As the next sequence came up the cat was walking slowly across a flower border towards a small brick-built cottage. Along the front of the cottage was a narrow border of herbaceous flowers with frost-burned leaves and dry, faded blooms on woody stalks. At the door of the cottage the cat hesitated, looked up at a slightly open window and jumped easily up to the wooden sill. For a moment the lens zoomed in on to the cat, so that the film was momentarily over exposed. The camera cut to the interior of a room. Two men sat talking and the sound-track changed so that the men’s words were audible but the speech degraded with an uneven pulse and a regular variation in volume. One of the men talking reached out his hand to the cat, which sniffed it tentatively and then jumped up on to his lap. From then until the film ran out both men’s speech was clear and only slightly degraded by intermittent static.
As the film slapped free of the sprockets it flapped round on the spool until Symons reached over and switched off the projector. He said softly, “I wonder what the hell happened to that bloody cat.”
When their guests had left, Boyd and Katie had one last drink before going to bed and as they sat relaxed on the settee she said, “Why were you so cross with Tom Frazer?”
“He’s a bit of a creep when he’s had a couple of whiskies.”
“How did he know that you work for MI6?”
“He works at the Ministry that supplies government departments with furniture and carpets and that sort of stuff. When we moved from Queen Anne’s Gate he saw me at Century House when they were making an inventory. He wasn’t sure that I worked there. He was just fishing.”
“You were rather nasty with him, darling.”
“I ignored him twice, my love. He should have taken the hint, not gone on.”
“But I think a lot of people would like to know what the difference is between MI5 and MI6.”
“Well they must carry on wanting, so far as I’m concerned.”
She smiled at him. “Would you tell me?”
“Oh, honey. You’re not really interested, are you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’m just curious. It’s interesting.”
“It’s not really interesting. But anyway … MI5 is responsible for this country’s security. They keep tabs on foreign intelligence agents, subversives … that sort of stuff. They don’t arrest people themselves. Special Branch, which is part of the normal police force under the Commissioner, do all the actual arrests.
“MI6 are responsible for getting intelligence from other countries.” He shrugged. “That’s all it is. But even that’s not for publication.”
She laughed. “But the Russians must know all about it already.”
“Maybe.”
“So why can’t we know? The public.”
“Why should we confirm anything for the other side?”
“It might stop people criticizing what you do.”
“The ones who criticize don’t know what we do. And if they do know and still criticize it’s generally because they’ve got some ulterior motive.”
“You mean they’re on the other side?”
“Most of them.”
“But some MPs criticize.”
“So?”
“You mean that those MPs are working for the Russians?”
“Not all of them. Some just want to bring the country to a state of anarchy and revolution. So that they can take over.”
“And it’s your job to find out who they are and stop them?”
“No that’s Five’s job. My lot find out what we want to know about other governments and their intelligence services.”
“I can’t imagine you doing that, somehow.”
He leaned over and kissed her gently. “OK, Mata Hari, here endeth the first lesson. And the last one too.”
Slowly she pulled back her head and her green eyes looked at his face. “We could live quite well off my paintings.”
He smiled. “I’d rather like being a kept man, sweetie.”
“I mean it, Jimmy.”
“Why should we?”
She said softly, “Have you ever killed anybody?”
“No comment.” He yawned, but it wasn’t very convincing. “It’s time for bed, love. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”
“I’m being silly, James. Aren’t I?”
“No. You’re being kind and caring and I think about you and those virtues very often when I’m away.”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly. Come on, it’s past midnight.”
Debbie Shaw was walking through Berwick Market towards Wardour Street and she had to stop. It was like a series of slides in her mind. The big white house on the side of the hill and the hot sunshine. And the man with her in the car, kissing her, trying to get his hand up her skirt, and the car turning into the big gates of the white house. Then a passer-by was asking her if she was all right and the last slide just faded away and she was back in Berwick Market by the second-hand bookstall.
It had happened twice before. Once when she was getting into bed and the second time in a cinema. The first time only lasted for a few seconds and the street signs and shop signs were all in Chinese. Then the cabin on the boat. The beautiful white panels all splashed with blood and the two Americans looking at the man lying on the table. And the sign at the airport said Kai Tak and she found out later that that means Hong Kong.
The second time, in the cinema, had been bad. She had handed over the envelope as soon as she got to the house and when they read it they were angry. The two men had held her and the woman had burned the backs of her hands with a lighted cigarette. They kept asking questions in terrible English and she couldn’t understand what they were saying. The next day they had untied
