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Shpiegelglass leaned back in his chair and stroked his upper lip with a crooked finger.

‘I cannot tell you because I do not know,’ he said slowly. ‘A month ago, I came to London with a very pleasant task. I was to perform the Termin Procedure on George. He was to receive his reward for long service and join the Presence.’ Shpiegelglass’s smile vanished. ‘Imagine my surprise when he was nowhere to be found. We had to reconsolidate his network—not an easy task, as it turned out that many of his reports had been incomplete. Finally, a source inside the SIS informed us that a senior Russian intelligence officer had defected. A bear of a man, bald, with a fondness for drink.’

The words were a punch in Peter’s gut. Pendlebury’s soul felt his pain and squirmed inside him. He was half a ghost again, half a living man, a contradiction.

Like George being a defector.

In mathematics, if you started with a contradiction, you could prove anything to be true. One could be made to equal two. Black could be turned white.

Was it the Termin Procedure? George had often talked about the Presence in an irascible manner, like describing an overbearing relative. Maybe George was afraid. Maybe if Peter had explained to him what the Presence was, if he had only tried harder that night they first met, George would have understood—

‘Why?’ Peter whispered.

‘The why no longer matters,’ Shpiegelglass said quietly. ‘Now you see why we took precautions. You could have been followed, or used as a decoy duck. George could have turned you as well. Observing your reaction, I do not believe he did. However, it is possible that the SIS knows about you. It is prudent to assume they do. Therefore, it is imperative that you tell us what you were going to tell George, since that is the one thing left about this operation that is not compromised.’

‘No,’ Peter said. ‘This has to be some kind of misinformation operation, he is under instructions from the Presence—’

Shpiegelglass shook his head and touched Peter’s shoulder.

‘Betrayal feels sharper than Nora’s chisel, I know.’ He motioned to the woman and the metallic pressure against Peter’s neck disappeared.

Peter massaged the sore point. The words rolled out easily now.

‘I asked for a meeting because I have a new source in Madrid,’ he said. ‘A Republican fighter. She told me that Iosif Dzhugashvili, Stalin, is in Spain. The SIS wants to put him in charge of the Republic so Britain can stop supporting Franco. I am supposed to present to a special committee tomorrow, including the prime minister. I wanted to talk to George because I did not know what to do.’

Nora started to take notes as Shpiegelglass asked more questions.

Peter told him about Inez’s recruitment process, BRIAR and what he had gleaned about the uneasy alliance of parties that formed the Republican Government. It took the better part of an hour, and when the spirit crown’s timer chimed, he realised it was seven in the evening.

‘I am nearly due at the Harrises’,’ he said. ‘I will be missed if I don’t attend.’

Abruptly, Shpiegelglass stood up. He folded his hands behind his back and paced around in tight circles. Then he picked up the suitcase, placed it on top of a small surgical instrument trolley and opened it.

‘I am afraid you will not be attending, FELIX.’

The case contained a Fialka Terminal, easily recognisable by its ten wired rotors, typewriter keyboard, silver-grey sheen and a Ouija-style alphabet disc for displaying answers. Only a few illegals—NKVD operatives living in foreign countries with a false identity—possessed a Terminal, a direct line to the Presence. The last time Peter had seen one was in Cambridge.

‘There is a high likelihood that you have been compromised,’ Shpiegelglass said. He punched a long sequence of letters and numbers into the machine. The rotors spun and sparked, and spun again.

Peter’s new handler opened a second compartment and took out a contraption that resembled a spirit crown but was larger and of distinctly utilitarian Soviet make. It had a thick frame that went over the skull and a halo-like arc with two porcelain-tipped electrodes. Curly copper wire connected them to the terminal.

‘If your cover is blown, it is safer if you do not go back. And the fastest way to convey your findings to the Presence,’ Shpiegelglass said, ‘is to perform the Termin Procedure on you.’

Peter stared at the device. A sense of relief washed over him. He would not have to face West tomorrow. He would never have to lie again.

He was going to join the Presence.

Peter smiled as Shpiegelglass placed the device on his head. It was heavy and barely fitted over the spirit crown. Its function was exactly the opposite: to push the soul out, to transmit it directly to the Presence. The body he occupied would not survive.

For a moment, Peter felt a twinge of regret for Pendlebury. But at least in death the man would be free from having his body used as a receptacle for the pleasures of wealthy dead.

Shpiegelglass’s fingers danced deftly on the Fialka’s keyboard. The electrodes pressing against Peter’s head warmed up. The air smelled of ozone.

He tensed, but there was no pain. The world began to warp into a sphere, like a fisheye lens. Then everything went dark, except for a white pinpoint in the distance. It rushed towards him and grew. It was a face, made of light. Its benevolent smile was framed by a perfect, triangular beard. Its radiant vastness filled Peter’s vision.

The song of the Presence washed over him. The voices of the countless souls that made up the Being rose in praise. Longing to join the chorus, he tried to dive into the smiling god-star’s corona.

He was denied. The will of the Presence held him suspended before its all-seeing gaze.

Let me in, he screamed silently. I want to be you.

The Being swallowed him.

It was like drowning in an ocean of light. Suddenly, he knew that—like the mind of the ectotank—the white around him was the sum of many colours, many souls.

The brightness poured in through his eyes like a liquid and filled his skull. It left no room for fear or doubt. For an instant, Peter Bloom ceased to be.

And then the Presence withdrew.

Its absence was worse than death. Peter could not bear it. He heard a terrible sound and realised it was his own voice, screaming. In a mad hope he clawed at the spirit crown’s cable. If he escaped Pendlebury’s body, maybe he could still follow the Presence.

Then Otto and Nora grabbed his arms and held him tight. The only light he could see was the cold, greenish fluorescence of the underground hospital.

‘Send me back!’ Peter cried, tears flowing from his eyes. His mind throbbed like an open wound. ‘Please. Try again. Send me back.’

Shpiegelglass frowned and punched a string of letters into the still-humming Fialka. The arrow on the alphabet disc moved instantly and spelled out a sentence, twitching from one letter to the next. The Soviet agent let out a surprised, musical chuckle. Then he flipped a switch. The Fialka sparked one more time and died.

‘Well, FELIX,’ he said, ‘our task is not yet finished. The Presence thinks having access to the Iberian Commission is more important than the risk of exposing you. And if I know George, he will play the SIS for a while, bargain and cajole. You will be his last card. So there is still a little time.’

Shpiegelglass closed the suitcase with a snap.

‘I have been instructed to go to Spain immediately. Otto and Nora will be your case officers in my absence. As for you, young man—it looks like you are going to make it to your soirée of spies after all.’