THE spy came in from the damp, striding briskly from his chauffeur-driven Rover 2000, whuppa-da-whupp through the revolving door into the Victorian lobby of Brown's Hotel, Dover Street, London W.I. To an experienced counterespionage agent, his disguise probably would have appeared too perfect, and therefore suspicious. But there were no M15 types on duty at Brown's —only a myopic receptionist too vain to wear her National Health Service spectacles and a concierge who had been with the house for 43 years and certainly knew a well-to-do Yank tourist when he saw one: blue suit, rep tie, white handkerchief folded so that...
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