This time, the big door opened, and a man wearing the black uniform of a commissionaire, an association of retired military people who provided reception and security services to businesses and some government officers, ushered him in. “Briefcase and umbrella on the moving belt,” he said, pointing. His uniform sleeve wore the stripes of a master sergeant.

Fife-Simpson set them down and watched them stop under a machine of some sort, then watched as the two objects were x-rayed.

“Hat,” the commissionaire said, removing it for him, turning out the lining and feeling it everywhere, then handed it back to him. “Overcoat off, please,” the man said.

Fife-Simpson shucked off the garment and handed it to him.

The man felt every square inch of the coat, then handed it back to him and gave him a very thorough frisking, not forgetting his crotch.

The commissionaire handed him a slip of paper. “Collect your things. Elevator to the sixth floor, turn left, end of the corridor,” he said.

Fife-Simpson collected his things, then got on the elevator and pressed the button, glancing at the paper. Room 630. The elevator arrived and opened, and he turned left and marched down the corridor. The door straight ahead of him opened before he could reach for the knob, and a middle-aged woman in a frumpy business suit greeted him. “Good morning, Mr. Fife-Simpson,” she said.

“Brigadier Fife-Simpson,” he replied. He then noticed that they were standing not in an office, but a kind of library, lined with steel shelving and with a matching conference table in the middle of the room, surrounded by a dozen steel chairs.

“Have a seat,” the woman said. “Your office is not ready just yet. Someone will come for you.” She stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her and leaving Fife-Simpson alone.

The brigadier looked around the room in disgust. He hung his British Warm coat on a peg beside the door, along with his umbrella, then set his briefcase and trilby hat on the table and sat down. He opened the briefcase, extracted a copy of the Daily Telegraph, and began reading the newspaper. Waiting was a skill best learned in the Royal Marines, he thought, where much of it was required.

Twenty-one minutes later the door was opened by a younger, better-dressed woman. “Good morning, Brigadier,” she said. “If you would come with me, please.”

Once again, Fife-Simpson gathered his things and followed her at a quick clip down the hallway. As they passed a set of elegant double doors on their left, she said, without slowing down, “Director’s office,” then led on to the end of the hallway, where a single door was marked with a shiny brass plate, reading DEPUTY DIRECTOR. She opened it, revealing an oak-paneled room with a desk, two chairs, a small conference table at one end with four more chairs, and two doors to his right. There was also a sofa, suitable for napping, he observed.