Boris banged on the door. I took a deep breath and let myself out. ‘Hurry,’ he said, taking my arm. ‘We have to leave before first light.’ He steered me towards the front door, where a large, uniformed man was standing guard.
‘Where’s Gerry?’ I asked.
‘You mean Viktor,’ he laughed. ‘Your agent 859 was unavoidably detained before he got to your “safe” house – which, incidentally, is just around the corner from here.’ He laughed again. ‘Viktor passes as a real English gentleman, does he not? He’s Dutch by birth, went to Cambridge and there became convinced of our cause. He has escorted our friend Philby back home.’
Cambridge, I reflected, had a lot to answer for.