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another cigarette. ‘You know him, then.’
    The story came out quickly and succinctly. Smith – Billson genuinely didn’t seem to know his real name – had recruited Billson a couple of years earlier, using him for infrequent and minor work here in Rome while he continued in his normal role as an SIS operative. Smith had convinced Billson that he was responsible for policing SIS activities and trapping those agents who broke the rules, which as perfectly true. Billson didn’t know Xing Ho Lee, but he assumed Smith was running him in a similar way.
    Smith had arranged a rendezvous with Billson a week earlier, here in Rome, and had given him his instructions. They were simple: receive the briefcase from Xing in the gallery, then wait to be accosted. Nothing more.
    When Billson had finished, Purkiss said: ‘Are you to report to this Smith now?’
    ‘He didn’t say,’ said Billson. ‘I don’t ask questions. I just carry out the tasks he gives me, and then don’t hear from him for months until the next time.’ Once again he gazed at Purkiss. ‘What happens now?’
    There was a fatalism in the man’s eyes, something Purkiss had seen before in people who were about to encounter death and were beyond fear. Purkiss said: ‘You think I’m going to kill you.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Because you assume I’m one of these rogue agents Smith is after.’
    ‘It’s the only thing that makes sense.’
    Purkiss wasn’t a sentimental man, especially where intelligence operatives were concerned. But he felt a certain admiration for Billson, for his composure, his lack of self-pity.
    He looked at the shattered balcony doors. ‘This your apartment? Or did the Service provide it for you?’
    Billson blinked, puzzled by the change in topic. ‘It’s my own.’
    Purkiss reached into the pocket of his jacket – Billson tensed a fraction – and brought out his wallet. He counted out several fifty-euro notes and tossed them on the bed. ‘This should cover it.’
    Billson stared down at the money, his forehead knitted in confusion.
    Purkiss said, ‘The man you know as Smith is a friend of mine. Was , I should say. He’s dead.’
    When Billson opened his mouth, Purkiss shook his head. ‘No questions. I’m leaving now.’
    He let himself out downstairs. He hadn’t told Billson not to say a word to anybody about all this, because it wasn’t necessary.
    *
    O n his way back to his new hotel, Purkiss tried to fit the pieces together.
    Vale had arranged the bogus handover of intelligence between Xing and Billson, then sent Purkiss to witness it and procure the briefcase. Which meant one of two things.
    Either Vale had wanted Purkiss to be in Rome, and for some reason needed a pretext to get him there.
    Or, Rome itself had nothing to do with it, and Vale had simply needed Purkiss out of the way.

Six
    ––––––––
    K yrill Grabasov thought there were probably four weeks left before Moscow became unbearable.
    The worst of the weather, the seemingly unrelenting darkness, the paralysing cold, the constant sleet, wouldn’t hit until December or January, after which it would linger well into March. But the murk usually descended by the end of November.
    One month. Already it was chilly, the sunlight grudging and slanted, the pavements slippery with thin rain by the afternoon. Grabasov wasn’t a native of Moscow, and he knew that only true Muscovites could tolerate the city all year round. But he’d learned to live with being there, because necessity demanded it.
    He was a man of average build, stocky, running slightly to heaviness around his neck and his waist. Recently he’d had to start wearing spectacles for reading. He supposed he couldn’t really complain, at the age of sixty-seven. But the Moscow diet, the stodge and the pickled foods, were slurrying his arteries in a way he could physically feel. He knew he needed to watch himself, and his health.
    A man in his occupation, in modern-day Russia, had greater things to