, with his wife and daughter unable to join him, for no other reason than that they were on the wrong side of a wall.

Pengelly returned a few moments later carrying two half-pints, one of which he placed on the table in front of Giles. “It was kind of you to make such a long journey, sir. I only hope you’ll feel it’s been worthwhile.”

“Please call me Giles, as I hope we’ll not only be friends, but that we’ll be able to help each other’s causes.”

“When you’re an old soldier—”

“Not so old,” said Giles, taking a sip of his beer. “Don’t forget we both served in the last war,” he added, trying to put him at ease. “But tell me, how did you first meet your wife?”

“It was after the war when I was stationed with the British forces in Berlin. I was a corporal in the supply depot where Greta was a stacker. The only work she could get. It must have been love at first sight, because she couldn’t speak a word of English, and I couldn’t speak any German.” Giles smiled. “Bright though. She picked up my language much quicker than I got the hang of hers. Of course, I knew from the start that it wasn’t going to be plain sailing. Not least because my mates thought any Kraut skirt was only good for one thing, but Greta wasn’t like that. By the time my tour of duty came to an end, I knew I wanted to marry her, whatever the consequences. That’s when my problems began. A leg over behind the Naafi canteen is one thing, but wanting to marry one of them was considered nothing less than fraternization, when neither side would trust you.

“When I told the orderly officer that I intended to marry Greta, even if it meant I had to stay in Berlin, they put every possible obstacle in my path. Within days I was handed my demob papers and told I would be shipped out within a week. I became desperate, even considered deserting, which would have meant years in the glasshouse if they’d caught me. And then a barrack room lawyer informed me they couldn’t stop me marrying Greta if she was pregnant. So that’s what I told them.”

“Then what happened?” asked Giles.

“All hell broke loose. My discharge papers arrived a few days later. Greta lost her job, and I couldn’t find any work. It didn’t help that a few weeks later she really was pregnant, with Karin.”

“I want to hear all about Karin, but not before I’ve ordered another round.” Giles picked up the two empty glasses and made his way over to the bar. “Same again please, but make them pints this time.”

Pengelly took a long draft before he continued with his story. “Karin made all the sacrifices bearable, even the suspicion and ridicule we’d both had to endure. If I adored Greta, I worshipped Karin. It must have been about a year later that my old duty officer at the depot asked me to fill in for someone who was on sick leave — time is a great healer — and I was invited to act as a civilian liaison officer between the British and German workers, because by then, thanks to Greta, my German was pretty fluent. The British have many fine qualities, but they’re lazy when it comes to learning someone else’s language, so I quickly made myself indispensable. The pay wasn’t great, but I spent every spare penny on Karin, and every spare moment with her. And like all women, she knew I was a sucker for a cuddle. It may be a cliché, but she had me wound around her little finger.”

Me too, thought Giles, taking another sip of his beer.

“To my delight,” said Pengelly, “the English school in Berlin allowed Karin to sit the entrance exam, and a few weeks later she was offered a place. Everyone assumed she was English. Even had my Cornish accent, as you may have noticed. So from then on, I never had to worry about her education. In fact, when she reached sixth form, there was even talk of her going to Oxford, but that was before the wall went up. Once that monstrosity had been erected, Karin had to settle for a place at the East German School of Languages, which frankly is nothing more than a Stasi recruitment center. The only surprise came when she chose to study Russian as her first language, but by then her English and German were already degree standard.

“When Karin graduated, the only serious offer she got as an interpreter came from the Stasi. It was them or be out of work, so she didn’t have much choice. Whenever she wrote she would say how much she enjoyed her work, especially the international conferences. It gave her the opportunity to meet so many interesting people from all four sectors of the city. In fact, two Americans and one West German proposed to her, but she told Greta that it wasn’t until she met you that she’d fallen in love. It amused her that you had picked up her accent straight away, although she’s never been outside Berlin.”

Giles smiled as he recalled the exchange.

“Despite several attempts to return to my family, the East German authorities won’t let me back, even though Greta has recently become seriously ill. I think they distrust me even more than the British.”

“I’ll do everything I can to help,” said Giles.

“Karin writes regularly, but only a few of her letters get through. One that did said she’d met someone special but that it was a disaster because, not only was he married, he was English, and had only been in Berlin for a few days. And worst of all, she wasn’t even sure if he felt the same way as she did.”

“How wrong she was,” said Giles softly.

“She didn’t mention your name, of course, or why you were visiting the Russian sector, because she was only too aware that the authorities would be reading her letters. It wasn’t until you contacted me that I realized it must be you she’d been writing about.”

“But how did Alex Fisher become involved?”

“A few days after you’d resigned as a minister, he turned up in Truro unannounced. Once he’d tracked me down, he told me that you had publicly disowned Karin, implying that she was either a prostitute or a Stasi spy, and you’d made it clear to the Whips’ Office that you had no interest in ever seeing her again.”

“But I tried desperately to contact her, I even traveled to Berlin, but I was turned back at the border.”

“I know that now, but at the time...”

“Yes,” sighed Giles, “Fisher could be very persuasive.”

“Especially when he’s a major, and you’re just a two-stripe corporal,” said Pengelly. “Of course, I followed every day of Mrs. Clifton’s libel trial in the papers, and like everyone else, I read the letter Fisher wrote before committing suicide. If it would help, I’d be happy to tell anyone there was no truth in it.”

“That’s good of you, John, although I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”

“But I heard on the radio only yesterday, Sir Giles, that you were still thinking about standing in the Bristol by-election.”

“Not any more. I’ve withdrawn my name. I can’t think of doing anything until I’ve seen Karin again.”

“Of course, as her father I think she’s worth it, but it’s still one hell of a sacrifice.”

“You’re worse than my agent,” said Giles, laughing for the first time. He took a sip of beer and they sat in silence for some time, before he asked, “Is Karin really pregnant?”

“No, she’s not. Which made me realize that everything else Fisher had said about you was a pack of lies, and his only interest was revenge.”

“I wish she were pregnant,” said Giles quietly.

“Why?”

“Because it would be far easier to get her out.”

“Last orders, gentlemen.”

9

“What a funny old game politics is,” said Giles. “I’m marooned in the wilderness, while you’re the West German foreign minister.”

“But our positions could be reversed overnight,” said Walter Scheel, “as you know only too well.”

“That would take some change of fortune for me, as I’m not even standing in the by-election and my party isn’t in power.”

“But why aren’t you standing?” said Walter. “Even with my rudimentary knowledge of your parliamentary system, it looks as if Labour is certain to win back your old seat.”

“That might well be so, but the local party has already selected a capable young candidate called Robert Fielding to take my place. He’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, with all the enthusiasm of a recently appointed school prefect.”

“Just like you used to be.”

“And still am, if the truth be known.”

“Then why did you decide not to stand?”

“It’s a long story, Walter. In fact, it’s the reason I wanted to see you.”

“Let’s order first,” said Walter, opening the menu. “Then you can take your time telling me why you could possibly need the assistance of a West German foreign minister.” He began to peruse the fare. “Ah, the dish of the day is roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. My favorite,” he whispered. “But don’t tell any of your countrymen, or mine for that matter, or my guilty secret will be out. So what’s your guilty secret?”

By the time Giles had fully briefed his old friend about Karin and his failure to be allowed back into East Germany, they were both enjoying a coffee.

“And you say she was the young woman who was in your hotel room when we had that private meeting?”

“You remember her?”

“I certainly do,” said Walter. “She’s interpreted for me in the past but never gave me a second look, although it wasn’t through lack of trying on my part. So tell me, Giles, are you willing to fight a duel over this young woman?”

“Name your weapon, and your second.”

Walter laughed. “More seriously, Giles, do you have any reason to believe she wants to defect?”

“Yes, her mother has recently died, and the East German authorities won’t allow her father, who’s English and lives in Cornwall, back into the country.”

Walter took a sip of coffee while he considered the problem. “Would you be able to fly to Berlin at a moment’s notice?”

“On the next plane.”

“Impetuous as ever,” said Walter as a waiter placed a brandy in front of him. He swirled it around in the balloon before saying, “Do you have any idea if she speaks Russian?”

“Fluently. It was her degree subject at language school.”

“Good, because I’m hosting a bilateral trade meeting with the Russians next month, and they just might agree—”

“Can I do anything to help?”

“Just make sure she’s got a British passport.”

“My name is Robert Fielding, and I’m the Labour candidate for the Bristol Docklands by-election on May twentieth.” The young man tried to shake hands with a woman who was laden down with shopping bags.

“What are you doing about Concorde?” she asked.

“Everything in my power to make sure the plane will be built at Filton and not Toulouse,” said Fielding.

The woman looked satisfied. “Then I’ll be voting for you. But I’d rather have voted for him,” she said, pointing at Giles. As she walked away, the young man looked despondent.

“Don’t worry about her. On May twenty-first you’ll be the member and I’ll be history.”

“And Concorde?”

“You gave the only credible response. The French will put up a hell of a fight, but then they have every right to, and in the end I suspect the work will be divided fairly equally between the two countries. Just be sure you never spell it with an ‘e,’” said Giles. “You might have asked if her husband worked at Filton because I suspect that’s why she asked the question.”

“Of course. I should have thought of that. Anything else?”

“Perhaps Bob Fielding rather than Robert. Don’t want to continually remind your supporters that you went to a public school and Oxford.”

Fielding nodded and turned to the next passerby. “Hello, my name’s Bob Fielding, and I’m the Labour candidate for the by-election on May twentieth. I hope you’ll be supporting me.”

“Sorry you’re not standing, Sir Giles.”

“That’s kind of you, sir, but we’ve chosen an excellent candidate. I hope you’ll be voting for Bob Fielding on Thursday May twentieth.”

“If you say so, Sir Giles,” said the man as he hurried away.

“Thursday, Thursday, Thursday. Always say Thursday,” said Fielding. “God knows you’ve told me often enough.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Giles. “It will soon become a habit, and frankly you’re a much better candidate than I was at my first election.”

The young man smiled for the first time. “Hello, my name is Bob Fielding, and I’m the Labour candidate for the by-election on Thursday May twentieth,” he said as Emma walked up to join her brother.

“Are you beginning to regret not standing?” she whispered, continuing to hand out leaflets. “Because it’s pretty clear that the voters have either forgiven or forgotten Berlin.”

“But I haven’t,” said Giles, shaking hands with another passer-by.

“Has Walter Scheel been back in touch?”

“No, but that man won’t call until he’s got something to say.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” said Emma, “otherwise you really are going to regret it.”

“Yes, but what you going to do about it?” another constituent was demanding.

“Well, bringing the country to a standstill with a three-day week isn’t the answer,” said Fielding, “and the Labour party’s first priority has always been unemployment.”

“Never unemployment,” whispered Giles. “Employment. You must always try to sound positive.”

“Good morning, my name is Bob...”

“Is that who I think it is?” said Emma, looking across the road.

“It most certainly is,” said Giles.

“Will you introduce me?”

“You must be joking. Nothing would please the lady more than to have her photo on every front page tomorrow morning shaking hands with the former member.”

“Well, if you won’t, I’ll have to do it myself.”

“You can’t—”

But Emma was already halfway across the road. Once she was on the other side, she walked straight up to the secretary of state for education and science and thrust out her hand.

“Good morning, Mrs. Thatcher. I’m the sister of Sir Giles—”

“And more important, Mrs. Clifton, you were the first woman to chair a public company.”

Emma smiled.

“Women should never have been given the vote!” shouted a man, shaking his fist from a passing car.

Mrs. Thatcher waved and gave him a magnanimous smile.

“I don’t know how you cope with it,” said Emma.

“In my case, I’ve never wanted to do anything else,” said Thatcher. “Although I confess that a dictatorship might make one’s job a little easier.” Emma laughed, but Mrs. Thatcher didn’t. “By the way,” she said, glancing across the road, “your brother was a first-class MP as well as a highly respected minister both at home and abroad. He’s sadly missed in the House — but don’t tell him I said so.”

“Why not?” said Emma.

“Because it doesn’t fit in with his image of me and I’m not sure he’d believe it.”

“I wish I could tell him. He’s rather low at the moment.”

“Don’t worry, he’ll be back in one house or the other soon enough. It’s in his blood. But what about you? Have you ever considered going into politics, Mrs. Clifton? You have all the right credentials.”

“Never, never, never,” said Emma vehemently. “I couldn’t handle the pressure.”

“You handled it well enough during your recent trial, and I suspect pressure doesn’t worry you when it comes to facing up to your fellow directors.”

“That’s a different kind of pressure,” said Emma. “And in any case—”

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Secretary of State,” said an agitated minder, “but the candidate seems to be in a spot of trouble.”

Mrs. Thatcher looked up to see an old woman jabbing a finger at the Tory candidate. “That’s not a spot of trouble. That lady probably remembers this street being bombed by the Germans — now that’s what I call a spot of trouble.” She turned back to Emma. “I’ll have to leave you, Mrs. Clifton, but I do hope we’ll meet again, perhaps in more relaxed circumstances.”

“Secretary of State?”

“Yes, yes, I’m coming,” said Mrs. Thatcher. “If he can’t handle one old lady without me having to hold his hand, how’s he ever going to cope with the baying opposition in the Commons?” she added before hurrying away.

Emma smiled and walked back across the road to rejoin her brother, who was telling a military-looking gentleman the sanitized version of why he wasn’t standing in the by-election.

“So what did you think of her?” asked Giles once he’d broken away.

“Remarkable,” said Emma. “Quite remarkable.”

“I agree,” said Giles. “But don’t ever tell her I said so.”

The call came when he least expected it. Giles turned on the light by the side of his bed to find it was a few minutes after five, and wondered who could possibly be phoning him at that time in the morning.

“Sorry to ring you so early, Giles, but this is not a call I can make from my office.”

“I understand,” said Giles, suddenly wide awake.

“If you can be in Berlin on May twenty-second,” said Walter, “I may be able to deliver your package.”

“That’s wonderful news.”

“But not without some considerable risk, because it will require a bit of luck, and a lot of courage from two young women in particular.”

Giles swung his legs onto the floor, sat on the edge of the bed and listened carefully to what the West German foreign minister expected him to do. By the time Walter had finished, it was no longer dark outside.

Giles dialed the number again, hoping he’d be in. This time the phone was picked up immediately.

“Good morning, John.”

“Good morning, Sir Giles,” said Pengelly, immediately recognizing the voice.

Giles wondered how long it would be before he dropped the “sir.” “John, before I get in touch with the relevant department at the Home Office, I need to know if Karin has ever applied for a British passport.”

“Yes — or at least I did on her behalf, when she was still thinking of going to Oxford,” said Pengelly.

“Don’t tell me it’s locked away somewhere in East Berlin?”

“No, I picked it up from Petty France myself, and intended to take it back when I returned to East Germany but of course never did. That was some years ago so heaven knows where it is now. Even if I could lay my hands on it, it’s probably out of date.”

“If you can find it, John, it’s just possible you may be seeing your daughter far sooner than you’d expected.”

Although Griff Haskins invited Giles to attend the count in the Council House, he couldn’t face it. Having tramped the streets with the candidate for the past four weeks, attended countless public meetings and even delivered eve-of-poll leaflets on the Woodbine Estate, when ten o’clock struck on Thursday 20 May, Giles shook hands with Bob Fielding, wished him luck and drove straight back to Barrington Hall.

On arriving home, he poured himself a large glass of whisky and ran a warm bath. He fell asleep within minutes of climbing into bed. He woke just after six, the most sleep he’d had in a month. He got up, strolled into the bathroom and covered his face with a cold, wet flannel, then put on a dressing gown and slippers and padded downstairs.

A black Labrador strolled into the drawing room, his tail wagging, assuming it must be time for his morning walk. What other reason could the master have for being up so early? Giles said, “Sit!” and Old Jack sat down beside him, tail thumping the carpet.

Giles switched on the radio and settled back in a comfortable armchair to listen to the morning news. The prime minister was in Paris holding talks with the French president on the possibility of Britain joining the EEC. Normally, Giles would have been the first to acknowledge the historic significance of such a meeting, but not at this particular moment. All he wanted to know was the result of the Bristol Docklands by-election. “Mr. Heath dined with President Pompidou at the Elysée Palace last night, and although no official communiqué has been released, it’s clear that now General De Gaulle is no longer a political force to be reckoned with, Britain’s application is finally being taken seriously.”

“Get on with it,” said Giles and, as if he’d heard him, the newsreader stayed with Ted Heath, but returned to England.

“Another setback for the Tories,” he declared, “who lost the by-election in Bristol Docklands last night to the Labour Party. The seat had become vacant following the death of Major Alex Fisher, the sitting Conservative member. We now join our West Country correspondent in Bristol, for the latest news.”

“In the early hours of this morning, Bob Fielding, the Labour candidate, was declared the winner of the by-election here in Bristol Docklands by a majority of 3,127, representing a swing of eleven percent from Conservative to Labour.”

Giles leapt in the air, and the dog stopped wagging its tail.

“Although the turnout was low, this was a resounding victory for Mr. Fielding, who, at the age of thirty-two, will be one of the youngest members in the House. This is what he had to say following the announcement of the result: ‘I’d first like to thank the returning officer and his staff for the exemplary way they have—’”

The telephone on the table beside him began to ring. Giles cursed, turned off the radio and picked up the phone, assuming it had to be Griff Haskins, who he knew wouldn’t have gone to bed.

“Good morning, Giles, it’s Walter Scheel...”

10

Giles couldn’t sleep the night before he was due to fly to Berlin. He was up long before the sun rose, didn’t bother with breakfast and took a taxi from his home in Smith Square to Heathrow hours before his flight was due to depart. First flights in the morning were almost the only aircraft guaranteed to take off on time. He picked up a copy of the Guardian in the first-class lounge, but didn’t get beyond the front page as he drank a cup of black coffee and went over Walter’s plan again and again. It had one fundamental weakness, what he’d described as a necessary risk.

Giles was among the first to board the aircraft and, even though the plane took off on time, kept checking his watch every few minutes throughout the flight. The plane touched down in Berlin at 9:45 a.m. and, as Giles had no luggage, he was sitting in the back of another taxi twenty minutes later.

“Checkpoint Charlie,” he said to the driver, who gave him a second look before joining the early morning traffic heading into the city.

Soon after they’d passed the dilapidated Brandenburg Gate, Giles spotted the white Mercedes coach Walter had told him to look out for. As he didn’t want to be the first person to board, he asked the taxi driver to stop a couple of hundred yards from the crossing point. Giles paid the fare and began to stroll around as if he were a tourist, not that there were any sites to look out for, other than a graffiti-covered wall. He didn’t start to make his way toward the coach until he’d seen several other delegates climb aboard.

Giles joined the line of foreign dignitaries and political journalists who had traveled from all over Europe to attend a ceremonial lunch and hear a speech by Erich Honecker, the new general secretary of the Socialist Unity Party. He still wondered if he might once again be prevented from crossing the border and be left with no choice but to return on the next flight back to Heathrow. But Walter had assured him that since he was representing the British Labour Party as a former foreign minister, he would be made most welcome by his hosts. The East German regime, Walter explained, had been unable to open any meaningful dialogue with the present Conservative government and was desperate to forge some worthwhile alliances with the Labour Party, especially as it looked likely that they would soon be returning to power. When Giles reached the front of the queue he handed his passport to an official, who gave it a cursory glance before ushering him on board. The first hurdle crossed.

As Giles walked down the aisle, he spotted a young woman sitting alone near the back, looking out of the window. He didn’t need to check her seat number.

“Hello,” he said.

She looked up and smiled. He didn’t know her name, and perhaps it was better that he didn’t. All he knew was that she spoke fluent English, was an interpreter by profession, roughly the same age as Karin, and would be wearing an identical outfit to hers. But there was one thing Walter hadn’t explained. Why was she willing to take such a risk?

Giles looked around at his fellow delegates. He didn’t recognize any of them, and was pleased to see that no one showed the slightest interest in him. He sat down by his blind date, slipped a hand into an inside pocket and pulled out Karin’s passport. There was one thing missing, and that would remain in his wallet until the return journey. Giles leaned forward to shield the young woman as she bent down and took a tiny square photo and a tube of glue out of her handbag. She completed the process in a couple of minutes. It was clear she had practiced the exercise several times.

Once she’d placed the passport in her handbag, Giles took a closer look at the woman sitting next to him. He could immediately see why Walter had chosen her. She was a similar age and build to Karin, possibly a couple of years older and a few pounds heavier, but roughly the same height, with the same dark eyes and auburn hair, which she’d arranged in Karin’s style. Clearly as little as possible had been left to chance.

Giles checked his watch again. It was almost time for them to leave. The driver conducted a head count. He was two short.

“I’ll give them another five minutes,” he said, as Giles glanced out of the window to see a couple of figures running toward the bus. He recognized one of them as a former Italian minister, although he couldn’t recall his name. But then, there were a lot of former Italian ministers.

“Mi dispiace,” the man said as he climbed aboard. Once the two latecomers were seated, the doors closed with a soft hiss of air and the coach set off at a pedestrian pace toward the border crossing.

The driver came to a halt in front of a red-and-white striped barrier. The coach door swung open to allow two smartly dressed American military policemen to climb aboard. They carefully checked each passport, to make sure the temporary visas were in order. Once they’d completed their task, one of them said, “Have a good day,” without any suggestion that he meant it.

The coach never got out of first gear as it progressed another three hundred yards toward the East German border, where it once again came to a halt. This time three officers in bottle-green uniforms, knee-length leather boots and peaked caps climbed on board. Not a smile mustered between them.

They took even longer checking each passport, making sure every visa was correctly dated and stamped, before one of them placed a tick against a name on his clipboard and moved on to the next passenger. Giles displayed no emotion when one of the officers asked to see his passport and visa. He checked the document carefully, then placed a tick by the name of Barrington. He took considerably longer looking at Karin’s passport, and then asked her a couple of questions. As Giles couldn’t understand a word the guard was saying, he became more anxious by the second, until a tick was placed next to the name Karin Pengelly. Giles didn’t speak until all three officers had disembarked, the door had been closed and the coach had crossed a wide yellow line which indicated that they had crossed the border.

“You’re welcome to East Berlin,” said the driver, clearly unaware of the irony of his words.

Giles looked up at the tall brick towers manned by armed guards who stared down on the crude concrete wall crowned with razor wire. He felt sorry for its jailed inhabitants.

“What did he ask you about?” asked Giles.

“He wanted to know where I lived in England.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Parson’s Green.”

“Why Parson’s Green?”

“That’s where I had digs when I was studying English at London University. And he must have thought I was your mistress, because your wife’s name is still on your passport as next of kin. Fortunately, being someone’s mistress isn’t a crime in East Germany. Well, not yet.”

“Who would take a mistress to East Berlin?”

“Only someone who was trying to get one out.”

Giles hesitated before he asked his next question. “Shall we go over the details of what will happen once we reach the hotel?”

“That won’t be necessary,” she replied. “I met up with Karin a few days ago when the minister was holding bilateral talks with his opposite number, so all you have to do is stay in your seat during lunch, make sure everyone thinks you’re enjoying the meal and keep applauding during the general secretary’s speech. Leave the rest to us.”

“But—” began Giles.

“No buts,” she said firmly. “It’s better that you don’t know anything about me.”

Giles would have liked to ask her what else she knew about Karin, but decided that was probably also verboten. Although he still remained curious why...

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’re doing,” whispered Giles, “both for me and Karin.”

“I’m not doing it for either of you,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’m doing it for my father, who was shot down trying to climb over that wall, just three days after it had been built.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Giles. “Let’s hope it will come down one day,” he added as he looked back at the gray concrete monstrosity, “and sanity will return.”

“Not in my lifetime,” she said, in the same impassive voice, as the coach trundled on toward the center of the city.

Eventually they pulled up outside the Adlon Hotel, but it was some time before they were allowed to disembark. When the doors finally opened, they were shepherded off the coach by a posse of tall uniformed policemen accompanied by snarling Alsatians on short leads. The delegates remained corralled until they had reached the dining room, where they were released into a large pen. The East Germans’ idea of making you feel at home.

Giles checked the seating plan displayed on a board to one side of the double doors. Sir Giles Barrington and his interpreter were on table number 43 near the back of the room, where they wouldn’t attract attention, Walter had explained. He and his companion found their places and sat down. Giles tried subtly, and then crudely, to find out her name and what she did, but came up against another brick wall. It was clear that her identity had to remain secret, so he satisfied himself with talking about London and the theatre, to which she happily responded, until several people around them stood up and began to applaud — some more loudly than others.

Giles stood to see the diminutive figure of Comrade Honecker enter the room surrounded by a dozen bodyguards who towered over him, so that he only occasionally bobbed into view. Giles joined in the applause, as he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. The general secretary walked toward the top table and, as he climbed the few steps up onto the platform, Giles spotted Walter applauding about as enthusiastically as he was.

The West German foreign minister was seated just two places away from the general secretary, and it wasn’t difficult for Giles to work out that the man between them had to be Walter’s Russian counterpart, because he was clapping more enthusiastically than anyone else at the top table.

When everyone in the room finally sat down, Giles saw Karin for the first time. She was seated behind the two foreign ministers. He was immediately reminded why he’d been so captivated by her. During the meal he couldn’t stop staring in her direction, but she never once returned the compliment.

The three-course meal was both interminable and inedible: nettle soup followed by boiled beef and soggy cabbage, and finally a slab of brick-hard cake covered in custard that any self-respecting schoolboy would have left untouched. His companion began asking him questions, clearly trying to distract him from constantly staring at Karin. She asked which musicals were on in London. He didn’t know. Had he seen Oh! Calcutta!? No, he hadn’t. What was showing at the Tate Gallery? He had no idea. She even asked if he’d met Prince Charles.

“Yes, once, but only briefly.”

“Who’s the lucky girl who will marry him?”

“No idea, but it will have to be someone the Queen approves of.”

They continued chatting, but she never once mentioned Karin or asked how they had met.

At last the waiters began to clear away the pudding; there was enough left over to feed the five thousand. The chairman, the mayor of East Berlin, rose slowly from his place and tapped his microphone several times. He didn’t begin to speak until he had complete silence. He then announced in three languages that there would be a ten-minute break before the general secretary of the Socialist Unity Party would address them.

“Good luck,” she whispered, and was gone before he had time to thank her. He watched as she disappeared into the crowd, not sure what was going to happen next. He had to grip the sides of his chair to stop himself trembling.

The ten minutes seemed an eternity. And then he spotted her walking between the tables toward him. She was wearing the same dark suit as his erstwhile companion, an identical red scarf, and black high-heeled shoes, but that was where the similarity ended. Karin sat down beside him, but said nothing. Interpreters don’t hold real conversations, she had once told him.

Giles wanted to take her in his arms, feel the warmth of her body, her gentle touch, smell her perfume, but she remained detached, professional, giving nothing away, nothing that would draw attention to how he felt about her.

Once everyone had resumed their places and coffee had been served, the chairman rose for a second time and only had to tap the microphone once before the audience fell silent.

“It is my privilege as your host to introduce our speaker today, one of the world’s great statesmen, a man who has single-handedly...” When the chairman sat down twenty minutes later, Giles could only wonder how long the general secretary’s speech was going to be.

Honecker began by thanking all the foreign delegates and distinguished journalists who had traveled from many parts of the world to hear his speech.

“That’s not the reason I came,” murmured Giles.

Karin ignored the comment and faithfully continued to translate the general secretary’s words. “I am delighted to welcome you all to East Germany,” said Karin, “a beacon of civilization which is a benchmark for all those nations who aspire to emulate us.”

“I want to touch you,” whispered Giles.

“I am proud to announce that in East Germany we enjoy full employment,” said Karin. A smattering of applause from some well-placed apparatchiks allowed the general secretary to pause and turn another page of his thick script.

“There’s so much I want to talk to you about, but I realize it will have to wait.”

“In particular, our farming program is an example of how to use the land to benefit those most in need.”

“Stop staring at me, Sir Giles,” whispered Karin, “and concentrate on the leader’s words.”

Reluctantly Giles turned his attention back to Honecker, and tried to look engrossed.

“Our hospitals are the envy of the West,” said Karin, “and our doctors and nurses the most highly qualified in the world.”

Giles turned back, just for a moment, only to be greeted with, “Let me now turn to the construction industry, and the inspiring work our first-class engineers are doing building new homes, factories, bridges, roads...”

“Not to mention walls,” said Giles.

“Be careful, Sir Giles. You must assume every other person in this room is a spy.”

He knew Karin was right. The masks must remain in place until they had crossed the border and reached the freedom of the West.

“The Communist vision is being taken up by millions of comrades across the globe — in Cuba, Argentina, France and even Great Britain, where membership of the Communist Party doubled last year.”

Giles joined in the orchestrated applause, although he knew it had halved.

When he could bear it no longer, he turned and gave Karin a bored glance, and was rewarded with a stern look, which kept him going for another fifteen minutes.

“Our military might, supported by Mother Russia, has no equal, making it possible for us to face any challenge...”

Giles thought he would burst, and not with applause. How much longer could this rubbish go on, and how many people present were taken in by it? It was an hour and a half before Honecker finally sat down, having delivered a speech that seemed to Giles to rival Wagner’s Ring Cycle in length, with none of the opera’s virtues.

What Giles hadn’t been prepared for was the fifteen-minute standing ovation that followed Honecker’s speech, kept alight by several planted apparatchiks and henchmen who had probably enjoyed the cake and custard. Finally the general secretary left the stage, but he was held up again and again as he shook hands with enthusiastic delegates, while the applause continued even after he’d left the hall.

“What a remarkable speech,” said the former Italian minister, whose name Giles still couldn’t remember.

“That’s one way of describing it,” said Giles, grinning at Karin, who scowled back at him. Giles realized that the Italian was looking at him closely. “A remarkable feat of oratory,” he added, “but I’ll need to read it carefully to make sure I didn’t miss any key points.” A copy of Honecker’s speech was immediately thrust into Giles’s hands, which only reminded him how vigilant he needed to be. His remarks seemed to satisfy the Italian, who was distracted when another delegate marched up to him, gave him a bear hug and said, “How are you, Gian Lucio?”

“So what happens now?” whispered Giles.

“We wait to be escorted back to the bus. But it’s important that you continue to look as if you were impressed by the speech, so please make sure to keep complimenting your hosts.”

Giles turned away from Karin and began shaking hands with several European politicians who Griff Haskins would have refused to share a pint with.

Giles couldn’t believe it. Someone actually blew a whistle to attract the attention of the foreign delegates. They were then rounded up and, like unruly schoolchildren, led back to the bus.

When all thirty-two passengers were safely on board and had once again been counted, the bus, accompanied by four police motorcycle outriders, their sirens blaring, began its slow journey back to the border.

He was about to take Karin’s hand, when a voice behind him said, “It’s Sir Giles Barrington, isn’t it?” Giles looked around to see a face he recognized, although he couldn’t recall the name.

“Keith Brookes.”

“Ah yes,” said Giles, “the Telegraph. Good to see you again, Keith.”

“As you’re representing the Labour Party, Sir Giles, can I assume you still hope to return to frontline politics?”

“I try to keep in touch,” said Giles, not wanting to hold a lengthy conversation with a journalist.

“I’m sorry you didn’t stand at the by-election,” said Brookes. “Fielding seems a nice enough chap, but I miss your contributions from the front bench.”

“There wasn’t much sign of that when I was in the House.”

“Not the paper’s policy, as you well know, but you have your admirers on the news desk, including Bill Deedes, because I can tell you we all feel the present bunch of shadow ministers are pretty colorless.”

“It’s fashionable to say that about every new generation of politicians.”

“Still, if you do decide to make a comeback, give me a call.” He handed Giles a card. “You just might be surprised by our attitude to your second coming,” he added before resuming his place.

“He seemed nice enough,” said Karin.

“You can never trust the Torygraph,” said Giles, placing the card in his wallet.

“Are you thinking of making a comeback?”

“It wouldn’t be that easy.”

“Because of me?” said Karin, taking his hand as the coach came to a halt at a barrier just a few hundred yards from freedom. He would have replied, but the door swung open, letting in a gust of cold air.

Three uniformed officers climbed on board again. Giles was relieved to see that the morning shift had clearly changed. As they began slowly and meticulously checking every passport and visa, Giles suddenly remembered. He whipped out his wallet, retrieved the small photo of Karin and quickly handed it to her. She cursed under her breath, took her passport out of her bag and, with the help of a nail file, began to carefully peel off the morning’s photograph.

“How could I have forgotten?” Karin whispered, as she used the same small tube of glue to fix her own photograph back in place.

“My fault, not yours,” said Giles, peering down the aisle to keep a watchful eye on the guards’ slow progress. “Let’s just be thankful that we aren’t sitting at the front of the bus.”

The guards were still a couple of rows away by the time Karin had completed the transfer. Giles turned to see that she was shaking, and gripped her firmly by the hand. Fortunately, the guards were taking far longer to check each name than they had when he’d entered the country, because despite Honecker’s boastful claims, the wall proved that more people wanted to get out of East Germany than get in.

When a young officer appeared by their side, Giles nonchalantly handed over his passport. After the guard had turned a few pages and checked the Englishman’s visa, he handed it back and put a tick by Giles’s name. Not as bad as he’d feared.

As the guard opened Karin’s passport, Giles noticed that her photograph was slightly askew. The young lieutenant took his time studying the details, date of birth, next of kin — at least this time they were accurate. Giles prayed that he wouldn’t ask her where she lived in England. However, when he did begin to question her, it quickly became clear from his tone of voice that he wasn’t convinced by her answers. Giles didn’t know what to do. Any attempt to intervene would only draw even more attention to them. The guard barked an order, and Karin rose slowly from her place. Giles was about to protest, when Brookes leapt up from behind them and began taking photographs of the young officer. The other two guards immediately charged forward to join their colleague. One grabbed the camera and ripped out the film, while the other two dragged Brookes unceremoniously off the coach.

“He did that on purpose,” said Karin, who was still shaking. “But why?”

“Because he’d worked out who you are.”

“What will happen to him?” asked Karin, sounding anxious.

“He’ll spend the night in jail and then be deported back to England. He’ll never be allowed to return to East Germany. Not much of a punishment, and well worth it for an exclusive.”

Giles became aware that everyone on the bus was now looking in their direction, while trying to work out, in several tongues, what had just happened. Gian Lucio beckoned to Giles that he and Karin should join him at the front of the coach. Another risk, but one Giles felt was worth taking.

“Follow me,” said Giles.

They took the two empty seats across the aisle from Gian Lucio, and Giles was explaining to the former minister what had happened when two of the guards reappeared, but not the one who’d questioned Karin. He was probably having to explain to a higher authority why he’d dragged a Western journalist off the bus. The two guards moved to the back of the coach and quickly checked the few remaining passports and visas. Someone must have explained to them that they didn’t need a diplomatic incident on the day the supreme leader had made a ground-breaking speech.

Giles continued chatting to Gian Lucio as if they were old friends while one of the officers did another head count. Thirty-one. He stood to attention and saluted, then he and his colleagues climbed off the bus. As the door closed behind them the passengers broke into a spontaneous round of applause for the first time that day.

The coach drove a couple of hundred yards across no-man’s land, an acre of bare wasteland that neither country laid claim to, before coming to a halt in the American sector. Karin was still shaking when a US marine sergeant stepped onto the bus.

“Welcome back,” he said in a voice that sounded as if he meant it.

11

“Is this what politicians in the East mean, when they describe the West as decadent?”

“Decadent?” said Giles, pouring Karin another glass of champagne.

“Staying in your hotel room until eleven o’clock in the morning and then ordering breakfast in bed.”

“Certainly not,” said Giles. “If it’s eleven o’clock, it’s no longer breakfast, but brunch, and therefore quite acceptable.”

Karin laughed as she sipped her champagne. “I just can’t believe I’ve escaped and will finally be reunited with my father. Will you come and visit us in Cornwall?”

“No, I intend to give you a job in London as my housekeeper.”

“Ah, Professor Higgins.”

“But your English is already perfect and, don’t forget, they didn’t have sex.”

“They would have done if Shaw was writing today.”

“And the play would have ended with them getting married,” said Giles, taking her in his arms.

“What time’s our flight?”

“Three twenty.”

“Good, then we have more than enough time,” said Karin, as her hotel dressing gown fell to the floor, “to rewrite the last act of Pygmalion.”

The last time Giles had been greeted by a bank of television cameras, photographers and journalists on returning to England was when it had looked as if he might be the next leader of the Labour Party.

As he and Karin walked down the aircraft steps, Giles placed an arm around her shoulder and guided her gently through the assembled pack of journalists.

“Karin! Karin! What’s it feel like to have escaped from East Germany?” shouted a voice as the cameras flashed, and the television crews tried to stay a yard ahead of them while walking backward.

“Say nothing,” said Giles firmly.

“Has Sir Giles proposed to you, Miss Pengelly?”

“Will you be standing for Parliament again, Sir Giles?”

“Are you pregnant, Karin?”

Karin, looking flustered, glared at the journalist and said, “No, I am not!”

“Can you be sure after last night?” whispered Giles.

Karin smiled, and was about to kiss him on the cheek when he turned toward her and their lips brushed for a brief moment, but that was the photograph that appeared on most front pages, as they discovered over breakfast the following morning.

“Keith Brookes has been as good as his word,” said Karin, looking up from the Telegraph.

“I agree, surprisingly generous. And the leader even more so.”

“The leader?”

“An editorial opinion on one of the leading stories of the day.”

“Ah. We never used to get those on our side of the wall. All the papers delivered the same message, written by a party spokesman, and printed by the editor, if he hopes to keep his job.”

“That would make life easier,” said Giles, as Markham appeared carrying a rack of warm toast, which he placed on the table.

“Is Markham decadent?” asked Karin once the butler had closed the door behind him.

“He certainly is,” said Giles. “I know for a fact he votes Conservative.”

Giles was reading the Times’s leader when the phone rang. Markham reappeared. “It’s Mr. Harold Wilson on the line, sir,” he said, handing him the phone.

“Is he going to send me back?” said Karin.

Giles wasn’t sure if she was joking. “Good morning, Harold.”

“Good morning, Giles,” said an unmistakable Yorkshire voice. “I wondered if you could find the time to drop into the Commons today as there’s something I need to discuss with you.”

“When would be convenient?” asked Giles.

“I’ve got a gap in my diary at eleven, if that would suit you.”

“I’m sure that’s fine, Harold, but can I check?”

“Of course.”

Giles placed a hand over the mouthpiece and said, “Karin, when’s your father expected?”

“Around ten, but I’ll have to buy some clothes before then.”

“We can go shopping this afternoon,” said Giles. He removed his hand and said, “I’ll see you in the Commons at eleven, Harold.”

“And what am I expected to wear until then?” Karin asked once he’d put the phone down.

The butler coughed.

“Yes, Markham?”

“Mrs. Clifton always leaves a change of clothes in the guest bedroom, sir, in case of an emergency.”

“This is unquestionably an emergency,” said Giles, taking Karin by the hand and leading her out of the room.

“Won’t she object?” asked Karin as they climbed the stairs to the first floor.

“It’s difficult to object to something you don’t know about.”

“Perhaps you should call her?”

“I have a feeling Emma might be doing something a little more important than worrying about which clothes she left in London,” said Giles as he opened the door to the guest bedroom.

Karin pulled open a large wardrobe to find not one, but several suits and dresses, not to mention a rack of shoes she would never have seen in a worker’s cooperative.

“Come and join me downstairs once you’re ready,” said Giles. He spent the next forty minutes trying to finish the morning papers, while being regularly interrupted by phone calls offering congratulations or trying to arrange interviews. He even found the odd moment to speculate about why Harold Wilson wanted to see him.

“Mr. Clifton is on the line, sir,” said Markham, passing him the phone once again.

“Harry, how are you?”

“I’m fine, but having read the morning papers, I’m just calling to find out how you are after escaping from the Germans a second time.”

Giles laughed. “Never better.”

“I presume being reunited with Miss Pengelly is the cause of you sounding so pleased with yourself.”

“Got it in one. As well as being beautiful, Karin’s the most delightful, kind, thoughtful and considerate creature I’ve ever met.”

“Isn’t it a little early to be making such an unequivocal judgment?” suggested Harry.

“No. This time, I’ve really struck gold.”

“Let’s hope you’re right. And how do you feel about the press describing you as a cross between Richard Hannay and Douglas Bader?”

“I see myself more as Heathcliff,” said Giles, laughing.

“So when are we going to be allowed to meet this paragon?”

“We’ll be driving down to Bristol on Friday evening, so if you and Emma are free for lunch on Saturday—”

“Sebastian’s coming down on Saturday, and Emma’s hoping to talk to him about taking over as chairman. But you’re welcome to join us.”

“No, I think I’ll skip that, but why don’t you all come over to the Hall for lunch on Sunday?”

“Isn’t that putting a little too much pressure on Karin?” said Harry.

“When you’ve been living under a Communist regime for most of your life, I don’t think you’d consider having lunch with the Cliftons as pressure.”

“If you’re sure, then we’ll see you both on Sunday.”

“I’m sure,” said Giles, as the front door bell rang. “Got to dash, Harry.” He put the phone down and checked his watch. Could it possibly be ten o’clock already? He almost ran into the hall to find Markham opening the front door.

“Good morning, Mr. Pengelly, Sir Giles is expecting you.”

“Good morning,” said Pengelly, giving the butler a slight bow.

“Come on in,” said Giles, as they shook hands. “Markham, can you rustle up some fresh coffee while I take Mr. Pengelly through to the drawing room.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Karin should be down in a moment. It’s a long story, but she’s trying to decide which of my sister’s clothes to wear.”

Pengelly laughed. “Women have enough trouble deciding which of their own clothes to wear.”

“Did you have any difficulty finding us?”

“No, I left it all to the taxi driver. A rare experience for me, but this is a special occasion.”

“It certainly is,” said Giles. “The chance to be reunited with your daughter when you thought you might never see her again.”

“I’ll be eternally grateful to you, Sir Giles. And if the Telegraph is to be believed, it was a close-run thing.”

“Brookes exaggerated the whole incident,” said Giles, as the two of them sat down, “but one can hardly blame the man after what they put him through.”

Markham returned carrying a tray of coffee and shortbread biscuits, which he placed between them on the drawing room table.

“Comrade Honecker won’t be best pleased that you upstaged him,” said Pengelly, looking down at the Telegraph headline. “Not that there was anything in the speech that we haven’t all heard before.”

“Several times,” said Giles, as the door opened and Karin burst in. She ran toward her father, who leapt up and took her in his arms. Funny, thought Giles, I never noticed that simple white dress when my sister wore it.

Father and daughter clung onto each other, but it was Mr. Pengelly who burst into tears.

“Sorry to make such a fool of myself,” he said, “but I’ve been looking forward to this moment for so long.”

“Me too,” said Karin.

Giles looked at his watch. “I apologize, but I’ll have to leave you both, as I have a meeting in the Commons at eleven. But I know you have a great deal to catch up on.”

“When will you be back?” asked Karin.

“Around twelve, possibly earlier, then I’ll take you both out to lunch.”

“And after lunch?”

“We’re going shopping. I haven’t forgotten.” Giles kissed her gently on the lips, while Pengelly looked away. “See you both around twelve,” he said as he walked out into the hall where the butler was holding his overcoat. “I’m expecting to be back in about an hour, Markham. Don’t disturb them, as I suspect they’ll appreciate having some time to themselves.”

Karin and her father remained silent as they waited for the front door to close, and even then they didn’t speak until they heard Markham close the kitchen door.

“Did everything go to plan?”

“Almost everything,” said Karin. “Until we reached the border, when an overzealous young officer started asking far too many questions.”

“But I personally briefed the border guards,” said Pengelly. “I even told Lieutenant Engel that he was to give you a hard time before ticking off your name, so Barrington would be even more convinced you’d been lucky to escape.”

“Well, it didn’t work out quite as you planned, comrade, because a Fleet Street journalist decided to poke his nose in, and even started taking photographs.”

“Keith Brookes. Yes, I gave orders for him to be released soon after you crossed the border. I wanted to be sure he didn’t miss his deadline,” Pengelly added as he looked down at the Telegraph headline:

“But we can’t afford to relax,” said Karin. “Despite the lovelorn look, Giles Barrington is nobody’s fool.”

“From what I’ve just witnessed, you seem to have him eating out of your hand.”

“For now, yes, but we can’t assume that will last, and we’d be unwise to ignore his record when it comes to women. He isn’t exactly reliable.”

“He managed ten years with his last wife,” said Pengelly, “which should be more than enough time for what our masters have in mind.”

“So what’s the immediate plan?”

“There’s no immediate plan. Marshal Koshevoi looks upon this as a long-term operation, so just be sure you give him everything his two previous wives obviously failed to do.”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult, because I think the poor man is actually in love with me. Can you believe that last night was the first time he’d ever had oral sex?”

“And I’m sure there are one or two other experiences he can look forward to. You must do everything in your power to keep it that way, because we’ll never have a better chance of getting a foot in the British establishment’s door.”

“I won’t be satisfied with getting my foot in the door,” said Karin. “I intend to break it down.”

“Good. But for now, let’s concentrate on your other responsibilities. We must develop a simple system for passing on messages to our agents in the field.”

“I thought I was only going to deal directly with you.”

“That might not always be possible as I’ll have to remain in Cornwall for a lot of the time if Barrington’s not to become suspicious.”

“So what should I do if I need to contact you urgently?”

“I’ve installed a second phone line for your exclusive use, but it’s only for emergencies. Whenever you want to get in touch with your “father,” use the listed number, and only ever speak in English. If you need to call the private line — and I stress, only in emergencies — I’ll speak in Russian and you should respond in German. So there are only two numbers you’ll need to remember.”

The front door slammed, and a moment later they heard Giles’s voice in the hallway. “Are they still in the drawing room?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I’ll never forgive myself,” Pengelly was saying, “for not being by your mother’s side when—”

Giles burst into the room. “I wanted you to be the first to know, my darling. Harold Wilson has offered me a place in the House of Lords.”

Both of them looked pleased.