‘There was a man asking for you this morning, sir, when you were out. Wouldn’t leave his name. Very insistent about that, he was.’ ‘What kind of man?’ Berlin enquired.‘Youngish man, sir. Not an undergraduate. Thirties, I’d say, though it’s hard to tell these days. They all look alike when you get to my age.’ ‘Was he English?’ How absurd the question sounded.‘He wasn’t a foreign gentleman, sir. He was English all right. Quite tall.’ ‘Did he say when he would call again?’‘No, sir. Nothing like that.’‘Thank you—’ He realised he had no idea of the porter’s name. ‘Wilkins, sir.’‘Thank you, Wilkins. If he comes back, I’ll be in my room.’‘I’ll let you know at once, sir. Don’t you worry.’British Intelligence had called – who else could it be? – and he had missed them. He cursed his luck. He’d have to wait now – surely they wouldn’t give up after one attempt? He was desperate to be rid of his burden.
