"We failed," George said. "We simply bloody well failed. Not your fault, Harry, God knows, at least you got the List-"

"Now being mulled over," Sprague put in smoothly, "by our dear Prime Minister and the D-G of Security, in whose shoes I would not like to be at this moment. He was never up to the job, of course; I've said so all along. You haven't seen this List, George?"

"No," George growled, and Sprague looked relieved, since he hadn't either. "Harry got it classified Eyes Only and took it round to Number 10 himself. From which I doubt it will ever emerge. Personally, I'm not sure I wouldn't like it spread over every newspaper in the land."

"To what end, George? To tell the world it wasn't the terrible trigger-happy Russkiesafter all, but just a bunch of dedicated lay churchmen? I really think HM Government would rather see its policies frustrated by a Superpower than your little Crocus List; it maintains an illusion of scale. And truly, one would be swimming against the tide. The public now believes the Kremlin is a hive of cynical duplicity-which it is, the lie unmasks the truth-the Berlin talks are dead, it's inconceivable that we should go ahead now… Truly we are but pawns swept along by the tide of public opinion. Indeed, isn't that our function? Servants we chose to be, and servants we are." He sighed contentedly. "It'll be forgotten in a year-less, since one now doubts this government can last that long. Yes, George, I know foreign policy mistakes can't bring down governments these days, but a straw in the wind that lights upon the camel's back… And one thing that might interest you, Major: your colleague in illegal arms, Miss Algar, has been called home For Consultation, although I dare say most of the consultation has already taken place with the White House and Langley." He stood up. "I must away. No doubts or uncertainties? The tide, George, the tide, we are but servants of the tide." He went out with, as always, unhurried purpose.

"You have to believe," George said, "that there is more to the government of this country thanthat."

"I do. Has anything more been found out about Tatham?"

"Security's drawn a blank so far, but we have established a connection with Ferrebee. He was a member of a Bloomsbury arts club that Clare Hall rang a few times. Tatham to Hall to Ferrebee-don't they call that a double play, in America?"

"I wasn't there long enough."

"However," George went on, picking up a slip of paper, "the Director of a Church of England hospice in Suffolk wants to see me. That was another number Clare Hall rang. Care for a drive down there? I imagine your office can function without you for another day, since they probably wouldn't recognise you if you went in there anyway."

"I'd like to know when Agnes is getting in."

"Did you want to meet her plane?"

"I'd like to be there."

"Really?" George tried to hide his interest by glancing at the clock. "The overnight nights have all landed by now, it can't be until this evening or tomorrow-I'll find out for you."

"Please."

Now this is something Ican tell Annette, George thought cheerfully, leading the way out.

There was nothing medical about the room, no hurry, no spilling paperwork, no white paint except on the ceiling and that was now a friendly pale brown. The furniture was dark and old without being very valuable, the few pictures were reproductions of Constable's harvest landscapes originally painted only a few dozen miles inland from there. "Intimations of immortality," George said, looking round.

"Just so," the Director said, very pleased. He was a small chubby man with thick spectacles and an old sports jacket who bounced up and down in his desk chair as he talked. "Just what we try to offer our patients. A feeling of the seasons, rebirth as part of death. They all come here to die, all terminal cases. We try to relieve their pain -almost all are cancer victims-without turning them into vegetables. Give them the chance to die as human beings, and to come to terms with death beforehand. We find it is the old things that help."

George fidgeted in his chair, not wishing to come to terms with death just yet. "Yes, but you called us down here…"

"Of course. You must be very busy men." The Director bounced himself back in his chair. "We had a visit from your Security people yesterday, asking if we had an American patient or somebody who took telephone calls from America. I told them we hadn't-and how do you know if somebody's calling from America now, with this direct dialling? It could be just from the village, for all you can tell… But after they'd gone, I thought of a patient who'd lived some time in Canada, which had left him with something of an American accent, and a niece in Montreal-I tried to contact the people who'd come here, but I got put through to you… I do hope I'm not wasting your time."

"I'm sure you're not," George said. "So this man…"

"Joseph Adams."

Maxim handed over the photograph of Tatham that Agnes had taken from Clare Hall's house. "Yees," the Director said, frowning. "I think so. Of course, he's younger in this…"

"Can we see him?" George asked.

"Oh no." The Director was surprised. "He died three, nearly four months ago. His niece came over for the cremation service."

After a moment, Maxim said: "A tall woman, grey for her age, hair swept back over-"

"Yes, that's her. D'you know her? A charming lady."

George had been counting back. "Dead-all the time. From before the Russian proposals."

Maximshook his head slowly. "He must have passed on the List, maybe when he knew he was dying."

"Did you ever think," George asked the Director, "that your Mr Adams might not be Mr Adams?"

"Mr Harbinger, Major-1 imagine both your jobs put you in charge of other people. I am in charge of people who are going to die, within three months at the outside. I run, you might say, a crammer's course for death or eternity. It's not for me to choose which, I just help them come to terms with their own choice. Their future is so short, I can hardly waste time on the past. "

He thought for a moment. "He talked of going onmissions, I think he meant the wartime sort, and having to leave everything behind. He said that in the end, he'd left God behind. And had been looking for Him again. I know he's spent the last few years in various Church retreats around the country…

"People can become strongly religious in two ways, I find. Mostly it's a sense of the love of God, but sometimes it's hatred of the Devil. Such people really can spend their lives fighting evil, seeing it everywhere, in everything. I think it may be the Devil's subtlest temptation, because you devote your life to him. In the shadows."

"Mr Adams spent a long time in the shadows," George said evenly.

"I don't think I want to know more about him. But you mentioned a list… I hope this can be treated in confidence, although I'm not doing so myself…"

"Don't worry."

"Thank you. He gave me a letter for his niece-this was very near the end. He died of pneumonia, it was a bit messy… the envelope got stained and I took the letter out to put it in a new one… I shouldn't have read it, but all it said was 'Destroy the List'."

"Only she didn't," George said, speaking loud against the wind. "She sent the List to Ferrebee, I'd think, and told him to bring the clan together. Maybe posing as a cut-out for her father-I doubt we'll ever know."

The small plaque on the pine tree read: Here are scattered the ashes of Joseph Adams and the dates of birth and death.

Maximshuffled a foot among the long grass of the overgrown churchyard.

"She couldn't put up a proper monument to him," George went on, "so she erected a bloody international crisis in his memory. Which he'd decided he didn't want."