The Doll’s House by Evelyn Anthony

number three. He glanced round him at the others. He smelled the woman’s expensive scent.
    The Russian said, ‘I’m going to the third floor.’
    The small man with the garish tie grunted, ‘Me too.’ The woman nodded; she had a lovely face, expertly made-up.
    When the lift stopped all three got out. Georg Werner stood hesitating, looking up and down the corridor.
    It was the Russian who took the initiative. He had that kind of authority.
    â€˜The D.H. Company is room twenty-one,’ he said. ‘I think it is down on the right.’
    He didn’t look round to see if they were following. He knew they were.
    â€˜I can tell you who’s joining us,’ Oakham said. ‘Vassily Zarubin.’ He saw the German’s eyes narrow at the name.
    â€˜A German diplomat who’s been one of your sleepers since he left university – Georg Werner – Deputy Under Secretary of the West German Foreign Ministry that was, and someone outside your theatre – an Israeli, name of Ishbav, ex-Mossad, ex-Syrian spy. Ex-everything by the sound of him. And a lady. I didn’t want to be sexist about this.’
    He laughed. The door opened and Jan appeared. They were all on time. Punctuality was part of the code. They glanced at him, and then at Rilke and each other. He saw Georg Werner stiffen and turn pale. But Jan had closed the door. There was no going back for Werner, just because he’d come face to face with Rilke. The woman came in last. She was tall, with a cashmere throw emphasizing her height, expensive clothes and a pervasive scent that wafted towards them as she moved. Jan introduced her to Oakham first.
    â€˜This is Monika,’ he said.
    â€˜Hello,’ he shook a hand in a soft glove.
    Unlike Rilke she gripped hard. She had a lovely face, but so had many women who could afford the presentation. What made her different was that every man in the room, except Rilke, felt like sex as soon as she came near them. She had a pleasant, rather throaty voice with a slight accent.
    â€˜Hello, Mr Oakham. Gentlemen.’
    She smiled at them and sat down where the Pole indicated.
    Harry took his place at the head of the table.
    â€˜Before we begin our meeting, would anyone like coffee? Or a drink?’
    No-one wanted anything. The atmosphere was tense. Rilke lit another cigarette. Vassily Zarubin smoked a Russian cigarette that made Jan cough. They waited, and Werner picked up one of the pencils laid out with a notepad in front of him and tapped it nervously on the table top.
    Harry Oakham stood up. He didn’t smile.
    He said, ‘I’d like to welcome you. I’m glad to see you here, and I won’t waste your time talking a lot of balls. You know who I am and I know who you are. We’re all in the same business. We’ve been on different sides, but we’re on the same side now. I’ll put my position first.’
    He looked round at them. Rilke; the cold-eyed Russian; the suave diplomat fiddling with the pencil; the dark Israeli in the gaudy tie, who hadn’t taken his eyes off Monika.
    â€˜I was recruited from the Army,’ Oakham said. ‘I joined our Security Services when I was twenty-four. I went through the training and it was tough. But so was I. I did a lot of personal jobs, and I headed several teams. We had assignments in East Berlin, in Bonn, in Poland – Jan was with me over there, and I operated in the United States once or twice. Without the co-operation of our American allies, I might add. I didn’t rate their discretion too highly. I was given a job and I did it. Nobody forced me; nobody forced any of you . We all chose our professions. We knew the risks. Some of us thought what we were doing justified the things we did. I put my life on the line for the best part of twenty years. I lost friends. I made a lot of enemies too.’
    For a moment he mocked them, his old opponents sitting listening to him.
    â€˜For