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Amanda froze, a gin-and-tonic highball in each hand. ‘Is that a gun in your hand Tony, or are you…?’
‘It’s a gun. Sorry.’ Tony shrugged, lying back on a bright orange beanbag. ‘Now, if you’d please hand over the notebook that Dr Vogel gave you.’
Without taking her eyes off him, Amanda put down the two glasses on a nearby coffee table. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘And there I was, starting to think you were quite bright – for a girl. Dex Britton wasn’t the East German agent, my dear. I am.’
‘But… you’re from an aristocratic British family!’
Tony rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, and they’re all frightful bores. Being an agent is much more exciting.’
‘Agent? Don’t you mean spy? Or traitor?’
Tony’s expression hardened. ‘The notebook. Now! Or do I have to clamber out of this beanbag and get it myself?’
Reluctantly, Amanda reached up to her honey-blonde beehive hairdo, rummaged for a moment, then… ‘Voila!’ She pulled out Dr Vogel’s notebook.
‘You really are full of surprises, aren’t you?’ Tony said, pulling back the revolver’s safety catch with a click, and holding out his hand. ‘Give it to me.’
‘Are you hurt? Are you all right?’
With a sigh of resignation, Amanda stepped forward. ‘And what happens…?’ she began. But her words were cut off as she squealed in surprise. The heel of one of her calf-length, white leather boots had caught in the weave of an Afghan rug, and, staggering forward, she made a grab for one of the glasses of gin and tonic…
‘You clumsy... Aargh!’ Tony yelled as gin and ice cubes