I started to go to the right, toward the car, thinking we were about to go for a drive.

"No, no, silly," he said, pointing the opposite way.

"She lives at the end of the block, on N."

It was strange; the one thing I didn't get from Lynn was Sarah's address.

Mind you, I didn't ask. It must have been shock at the thought of seeing her again.

As we walked the short distance along the narrow, tree-lined street to the next junction, I saw what he was pointing at. The apartment block was right on the corner of 23rd and N. Its jutting balconies and combination of red brick and white stone made it look like a game of Jenga played with Good & Plenty candy. I couldn't make up my mind whether that was how it had been designed, or if the builders had been drunk when they put it all together.

We carried on toward the junction and I decided to chance a question. I knew I'd resolved not to press him just yet, but this was one that I was very curious to have an answer to.

"Tell me about boyfriends," I said.

He looked at me with a mixture of surprise and disapproval, and sounded quite defensive.

"I don't think that has anything to do with this PV" He paused, then said, "But yes, as a matter of fact, I do ..."

"No, no, not you," I laughed.

"Sarah. Do you know of any men that she's been seeing?"

"Ohhh, Sarah. None at all. Well, not after what happened last time."

His tone just begged the question.

"Why, what happened?"

"Well, poor Sarah was in love with a guy from the real Foreign Office.

He was back in London, but he came here from time to time. They would disappear for a week or two, to the middle of nowhere. Not my sort of stamping ground, let me tell you."

I looked at him expecting to share a smile, but he was thinking of the next bit and had begun to look sad.

"Something very unfortunate happened, and I'm afraid it was me who was the bringer of bad news ..."

He was waiting for the pan to reply, and I obliged: "What bad news?"

"Well, I get a call from Sarah, telling me that Jonathan"--he took a breath, getting really sparked up about him--"is arriving at the airport and she wants me to pick him up and take him straight to the restaurant she's booked for a surprise dinner. They planned to leave for the lakes the next day."

I nodded to show that I was hanging on every word.

"I get to the airport to pick him up. He's never seen me before, of course, but I've seen photographs of him. Anyway, so there I am, waiting.

Out he comes, arm-in-arm with another woman. All over her like a wet dress, I ask you! I put my name card down sharpish, I can tell you, and followed to see what happened next. I even got in the taxi line with them and listened. She was called Anna .. . Ella .. . Antonella--that was it.

Anyway, a stupid name if you ask me, but spot on for a Sloaney slapper, which was what she looked. Too many pearls around her neck; didn't suit her ..." He left a gap. Maybe he wanted me to feel part of the show.

I said, "What happened next?"

"Well, what was I to do? I call Sarah at the restaurant an hour later to say that I couldn't find him. She says, "Not a problem, he's called me on my cell phone." You can imagine, Nick, I struggled all night about what to do. Do I tell her or do I not? Well, it's none of my business, is it? Anyway, the next day the decision was made for me." The smile on his face told me that it had been a good one. He was trying to suppress a giggle.

"Go on."

"Well, poor old Anna whats-her-face had been mugged downtown. In such a mess she was, lost her money, cards, the poor girl was in hospital for days, you know. Well, who does she ask the police to contact but dear Jonathan, care of the emba.s.sy? The call comes through, I get to hear about it, and guess what--it only turns out he's her ! So, I had the contact number and she was in hospital. Poor girl. I suppose I feel sorry for her now."

I laughed, but wondered who in their right mind would two-time with another woman when they already had Sarah.

"What happened?"

He held his hand up, with his index finger folded down.

"The b.i.t.c.h lost his finger; she slammed the car door on his hands! That will teach him to mess with Sarah. If you knew her like I do, Nick, you'd know that she's a wonderful woman. Far too good for a man like that." Someone must have powered up a mobile near us--Metalhead was off on a tangent.

"And she wears such wonderful clothes, you wouldn't believe!"

As we got to the junction I saw that the entrance was on the N Street side. A Latino in a blue polo shirt and green work trousers was hosing down the street directly outside the main doors, while the greenery along the front of the building was getting a drenching from the irrigation system.

The main doors were made of copper-colored alloy and gla.s.s. To the left, a bra.s.s plate welcomed us to the building; to the right, a touchscreen TV entry system made sure the welcome wasn't abused. Metal Mickey took out a long plastic key, which looked as if it should be used to wind up a kid's toy. He slipped it into the keyhole and the doors parted.

We walked into a world of black marble floors, dark-blue walls and ceilings you could free fall from. The elevators were ahead of us, about twenty meters farther down the atrium. To the right of them was a semicircular desk--very Terence Conran, with a shiny wooden top and black marble wall beneath. Behind it sat an equally smart and efficient-looking porter, who would have looked at home on the door of a five-star hotel. It appeared that Metal Mickey knew him quite well. He greeted him with a cheery, "Why, h.e.l.lo, Wayne, how are you today?"

Wayne was fortyish, and obviously having a really good day.

"I'm very good," he smiled.

"How are you doing?"

It was obvious that he didn't really know Metal Mickey's name or he would have said it, but he recognized the face.

"I'm just Jim Dandy," Mickey grinned. Then he looked over at me and said, "This is Nick, a friend of Sarah's. He's going to be using the apartment for a few days while Sarah's away, so I'll show him what's what."

I smiled at Wayne and shook his hand, just to prove to him that I wasn't a threat. Wayne smiled back.

"Anything you need, Nick, just dial HELP on the in-house phone and it'll be done."

"Thanks a lot. I'll need Sarah's parking s.p.a.ce, if she has one."

"You just tell me when you want to collect the pa.s.s key." He beamed.

There was one more thing I needed. I leaned toward Wayne, as if letting him into a secret.

"If Sarah comes in, please don't tell her I'm here. I want to surprise her."

Wayne gave me a knowing, between-men sort of nod.

"No problem.

Tell you what, I'll call you on the in-house if I see her."

Metal Mickey and I took the elevator to the sixth floor. The door opened onto a corridor that was every bit as plush as the entrance hall downstairs, with the same colored walls and subtle, wall-mounted lighting.

You could see the vacuum marks on the thick blue carpet.

Metal Mickey was quiet for a change as we walked along the corridor, his hands in his pockets as he sorted out some keys. He stopped outside the door to apartment 612. "Here we are." He undid the large, five-lever deadlock first, then the equivalent of a Yale lock, and pushed the door open for me.

I stepped in before him and blocked the doorway, which opened straight into the living room. He got the message, dangling the keys between his thumb and forefinger in front of me.

"Do you want me to stay and make you some coffee, or do you need anything else?"

I said, "There will be a few things I need to talk to you about work stuff, you know. Later on. But apart from that, mate, no. But thanks a lot for everything. I just need a little time on my own, to sort myself out; it's my first one, I need to do a good job."

He nodded as if he knew what I was talking about, which was just as well because I didn't; it had just come into my head. It was nothing personal, I just didn't want him around.

He gave me his card.

"My home and pager."

I took it from him.

"Thanks, I'll try not to call you out of hours. I can't imagine there'll be any need. It can all wait until Monday."

It always pays to be nice to people, because you never know when you might need to use them. And besides, Metal Mickey was harmless. As he started to walk back toward the elevator, I poked my head around the doorframe and called out, "Thanks a lot, Michael." He just waved his right hand in the air and said, "Byeee, and remember, anything else you need, just call."

I closed the door and remained standing on the threshold while I keyed Metal Mickey's numbers into my 3C cards always get lost. Once done, I looked around at nothing in particular, just tuning in to the place rather than charging in and not noticing anything. I knew there wouldn't be any letters under the door, because they all went via the central mailbox. I also knew that there'd be nothing tangible, like a notebook with a detailed plan of what she was up to, but if you don't take your time you can go straight for the sixpence and miss the five-pound note.

I went to lock myself in so no one could enter; it was a natural reaction to being in someone else's house when I shouldn't, but on this occasion there was no need. I wanted her to come in; it would certainly make my job a lot easier, and if Wayne kept his eyes open I'd get a warning.

A strange thought struck me. I'd seen Sarah so many times in shortterm accommodation, when we'd stayed in hotels or flats, but this was the first time I'd seen where and how she lived for real. I felt like a voyeur, as if I were watching her undress through her bedroom keyhole.

Basically it was just a large one-bedroom apartment, furnished, I could see at once, by the "accommodation pack"--the standard furniture provided on the diplomatic circuit. Very plush, very expensive, very sophisticated, but not much of it, which the FCO (Foreign and Commonwealth Office) probably called minimalist because that way it sounded fashionable.

The rest of it you bought yourself with an allowance. She obviously hadn't got around to that yet.

In the main room there was a slightly lighter blue carpet than in the hallway outside, and a matching blue sofa and chairs. In the far left-hand corner was a long sideboard with three drawers, facing a large window that looked out on to the rear of the building and one of the creeks that ran into the Potomac. Next to the window was a bookcase, its four shelves filled with hardbacks. I went over and scanned the spines. Quite a few t.i.tles seemed to be concerned with the Middle East and terrorism, and there was a complete set of the 1997 Economist world reports. One shelf started with biographies--Mandela, Thatcher (of course, she would have that), JFK, Churchill--and ended with a couple of Gore Vidal's books, plus a few heavy-going ones on American history and a collection of Oscar Wilde's plays. The bottom shelf held what looked like large-format, coffee table-type books. They were lying flat because of their size and I had to twist my head to see the t.i.tles. I recognized The Times World Atlas because it was the free offer of that which had enticed me into one of the book clubs I'd used when becoming Nick Davidson, and then there were several pictorial ones on different countries in the Middle East, and one about the U.S.

Both the sideboard and bookcase were made from a light wood veneer, and the walls were emulsioned off-white. There had been no effort whatsoever to personalize this flat. It was as anonymous as my house in Norfolk, though at least she had a sofa and a bookcase.

There were a few society, news and what's-on-in-Washington magazines beside the sofa on the floor, piled on top of each other. A phone was lying on top of the mags, its digital display telling me there were no messages.

The walls were bare apart from some bland views of D.C. that were probably taken when JFK- was boss. There were two lamps: a normal table lamp on the floor just in front of the sofa, its wire snaking away across the carpet, and a standard lamp over by the bookcase, both with matching white shades. That was her all over; she might be highly professional in her job, but when it came to her personal admin she was a bag of s.h.i.t. But what did I expect from someone who wouldn't even know her way around Tesco?

There wasn't a television set, which didn't surprise me. She'd never watched it. If you asked her about Seinfeld and Frasier, she'd probably say it was a New York law firm. My eyes moved back to the bookcase. On the bottom shelf sat a large gla.s.s vase, but there were no flowers in it, instead it was filled with coins and pens and all the rest of the s.h.i.t that people pull out of their pockets at the end of the day. Near it was her social calendar: thick, gilded invitations for drinks at eight at British Emba.s.sy or American Congress functions. I counted seven for the last month. It must be a terrible life, having to scoff all those free vol-au-vents and knock back gla.s.ses of champagne.

On the sideboard was a standard, all-in-one, solid-state CD player, probably quite inexpensive, but serving its purpose. About a dozen CDs were stacked on top of each other, and as I walked over I could see that three of them were still in their cellophane. She hadn't had enough time to play them yet maybe next week. There was also a boxed set of five cla.s.sical operas. I turned the cases to read the spines. Cosi Fan Tutte was there, of course one of the few things I did know about her was that it was her favorite.

I looked at the rest of the music: a couple of 1970s Genesis alb.u.ms, remastered on CD, and what looked like a bootleg cover of a group called Sperm Bank. I'd have to have a listen to that one, it was so out of place.

She and I had never really talked that much about music, but I knew she loved opera while I'd hear things on the radio and think. That's good, I'll buy that, but then lose the tape before I'd even played it.

The standby light was still on. I pressed "open," put in the Sperm Bank CD and hit "play." It was some kind of weird Tahitian rap/jazz/funk, whatever they call it very noisy but very rhythmic. I turned the volume up a bit so I could hear it big time, and felt very fashionable. f.u.c.k it, the chances of her coming back here were ziff.

I'd had my first cursory look in the living room, now I'd try the kitchen.

It was about fifteen feet square, with units completely filling up both sides of the wall, so that it ended up being more like a pa.s.sageway. The stove, oven and sink were all built-in.

I had a mooch in the cupboards above the work surfaces, trying to get some idea of how this woman lived. It was nothing to do with the job now.

I was just curious to see this other side of her. There was hardly any food, and probably never had been. There were cans of convenience items, like rice and packet noodles, which could just be opened and boiled, and a couple of packs of gourmet coffee, but no spices or herbs or anything else you'd need if you cooked at home. On the few occasions when she wasn't at emba.s.sy dos, or being dined in restaurants, she probably got by with the microwave.

I opened another cupboard and found six of everything the accommodation pack again plain white crockery, six cups, six gla.s.ses. Over 60 percent of the cupboard s.p.a.ce was empty. In the fridge was half a carton of milk, which wasn't looking too healthy it smelled and looked as if it held the cure for HIV Next to that were some bagels, still in their plastic bag, and half a jar of peanut b.u.t.ter, and that was it. Not exactly Martha Stewart, our Sarah. At least I had some cheese and yogurt in mine.

The bathroom was between the kitchen and the bedroom. There was no bath, just a shower, sink and toilet. The room had been left as if she'd got up normally, done her stuff and dashed off to work. A dry but used towel lay on the floor next to a laundry bin that was half full of jeans, underwear and tights. No sign of a washing machine, but I wasn't really expecting one. Sarah's clothes would go to a dry cleaners, or to a laundry for a fluff and fold.

The bedroom was about fifteen by twenty feet, with a walk-in wardrobe, but no other furniture apart from a double bed and a single bedside lamp sitting on the floor. The duvet was thrown to one side where she'd just woken up and tossed it off. All the bedding was plain white, the same as the walls. There were pillows for two people, but only one of them looked slept on. Again, there were no pictures on the walls, and the Venetian blinds on both windows were closed. Either she'd just got up and gone to work, or this was simply how it always was.

The walk-in closet had mirrored sliding doors. I pulled them open, expecting the scent of a woman's wardrobe, that slight waft of stale perfume lingering on jackets that have been worn once and are back on their hangers before they find their way to the cleaners. In fact, there was almost no smell at all, which wasn't surprising. The rows and rows of expensive-looking clothes were all in dry cleaner's plastic wrapping, and even her blouses and T-shirts were on hangers. Out of curiosity I checked a few labels, and found Armani, Joseph and Donna Karan. She was obviously still slumming it. On a shelf above the dresses was the just as expensive luggage to match. Nothing seemed to be missing or out of place.

In front of me was a small stand-alone chest, just a white Formica thing with about five or six drawers. One of the drawers was open; I looked inside and found panties and bras, again all very expensive.

All her footwear was arranged on the floor on the right-hand side of the wardrobe, and looking very orderly: formal, summer, winter and a pair of trainers. To the left of the wardrobe, and also on the floor, was a shoe box.

I bent down and lifted the lid. A Pica.s.so dove greeted me, on top of more old Christmas and birthday cards. Flicking through them, I found a picture of her arm-in-arm with a tall, good-looking man. They were in woodland, looking extremely happy, both dressed the part in waterproofs and boots. Maybe this was Jonathan, and presumably in happier times. Sarah looked a little older than when I'd seen her on the Syria job; the bob had had two years to grow out and her hair was about shoulder length, still very straight and with a fringe that was just above those big eyes. She hadn't put on weight, and still looked fantastic as she smiled that almost innocent, childlike grin toward me. I realized I was looking at the man beside her and wishing it was me as I dropped the photo back in the box and lay down on the bed. There was no smell of her, just that of dry cleaned cotton.

We had been in and out of Afghanistan those first two months, with no result.

The rebels had managed to get a major offensive off the ground in between their internal feuds and were kicking the a.s.s out of the Russians.

No one would be talking to us for a while, so we got out of the way, taking time off and generally having fun. We could only hope that one of the rebel groups with an entrepreneurial flair would attack a heliport and see us all right with a couple of Hinds.

Both of us could have gone back to the U.K. with the other three and done our own thing, but she wanted to go trekking in Nepal and I knew the country well. It seemed a simple swap: she showed me the historical and religious sites, and I showed her the bars and dives where, as a young infantry soldier on an exchange with the Gurkhas, I'd been separated from my money. It was an education for both of us.

It was during the first week off, staying in Katmandu before moving to Pukara for our week's trek, that things changed. By now she would take the p.i.s.s out of my accent: I called Hackney 'ackney, and she called it Hackemey. We'd just finished a run one day, and were both getting our key cards from our socks, when she leaned into my ear and said, in her bad c.o.c.kney accent, "Awright darling', you wanna f.u.c.k or what?"

Three weeks later, and back with the rest of the team in Pakistan, the cover story of being a couple was now played out for real. I even had fantasies of maybe seeing her later on once the job had ended. I'd been married for four years and things hadn't been going well. Now they were in s.h.i.t state. With Sarah I enjoyed the intimate talks and learning about things I'd never bothered to find out about, or even knew existed. Up until then, I'd thought Cosi Fan Tutte was an Italian ice cream. This was it.

Love. I didn't understand what was happening to me. For the first time in my life I had deep, loving feelings for someone. Even better, I got the impression she felt the same. I couldn't bring myself to ask her, though; the fear of rejection was just too great.

When the Afghanistan job finished, we were on the flight home from Delhi and well into our descent to Heathrow before I plucked up enough courage to ask her the big question. I still didn't know that much about her, but it didn't matter, I didn't think she knew that much about me either.

I just really needed to be with her. I felt like a child being dropped off by a parent and not knowing if they will ever come back. Courage or desperation, I wasn't sure which, but I kept my eyes on the in-flight magazine and said, very throwaway, "We're still going to see each other, aren't we?"

The dread of rejection lifted as she said, "Of course." Then she added, "We've got to debrief."

I thought she'd misunderstood me.