“Come on . . .”
They went in.
The doors spun them from the cold reality of the city to the warmth and deception of a world where nothing was ever what it seemed. They were in a reception area with a row of elevators, a marble floor, half a dozen clocks—each one showing the time in a different country—and the inevitable potted plants. But there would be hidden cameras too. Their images would already be on the way to a central computer equipped with face- recognition software. And the two receptionists, both female and pretty, would know exactly who they were before they said a word.
One of them looked up as they approached. “Can I help you?”
“We have an appointment with Mrs. Jones.”
“Of course. Please take a seat.”
It was all so normal. Alex and Jack took their place on a leather sofa with a scattering of financial magazines on the table in front of them. Alex had come straight from school, so he was still in his uniform. He wondered what he must look like to passersby. A rich kid, perhaps, opening his first account.
A few minutes later, one of the elevators opened and a dark-haired woman in a black suit stepped out.
As usual, she wore very little jewelry, just a simple silver chain around her neck. This was Mrs. Jones, the deputy head of Special Operations and the second most important person in the building. Despite the impact that she’d had on his life, Alex knew very little about her. She lived in an apartment in Clerkenwell, near the old meat market. She might have been married once. She had two children, but something had happened to them and they were no longer around. And that was it. If she’d ever had a private life, she’d left it behind her when she became a spy—and the spy was all that was left.
“Good afternoon, Alex.” She didn’t exactly seem pleased to see him. Her face was completely neutral.
“How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you, Mrs. Jones.”
“We’re ready to see you.” She turned to Jack. “I’ll bring Alex back down in about half an hour.” Jack stood up. “I’m coming too.”
“I’m afraid not. Mr. Blunt prefers to see Alex on his own.”
“Then we’re leaving.”
Mrs. Jones shrugged. “That’s your choice. But you said on the telephone that you needed our help.”
“It’s all right, Jack.” Alex could see the way this was going, and he had quickly made his decision. It was always possible that Alan Blunt would agree to help him—but it would only be on his own terms.
Any argument and Alex would be thrown out in the street. It had happened before. “I don’t mind seeing them on their own if that’s what they want.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Jack nodded. “All right. I’ll wait for you here.” She glanced at the magazines. “I can catch up with the latest banking news.”
Alex and Mrs. Jones walked over to the elevator, and she pressed the button for the sixteenth floor.
Only she knew that the button had read her fingerprint and that if she hadn’t been authorized to travel up, two armed guards would have been waiting when she arrived. She was also aware of the thermal intensifier concealed behind the mirror, as well as the early warning chemical detector that had been added recently. Even the floor was examining the soles of Alex’s shoes. The dust and residue under his feet might, in certain circumstances, provide valuable information about where he had been.
Mrs. Jones seemed more relaxed now that the two of them were on their own. “So, how is school going?” she asked.
“Okay,” Alex said. Mrs. Jones sounded friendly enough, but he had learned to treat even the most casual question with suspicion.
“And how was Scotland?”
How had she known he had gone to Scotland for the New Year? Did she know what had happened there? Alex decided to put her to the test. “I had a great time,” he said. “I really liked Loch Arkaig. In fact, I made quite an in- depth visit.”
Mrs. Jones didn’t even blink. “I haven’t been there myself.” They arrived at the sixteenth floor and left the elevator, walking down a heavily carpeted corridor with doors that had numbers but no names. They stopped outside 1605. Mrs. Jones knocked, and without waiting for an answer, they went in.
Alan Blunt was sitting behind his desk as if he had been there forever, as if he never left. He was the same gray man in the same gray suit with the same files open in front of him. Sometimes Alex tried to imagine the head of Special Operations with a wife and children, going to a film or playing sports. But he couldn’t do it. Like Mrs. Jones, Blunt had no life outside these four walls. Was that what he had dreamed about when he was young, being locked into a job that would never let him go? Had he actually ever been young?
“Sit down, Alex.” Blunt waved Alex to a chair without looking up from his paperwork. He wrote something down and underlined it. Alex wondered what he had just done. He could have been ordering extra office stationery. He could have just sentenced someone to death. The trouble with Blunt was that either way he would have shown the same lack of emotion.
He glanced briefly at Alex. “You’re getting taller.” He sounded disapproving—but that made sense.
The younger and more innocent Alex looked, the more useful he was to MI6.
There was a long silence. Alex took the seat he had been offered. Mrs. Jones sat down beside the desk.
Blunt made a few last notes, the nib of his pen scratching against the page. At last he finished what he was doing. “I understand you have a problem,” he said.
