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would be annoying, because the more he knew about Audley, David Longsdon , the better; but at this stage of the proceedings it was no more than that—merely annoying. So then he would just look at the church, which might well be more interesting inside than out, because that was very much what he would have done if the delay had been genuine, because looking at churches was one of his hobbies.
    Absolutely nothing to fear. It even occurred to him, and the thought was an added reassurance, that they had orchestrated this scene out of their knowledge of him, for that very reason.
    The heavy latch cracked like a pistol shot in the stillness of the empty church beyond.
    If they were here, then still nothing to fear . The time might come when he had everything to fear, but at this moment each side trusted him, and valued him, and it was “This is your big chance, David”—Jean-Paul the Comrade and Eustace Avery, Knight Commander of the British Empire, were in accord on that, if on nothing else. And so it was, by God!
    “Mr Roche.”
    At first sight, half-obscured by a great spray of roses, the fragrance of which filled the church with the odour of sanctity, the speaker might have been the twin brother of the Daily Sketch reader outside.
    “I am a friend of Jean-Paul. You can call me ‘Johnnie’, Mr Roche—and I shall call you David.”
    The flatness of the features and the height of the cheekbones mocked ‘Johnnie’ into ‘Ivan’; or, if not Ivan, then some other East European equivalent, with a Mongol horseman riding through the man’s ancestry at about the same time as this church had been built.
    “Johnnie,” Roche acknowledged the identification.
    “How long do we have?” The voice didn’t fit the face, it was too accent-less, any more than the face fitted the name; but now, subjectively, the whole man—who wouldn’t have merited a second glance in a crowded street—the whole man overawed him no less than Clinton had done.
    “About half an hour.”
    “Where are you going?”
    “To Guildford. I’m due to meet a man named Stocker.”
    “Major Stocker?”
    “That’s right. You know him?”
    “Why?” Johnnie ignored the question. But he couldn’t think of Johnnie as Johnnie: the face, and those dark brown pebble-eyes, neither dull nor bright but half-polished in an unnatural way, made him think of Genghis Khan.
    “He’s going to brief me on this man Audley.”
    “He’s your controller—Stocker?”
    “No—I don’t know … I’m to report back to Colonel Clinton when—“
    “Clinton?” The eyes and the face remained expressionless, but the voice moved. “Frederick Clinton?”
    “Yes—?”
    “He was there? At your meeting—on the Eighth Floor?”
    “Yes. But—“
    “And you are to report back to him —not Avery? Or Latimer?” Genghis Khan pressed the question at him like a spear. “Clinton?”
    “Yes.” It was disturbing to see his own fears reflected in Genghis Khan’s evident concern. “Is that bad?”
    “You… are to report back to… Clinton … about this man Audley?”
    Audley, David Longsdon. Born, St. Elizabeth’s Nursing Home, Guildford, 10.2.25. Only son of Major Nigel Alexander George Audley (deceased), and Kathleen Ann, nee Longsdon (deceased), of The Old House, Steeple Horley, Sussex…
    He didn’t even bloody well seem interested in Audley, David Longsdon , damn it!
    “Yes. What about Clinton?”
    “This man Audley, then—“ Genghis Khan ignored the question again, as though it hadn’t been asked. But it was no good thinking of him as Genghis Khan , and letting him ride all over David Roche as though over a helpless Muscovite peasant: he had to be Johnnie , and he had to be resisted.
    “What about Clinton?”
    The pebble-eyes bored into him. “He frightened you, did he?”
    “If he did?”
    “He should. He’s good, is Clinton.”
    “He frightens you , does he?”
    “No. But he does interest me.” The Slav features failed to register the insult.