An aggressive scowl forced his upper lip to curl inwards and his jaw to clench. He pointed the index finger of his left hand me at me and the gold wedding band he still wore caught the sunshine pouring in through the unshaded windows. “I thought I had come here to broaden your perspective on a twenty-five-year-old operation when you were being run from London in two satellite states of the Soviet Union, part of my field of influence and professional interest. I'm not sure I want to be interrogated on some supposition you hold regarding the CIA interference being,” he paused, thinking of what words to use, “duplicitous and with me mixed up in it.” Without finishing what little there was of his fine wine, he hurriedly rose from the sofa, making his way towards the door.
“It will be a shame
