“Closet and loo there,” she said, pointing. Then she took his coat, hat, and umbrella from him and hung them in the closet. She produced a medium-sized buff envelope and shook the contents out onto the desktop. “Your credentials,” she said, hanging a plastic card—with his photograph, rank, and name—around his neck by a ribbon. She handed him a British passport, bound in red leather. “Your diplomatic passport,” she said. “Sign it, please.” She handed him a pen.

He opened the passport, read it to see that the information about him was correct, then signed it and returned the pen to her.

She handed him a printed sheet of paper. “Please take this to the armory, in subbasement two, where you will be issued with a weapon.” She indicated two sheets of paper on the desk. “Please sign the document on the left, which is the Official Secrets Act, and the one on the right, which is a receipt for the ID card and the passport.”

He signed them. “When may I see the director?”

“On Monday morning,” she said. “Ten AM. She is away for the weekend.”

“How may I contact her, if it should become necessary?”

“Call the main switchboard here, and they will locate her and patch you through. If she is available,” she added. She walked to a bookcase, took a book from a shelf, and handed it to him. “This is a history of the intelligence services, combined with a manual of conduct for officers. You should finish reading it before Monday morning.”

“Right,” he said. “Do I have a secretary?”

“I am your secretary,” she said. “My name is Marcia Cartwright; my office is next door, to your left, and you may ring or summon me by pressing the green button on your telephone. The red button is for the director.”

“Thank you, Ms. Cartwright,” he said.

“Please call me Marcia or Cartwright. We’re informal here—most of the time. The director’s secretary is Mrs. Prudence Green. She prefers to be addressed as Mrs. Green.”

“Thank you again,” he said, then sat down at his desk, waited for her to close the door, then opened the book she had given him and began to read.

—

Two hours passed, then he closed the book, picked up the weapon requisition, and made his way down to subbasement two. The door to the armory stood open, revealing a wooden counter backed by a heavy steel screen. He walked in, found a bell on the counter, and rang it.

A uniformed Royal Marines master sergeant became visible through the screen, then opened the door. “Brigadier Fife-Simpson, I presume, sir,” he said.

“Correct,” the brigadier replied.

“Welcome to MI-6, sir,” the man said. “How may I help you?”

Fife-Simpson put the requisition on the countertop. “I wish to be armed,” he replied.

“Of course, sir. What sort of weapon did you have in mind?”

“Something small, light, and concealable, perhaps a .380 semiautomatic.”