Quickly he ripped the adhesive from his back. There was an instant of pain as the plaster came free. He wadded up the sticky package, dropped it to the floor and kicked it under the desk.
Then he took off his coat, tie and shirt.
"You can turn around now," he said.
"A more modest spy I've never seen. Okay," she said, "now you turn around."
"As you see," he said, "there are no plans—no papers."
"No—not now. But there is a red mark on your back. What is it?"
"Oh," he said. "Oh—that's a birthmark."
She spun him around to face her. Her face was harsh. She slapped his cheek. "Where is the sticking plaster? Don't trifle with me."
Her eyes bored into his. He returned the gaze, then shrugged.
"Under the desk," he said. "I tore it off and kicked it under the desk."