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they were spies. The words sounded hollowly, as if he were already reciting them to an unbelieving audience, even to Andropov himself…

PART ONE
The Theft

One
    THE MURDER.
    The walk from the British Airways BAC-111 across the tarmac of Cheremetievo Airport seemed interminable to the slightly-built man at the end of the file of passengers. The wind whipped at his trilby, which he held in place, jamming it firmly down with one hand while in the other he held a travel bag bearing the | legend of the airline. He was an undistinguished individual - he wore spectacles, heavy-rimmed, and his top lip was decorated with a feeble growth of moustache.
    His nose was reddened, and his cheeks blanched, by the chill wind. He wore a dark topcoat and dark trousers, and anonymous shoes. Only the churning of his stomach, the bilious fear, placed and defined him.
    It was only because it was the express practice of the KGB to photograph all passengers arriving on foreign flights at Moscow’s principal airport that he, too, was photographed with a camera equipped with a telephoto lens. He guessed that it had happened, though he could not have said at what point in his walk across the tarmac, his head bent in an attempt to keep the flying dust from his face and eyes.
    The sudden warmth of the disembarkation lounge struck him, tempted him to turn down the collar of his coat, remove his hat, and brush at the brown hair. He slicked it away from his forehead, so that with its evident white seam of a parting it belonged to a man unconscious of fashion. At that point, he was photographed again. In fact, it was as if he had posed for such a study. He looked about him, and then moved towards the customs desk. Around him, the human tide of any international terminal flowed, attracted his attention. Delegations filed through, and his eyes picked out the flamingo colours of African national costume. There were others - Orientals, Europeans.
    He became an item in that vast congress, and the cosmopolitan familiarity of an airport lounge settled his stomach. If anything, he appeared very cold, and more than a little airsick.
    He knew that the men who stood behind the customs officials were probably security men - KGB. He placed his airline bag between the screens of the detector, and his other luggage came sliding towards him on the conveyor belt. The man did not move - he had already anticipated, what would happen next. One of the two men standing with apparent indifference behind the customs men, stepped forward and lifted the two suitcases clear of the belt.
    The man watched the. customs officer fixedly, seeming to ignore the security man as he opened each of the suitcases, and urgently, thoroughly, ruffled through the clothing they contained. The customs official checked his papers, and then passed them to the controller at the end of the long counter. The ruffling of the clothes became more urgent, and the smile on the KGB man disappeared, replaced by an intent, baffled stare into the well of each suitcase.
    The official said: ‘Mr. Alexander Thomas Orton? What is your business in Moscow?’
    The man coughed, and replied: ‘As you can see from my papers, I am an export agent of the Excelsior Plastics Company, of Welwyn Garden City.’
    ‘Yes, indeed.’ The man’s eyes kept flickering to the frustrated mime of the security officer. ‘You - have been to the Soviet Union several times during the past two years, Mr. Orton?’
    ‘Again, yes - and nothing like this has happened to me before!’ The man was not annoyed, merely surprised. He seemed determined to be pleasant, a seasoned, knowledgeable visitor to Russia, and not to regard the insults being levied at his possessions.
    ‘I apologise,’ the official said. The KGB man was now in muttered conversation with the customs officer.
    The remainder of the passengers had already passed through the gate, and spilled into the concourse of the passenger lounge. They were gone, and Mr. Alexander Thomas