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He had seen me whipped by Grishenko. I did not mind that. Why was he pursuing this? Then it dawned on me that he had seen me naked and had made a frightful assumption. I began to laugh. ‘Really, Brodmann, is that what you thought? There are perfectly ordinary medical reasons for my operation.’

‘Oh, for the love of God!’ He had fallen to his knees. He grovelled. I felt sick.

‘It will not do, Brodmann.’ I was losing control of myself. He was weeping. ‘Brodmann, you must wait. Think things through.’

‘I have suffered. Show mercy.’

‘Mercy, yes. But not justice.’ I was ready to let him go. I wanted him to go. Another officer, Captain Yosetroff, came in with a middle-aged woman wearing the same perfume as Mrs Cornelius. With some difficulty, Brodmann rose to his feet. He pointed at me. ‘Pyatnitski’s a Chekist spy. Haven’t you realised? I know him. He’s a saboteur, working for the Bolsheviks.’

‘The poor devil’s insane,’ I said calmly.

Yosetroff shrugged. ‘I’d like the room to myself for a little while, Major, if it’s possible.’

‘Of course. You’d better come back tomorrow,’ I told Brodmann.

‘It’s Christmas Eve. The office is closed. I read the notice. I’ve got to be on the Riga train.’

‘I had forgotten.’ I sighed. Yosetroff frowned. He apologised to the lady who grinned and scratched her ear. He stepped forward.

‘Can I help?’ Yosetroff’s neat, pale face blended thoroughly with his uniform so that it was almost indistinguishable. ‘Shall I take over?’

‘No need,’ I said.

‘He’s with the Reds. How did he come to be working here?’ Brodmann’s hysteria threatened both our lives.

Yosetroff hesitated. There was nothing I could say. I slapped Brodmann’s face with my gloved hand. I slapped it twice more. He was weeping as the guards came in at Yosetroff’s command. ‘Do you want him taken away?’ asked Yosetroff. It meant Brodmann would be imprisoned, possibly shot if his Bolshevik associations came to light. I owed him nothing. He had made his own mistakes. I nodded and left the room.

‘ ‘Ello, Ivan!’

Mrs Cornelius waved to me. She was dressed in high fashion and was on the arm of an evidently uncomfortable French naval officer. She had fresh papers. She waved them. She was delighted. ‘Thought I’d seen yer abart. Where yer bin ‘iding yerself?’

‘You were at Zoyea’s?’ I was still suffering from my encounter with Brodmann. He had been escorted discreetly out. ‘A few nights ago?’

‘That the ‘ore-’ouse wiv ther games?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Yeah! Yore lookin’ smart. D’yer know me boyfriend? ‘E’s in ther navy. Francois ‘e corls ‘isself. Don’t speak very good English. Say ‘ow do, France.’

I told the naval officer I was enchanted to meet him. I asked which ship he was with. He was Second Officer on the Oreste. They were leaving for Constantinople tomorrow, with troops and passengers. There had been trouble with Kemal Pasha. We spoke French, of course.

‘The British are trying to take over the whole thing,’ he said bitterly. ‘They are acting in a very vulgar manner.’

I was amused. The quarrels between these allies was reminiscent of the Crimea. But I remained grave. I heard Brodmann squealing ‘Treachery!’ as he passed by outside. ‘And you are kindly giving Mrs Cornelius a passage on your ship.’

He shook his head. ‘We are already full. She will be meeting me in Constantinople. I have spoken to the captain of a British merchantman. He has agreed to add a few more passengers. We had to arrange Mrs Cornelius’s papers, of course. She was good enough to ask me to escort her here. It is a pity we were not acquainted before.’

‘A great pity,’ I said.

Mrs Cornelius nudged me. ‘Stop it, the pair o’ yer. Manners! Tork English!’

We both bowed. My CO had entered the room and was looking thoughtfully at me. I said to Mrs Cornelius very rapidly in English: ‘I have papers. Can you get me aboard the British ship?’

She could tell I was anxious. She smiled and put a girlish, beringed hand on my forearm. ‘We got married, didn’t we? Yore me ‘usband. It’s ther Rio Cruz. Yer’ll need a licence or summink.’ She once more became the lady. ‘Delighted to meet you again, Major Pyatnitski.’ I clicked my heels and kissed her hand. I saluted the Frenchman. My CO, Major Soldatoff, signalled for me to come over. I did so with alacrity. I had been impressing him with my military discipline for a couple of months. He was an old Okhrana man, not naturally suspicious, but very sensitive to discrepancies of any kind. He had a seamed, ruddy face of the Great Russian type, with a white beard and moustache. He wore a dark uniform. I entered his office. He closed the door. He offered me a chair and I sat down. ‘Brodmann?’ he said.

‘A Red,’ I said. ‘I met him in Kiev, I think. When I was doing sabotage work. I told him I was on his side, of course.’

‘He says you’re Cheka? That you were a link between Antonov and Hrihorieff.’

‘I let him think that. At the time.’