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  Knox tapped on Kaspar’s door. There was no response. He knocked again, louder. Still no acknowledgement or movement inside. Thinking his luck might already have run out, Knox was about to give the door one last bang when it was suddenly pulled open by a short, flushed woman in a thin summer jumper and black capri pants.

  ‘What do you want?’ she demanded, in a strong Midwestern American accent. She looked very young, but that could have been her height, close-cropped dark hair, and flushed cheeks conspiring against her.

  ‘I’m looking for Dr Kaspar,’ Knox replied.

  ‘He’s not here.’ She tried to block Knox’s view of the office, but he could see straight over her head. The room was untidy. Open books had been left on every surface, and several trays containing the remnants of old meals were strewn across the floor. But the woman, who Knox assumed must be Kaspar’s assistant, was right – he wasn’t inside.

  ‘Do you by any chance know where he might be?’ Knox asked.

  The woman checked her watch. ‘It’s twelve thirty. He’ll be on Sheep’s Green.’

  ‘And how might I recognise him?’

  ‘He’ll be the one with the swans,’ she replied. Then she slammed the door.

  Knox decided there was no point trying to get any more information from her, so he traced his way back through the labyrinth of the Cavendish and made his way the short distance to Sheep’s Green.

  The warm morning was turning into a hot afternoon. The River Cam was clogged with punts, and day-trippers swarmed over the small plot of open land where the river split in two. It was one of the prettier patches in the city that wasn’t locked behind a college’s walls.

  Knox could see several people trying to tempt the swans on the river with bits of food, but only one of them was having any success. An old man, leaning on a stick, was doling out crusts of bread to the birds. He also looked like he was deep in conversation with several of them. Knox wondered if this whole trip might have been a trick by White.

  He kept a short distance between himself and Kaspar. Knox didn’t want to get too close to the swans. He didn’t like swans, and these ones looked like they didn’t like anyone but Kaspar. Everyone else who approached them received either a hiss or a wide flapping of wings.

  ‘Are you just going to stand there?’ the old German said.

  It took Knox a moment to realise Kaspar wasn’t talking to one of the swans but to him. ‘You think after all this time I don’t know when a spook is sneaking up on me?’ he asked.

  Knox took this as his cue. He sidled up next to Kaspar, facing the river and doing his best to ignore the angry noises coming from the nearest swan.

  ‘I’m sorry for the intrusion,’ Knox said. ‘But I need your help.’

  ‘I’ve already told your people everything I know. I’ve told everyone everything I know.’ He broke another crust into pieces and threw them at the swans.

  ‘This is something new. Something, well, something that we don’t know what it is.’ Knox pulled the bundle of equations half out of his jacket pocket so Kaspar could see them. ‘We need an expert opinion.’

  Kaspar threw the remains of the bread into the Cam, sending the swans scrabbling, and held out his hand. Knox passed him the papers.

  He waited for Kaspar to review them, to tell him that they were indeed important, connected to Russia, and, ideally, had Manning’s coded initials somewhere in them. But, after skimming over the first couple of sheets, Kaspar’s face darkened.

  ‘So,’ he said to himself, ‘I have become a joke.’ Then he turned, forced the bundle back into Knox’s hands, and started to walk away.

  Knox, confused, followed him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Kaspar spun on his stick to face him, suddenly boiling with anger.

  ‘Who put you up to this? Those bloody first-years? Who told you where I was?’ He spat the questions at Knox.

  ‘Your assistant told me you were here.’

  ‘My assistant?’

  ‘This isn’t a joke,’ Knox insisted. ‘This is a matter of national security.’

  But Kaspar wasn’t listening. ‘I won’t be your stupid summer prank. I know what they say about me and I won’t put up with this nonsense.’

  ‘What nonsense?’

  ‘These childish scribblings,’ Kaspar said, reaching out and crumpling the papers Knox still held to his chest. ‘Pathetic.’

  ‘They don’t mean anything?’

  ‘You know damned well they don’t. Now leave me alone.’ Kaspar turned his back to Knox, spinning again on his stick. But he didn’t walk away. His anger had tired him out.

  After several long breaths he spoke again, his voice quieter, more defeated.

  ‘I never was a Nazi. Work or die. For what? I had no choice.’ He looked up at the sky, then down at the ground. ‘But no one accepts the grey of life any more. It’s all so black and white now. So much easier to decide who the heroes and villains are.’

  After a few more breaths he started walking across the Green, back towards his little office up in the rafters. Knox let him go.

  CHAPTER 12

  If Knox had been paying attention when he caught the next train back to London he might have noticed the woman with short dark hair lingering on the Cambridge station platform. But he didn’t. He climbed straight up into the first-class carriage, chose an empty compartment, sat in the middle seat – a sign to anyone looking for a seat to keep moving – and settled into his thoughts about his encounter with Kaspar for the whole journey.

  Knox also didn’t notice the same woman following twenty feet behind him as he walked along the platform at King’s Cross and down into the Underground. He was still lost in thought when he boarded a Piccadilly Line train and accidentally ended up in a smoking carriage. He rode the single stop north to Caledonian Road in a thick miasma of old, hot smoke.

  The woman also took the tube one stop, and trailed Knox along Hillmarton Road. Then, as soon as she was sure where he was headed, she doubled back on herself, shaking her head as if she’d just realised she’d left something important at home, and went back down into the Underground.

  The ornate turrets of HMP Holloway looked more like they belonged to a Cambridge college than the front of a prison in north London. The imposing architecture of Holloway prison, which was originally opened in 1852, was intended to inspire respect for the law. The castle-like facade was also apt as conditions inside for most of the prison’s residents were positively medieval.

  Once criminal charges had been brought against the four members of the Calder Hall Ring and the case became public, Sandra Horne had been transferred from the secure holding cell on the third floor of Leconfield House to Holloway. Knox didn’t agree with the decision.

  ‘We can’t guarantee her safety if she isn’t in our custody,’ he argued. ‘And Holloway is hardly the leniency we promised for cooperation.’

  But he’d been overruled.

  ‘It’s not our decision to make any more,’ Holland said. ‘But I’ve been assured she’ll be held in solitary confinement, away from any inmate who might wish to do her harm.’

  It was a peculiar character trait of many prisoners that they developed a fierce patriotism for the country that had locked them up. To many of Holloway’s long-term residents, Sandra Horne’s role in passing on classified information to the KGB was as treasonous as trying to kill a member of the royal family.

  Knox stepped through the stone arch entrance to the prison and into the guard’s office. The man on duty recognised him from his previous visits to Horne and, luckily for Knox, waved him through without checking if his presence had been approved.

  Five minutes later, he was sitting in a spartan meeting room, waiting for Horne to be brought to him. The room was cold. Its concrete and brick floor and walls were whitewashed, its heavy door was painted gunmetal grey. There were no windows. Knox sat on one of two chairs that faced each other across a small Formica table.

  Knox knew Horne might not know anythi
ng about Bianchi and Moretti, but he still had questions about the mysterious contact in Cecil Court she’d alluded to when she’d first been persuaded to talk. Knox wanted to know if there was another Soviet agent operating in the city.

  The bolt on the door shifted and Sandra Horne was brought into the room by a silent female guard. Horne looked like she’d aged ten years since Knox had last seen her. She was wearing the drab grey shirt and skirt all female inmates at Holloway wore. Her hair, which she’d managed to keep in high, gravity-defying curls throughout her stay at Leconfield House, now hung flat and limp in a straggly bob.

  The guard pointed at the chair opposite Knox, waited for Horne to sit down, gave Knox a curt nod, and retreated from the room, locking the bolt across the door behind her.

  It seemed to take a Horne a moment to recognise Knox, and when she did, she let out a long, irritated sigh.

  ‘When are you people going to leave me in peace?’ she asked, her voice thin and tired.

  It didn’t fool Knox. He knew how shrewd an operator the woman sitting across from him was. ‘Drop the act, Sandra,’ he replied.

  Her face broke into a broad, bright smile. ‘Oh, dearie, let me have my fun.’ Her voice was suddenly alive and devious. ‘I am popular, aren’t I? You lot should move in. Save you making the trip over from Mayfair every day.’

  Knox didn’t like the idea of someone else handling Horne now. The Calder Hall case had been his operation, his victory, and he should have been able to see it through. But that wasn’t an option right now. At least it looked like news of his suspension hadn’t reached Horne yet.

  ‘You know the deal,’ he said. ‘Unless you’d rather we put you on a plane and let you take your chances in Russia.’

  Knox and Horne both knew what happened to most blown KGB assets when they went to Moscow looking for sanctuary. The lucky ones never made it out of Sheremetyevo airport.

  ‘I’d have to talk to my husband about that,’ Horne said, her grin turning cold. It was a thinly veiled barb. Sandra was the brains behind Calder Hall, and she blamed Peter for cracking and landing them both in prison. He’d been sent to Pentonville when she had come to Holloway and, as far as Knox knew, she’d made no requests to have them reunited.

  ‘So,’ she continued, ‘what do you want to know today? Where Montcalm drank all his money away? Or if Slaughter really is that stupid?’

  It had become clear over the course of interrogating the ring’s members that not only was Sandra in charge but that she’d also seemed to know where her collaborators were and what they were doing without ever leaving her house in Richmond. Montcalm had indeed spent most of the cash he received from the KGB via the Hornes drinking and gambling his way up and down the country, creating a vicious circle of debt and addiction that always led him back to London and Calder Hall. As for Slaughter, he’d maintained throughout his questioning that he had no idea he was working for the Russians. In fact, the security guard claimed he’d been slipping secrets to the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament in exchange for money to supplement his meagre income.

  But Knox hadn’t come to Holloway to push Sandra for information about Slaughter or Montcalm.

  ‘I want to know about Cecil Court,’ he said.

  ‘Oh.’ The broad smile was back. ‘That.’

  ‘I want to know who was leaving the messages.’

  ‘Well, I wish I could tell you, dearie. But I’m afraid my memory isn’t what it was.’

  ‘Sounds terrible.’

  ‘I’m serious. It’s the chloral they give us. Supposed to help us sleep, but half the poor loves in here can’t remember what day it is, let alone why they’re banged up. It’s sinful.’

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ Knox replied. He had grilled Horne enough to know he’d have to play her game, but he wanted to shorthand it as much as possible. ‘And what do you think would help jog your memory?’

  Sandra leaned back in her seat, relishing the small piece of power she held over Knox.

  ‘A stop to that chemical nonsense for a start. I just need some lavender on my pillows to help me sleep. Cotton pillows, stuffed with goose down, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Lord knows what the linens are made of in here, but they aren’t very homely.’

  ‘I don’t think they’re meant to be.’

  Horne’s smile turned cold again. ‘Maybe for everyone else. But I’m different, aren’t I? I’m special. And you want me to be comfortable.’

  Knox nodded. ‘Tell me about Cecil Court and I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Oh, dearie, you know that’s not how this works. Get me a good night’s sleep and then we can see if I remember anything about that ghost of yours.’

  Knox knew if he pushed her there was every chance she’d shut down and not tell him anything. He might be in no position to give Horne anything officially, but she didn’t know that, and there were always ways to get things into a prison – even into high-security solitary confinement – unofficially.

  ‘Right, then. I think it’s time for my afternoon stroll round the grounds.’ Horne pushed her chair back, stood up, and straightened her shirt. ‘Oi,’ she shouted at the door. A moment later it opened, revealing the same guard who had delivered her a few minutes earlier. ‘I think we’re finished now,’ Horne told the guard, then turned back to Knox and said, ‘I’ll see you soon, dearie.’

  The guard looked at Knox as Horne stepped past her. He nodded that they were indeed done, and the guard fell into step behind her prisoner, leaving Knox to find his own way out.

  CHAPTER 13

  Abey Bennett loved London. The city was literally and figuratively thousands of miles from Lakin, the township in rural Kansas where she’d grown up. Lakin was a small, tight-knit community of weather-beaten buildings and grizzled prairie folk who were only a few generations removed from the great push west. London was the complete opposite. It was a real melting pot, where the tall towers and endless streets were full of people from all over the world.

  Bennett felt free in London. Free to be who she wanted to be. Free to be as visible or invisible as she needed to be. And when it came to trailing members of MI5 across the city, she needed to be invisible.

  Once she was sure Knox was going to see Sandra Horne, Bennett went back to the tube and rode the Piccadilly Line all the way to South Kensington. If she’d been following operational procedure properly, she’d have reported Knox’s trips to Cambridge and Holloway to her superiors. But, as they’d already dismissed every attempt she’d made to convince them something was rotten at the highest levels of British intelligence and she was currently acting alone and without authorisation, she didn’t feel inclined to.

  She knew who Knox was, and that he’d been suspended from MI5 just over twenty-four hours ago. What she didn’t understand was why he’d then gone to see Dr Ludwig Kaspar, a man who still had suspected links to Russia, and then Horne, whose Soviet connections were certain.

  At South Kensington, she changed onto the District Line and travelled another three stops. At West Brompton she got off the tube, turned right out of the station, walked a hundred yards along Old Brompton Road, and turned right again.

  It was now late afternoon and Brompton Cemetery was quiet. Streams of light cut through knotty old trees, bouncing off row after row of ornate tombstones. Bennett’s final destination stood just ahead of her, but she had another stop to make first. She turned off the wide central avenue and followed one of the smaller paths down towards the grand colonnades and catacombs that dominated the lower half of the cemetery. She weaved through the graves, following a route that almost entirely hid her from view behind tall headstones. She paused briefly at the top of one of the sloped catacomb entrances before walking down into the cool shadows.

  Three bricks up from the ground to the left of the large, locked gate at the bottom of the slope, there was a wide gap in the mortar – wide enough for something to be wedged inside. Bennett eased a dull metal case out of its hiding place,
adding to the scrapes that ran along its sides. The case was a dead drop. It was also an early warning system, and a trap. She opened the thin lid and checked that the small piece of paper she’d left inside weeks ago was still there. It was. If it hadn’t been, she’d know that someone was watching her as closely as she was watching Knox. And whoever it was would have come into possession of something that looked like a long string of code but which, after hours spent trying to decrypt it, would reveal itself to be completely meaningless.

  She put the case back, walked up into the warm sun, and headed through the cemetery to the sandstone cross that stood just inside the northern entrance. The headstone had weathered over the years, but the inscription on it was still legible. It read:

  In loving memory of Emmeline Pankhurst, wife of RM Pankhurst LLD, in rest June 14th 1928.

  People tend to latch on to the heroes they discover when they’re young, but Bennett was probably the only child in the history of Kansas who had chosen to idolise a British suffragette. The other children of Lakin had their choice of brave pioneers and nation builders to look up to. Bennett, however, had been denied access to this pantheon, because she was half Native American. And, because she was also half white, she’d been just as shunned by the community that could have shared hundreds of years of stories about ancestors roaming the Great Plains with her. So, whenever she could she’d take the bus to the nearest big town to Lakin – the ironically named Garden City – and sit in the public library for hours on end, searching through book after book for her own heroes.

  She found Emmeline Pankhurst in a biographical encyclopaedia of famous women in history. The book was short, ordered chronologically, and Pankhurst was the final entry. Bennett felt an immediate connection to this dead foreign woman, the cause she’d led, and her belief that acceptance was something to be claimed, not just asked for. This sentiment became Bennett’s driving force, and it had pushed her all the way from Lakin to the CIA.