looked up. “I’m now grand overlord of Incident Twenty. Take a pew, James.” He nodded to an empty chair—or, rather, the empty chair. The office boasted a number of seats but the rest were serving as outposts for more files. As Bond sat, the ODG’s chief of staff asked, “So, most important, did you get some decent wine and a gourmet meal on SAS Air last night?”
An Apache helicopter, courtesy of the Special Air Service, had plucked Bond from a field south of the Danube and whisked him to a NATO base in Germany, where a Hercules loaded with van parts completed his journey to London. He said, “Apparently they forgot to stock the galley.”
Tanner laughed. The retired army officer, a former lieutenant colonel, was a solid man in his fifties, ruddy of complexion and upright—in all senses of the word. He was in his usual uniform: dark trousers and light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Tanner had a tough job, running the ODG’s day-to-day operations, and by rights he should have had little sense of humor, though in fact, he had a fine one. He’d been Bond’s mentor when the young agent had joined and was now his closest friend within the organization. Tanner was a devout golfer and every few weeks he and Bond would try to get out to one of the more challenging courses, like Royal Cinque Ports or Royal St George’s or, if time was tight, Sunningdale, near Windsor.
Tanner was, of course, generally familiar with Incident Twenty and the hunt for Noah but Bond now updated him—and explained about his own downsized role in the UK operation.
The chief of staff gave a sympathetic laugh. “Carte grise, eh? Must say, you’re taking it rather well.”
“Hardly have much choice,” Bond allowed. “Is Whitehall still convinced that the threat’s out of Afghanistan?”
“Let’s just say they hope it’s based there,” Tanner said, his voice low. “For several reasons. You can probably work them out for yourself.”
He meant politics, of course.
Then he nodded toward M’s office. “Did you catch his opinion on that security conference he’s been shanghaied to attend this week?”
“Not much room for interpretation,” Bond said.
Tanner chuckled.
Bond glanced at his watch and stood up. “I’ve got to meet a man from Division Three. Osborne-Smith. You know anything about him?”
“Ah, Percy.” Bill Tanner raised a cryptic eyebrow and smiled. “Good luck, James,” he said. “Perhaps it’s best just to leave it at that.”
O Branch took up nearly the entire fourth floor.
It was a large open area, ringed with agents’ offices. In the center were workstations for PAs and other support staff. It might have been the sales department of a major supermarket, if not for the fact that every office door had an iris scanner and keypad lock. There were many flat-screen computers in the center but none of the giant monitors that seemed de rigueurin spy outfits on TV and in movies.
Bond strode through this busy area and nodded a greeting to a blonde in her midtwenties, perched forward in her office chair, presiding over an ordered work space. Had Mary Goodnight worked for any other department, Bond might have invited her to dinner and seen where matters led from there. But she wasn’t in any other department: She was fifteen feet from his office door and was his human diary, his portcullis and drawbridge, and was capable of repelling the unannounced firmly and, most important in government service, with unimprovable tact. Although none were on view, Goodnight occasionally received—from office mates, friends and dates—cards or souvenirs inspired by the film Titanic, so closely did she resemble Kate Winslet.
“Good morning, Goodnight.”
That play on words, and others like it, had long ago moved from flirtatiousness to affection. They had become like an endearment between spouses, almost automatic and never tiresome.
Goodnight ran through his appointments for the day but Bond told her to cancel
An Apache helicopter, courtesy of the Special Air Service, had plucked Bond from a field south of the Danube and whisked him to a NATO base in Germany, where a Hercules loaded with van parts completed his journey to London. He said, “Apparently they forgot to stock the galley.”
Tanner laughed. The retired army officer, a former lieutenant colonel, was a solid man in his fifties, ruddy of complexion and upright—in all senses of the word. He was in his usual uniform: dark trousers and light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Tanner had a tough job, running the ODG’s day-to-day operations, and by rights he should have had little sense of humor, though in fact, he had a fine one. He’d been Bond’s mentor when the young agent had joined and was now his closest friend within the organization. Tanner was a devout golfer and every few weeks he and Bond would try to get out to one of the more challenging courses, like Royal Cinque Ports or Royal St George’s or, if time was tight, Sunningdale, near Windsor.
Tanner was, of course, generally familiar with Incident Twenty and the hunt for Noah but Bond now updated him—and explained about his own downsized role in the UK operation.
The chief of staff gave a sympathetic laugh. “Carte grise, eh? Must say, you’re taking it rather well.”
“Hardly have much choice,” Bond allowed. “Is Whitehall still convinced that the threat’s out of Afghanistan?”
“Let’s just say they hope it’s based there,” Tanner said, his voice low. “For several reasons. You can probably work them out for yourself.”
He meant politics, of course.
Then he nodded toward M’s office. “Did you catch his opinion on that security conference he’s been shanghaied to attend this week?”
“Not much room for interpretation,” Bond said.
Tanner chuckled.
Bond glanced at his watch and stood up. “I’ve got to meet a man from Division Three. Osborne-Smith. You know anything about him?”
“Ah, Percy.” Bill Tanner raised a cryptic eyebrow and smiled. “Good luck, James,” he said. “Perhaps it’s best just to leave it at that.”
O Branch took up nearly the entire fourth floor.
It was a large open area, ringed with agents’ offices. In the center were workstations for PAs and other support staff. It might have been the sales department of a major supermarket, if not for the fact that every office door had an iris scanner and keypad lock. There were many flat-screen computers in the center but none of the giant monitors that seemed de rigueurin spy outfits on TV and in movies.
Bond strode through this busy area and nodded a greeting to a blonde in her midtwenties, perched forward in her office chair, presiding over an ordered work space. Had Mary Goodnight worked for any other department, Bond might have invited her to dinner and seen where matters led from there. But she wasn’t in any other department: She was fifteen feet from his office door and was his human diary, his portcullis and drawbridge, and was capable of repelling the unannounced firmly and, most important in government service, with unimprovable tact. Although none were on view, Goodnight occasionally received—from office mates, friends and dates—cards or souvenirs inspired by the film Titanic, so closely did she resemble Kate Winslet.
“Good morning, Goodnight.”
That play on words, and others like it, had long ago moved from flirtatiousness to affection. They had become like an endearment between spouses, almost automatic and never tiresome.
Goodnight ran through his appointments for the day but Bond told her to cancel
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