incredible park that seemed to contain the city rather than the other way around. Looking back at the harbor, the bustle of life below, and the gleaming skyscrapers stretched out behind, Alex wondered how the Australians had managed to get it all so right. It was impossible not to love Sydney, and despite what Jack had said, he knew he wasn’t ready to leave.
Together, the two of them made their way up past the
gallery of New South Wales and into Macquarie Street, where the parliament building stood, two stories high, an elegant construction of pink and white that somehow reminded Alex of the ice cream he had just eaten. The address they had been given was just beyond, a modern glass block that was presumably filled with minor government offices. The receptionist already had visitor passes waiting for them and directed them to the fourth floor and a room at the end of a corridor.
“I don’t know why they couldn’t have just put you on a plane and sent you out of here,” Jack grumbled as they left the elevator. “It seems a lot of fuss about nothing.” There was a door ahead of them. They walked through without knocking and stopped dead in their tracks. There had obviously been some sort of mistake. Wherever they were, this certainly wasn’t a visa office.
Two men were talking to each other in what looked like a library, with antique furniture and a Persian rug on a highly polished wooden floor—Alex’s immediate impression was that the room didn’t belong to the building it was in. A golden Labrador lay curled up on a cushion in front of a fireplace. One of the men was behind a desk.
He was the older of the two, wearing a shirt and jacket and no tie. His eyes were concealed behind designer sunglasses. The other man was standing by the window with his arms folded. He was in his late twenties, thin and fair-haired, dressed in an expensive suit.
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“Oh . . . I’m sorry,” Jack began.
“Not at all, Miss Starbright,” the man behind the desk replied. “Please come in.”
“We’re looking for the visa office,” Jack said.
“Sit down. I take it Alex is with you? The question may seem odd, but I’m blind.”
“I’m here,” Alex said.
“Who are you?” Jack asked. She and Alex had moved farther into the room. The younger man came over and closed the door behind them.
“My name is Ethan Brooke. My colleague here is Marc Damon. Thank you very much for coming in, Miss Starbright. Do you mind if I call you Jack? Please—take a seat.”
There were two leather chairs in front of the desk.
Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, Jack sat down. The man called Damon walked across and took a third seat at the side. Next to the fireplace, the dog’s tail thumped twice against the wooden floor.
“I know you’re in a hurry to get back to London,” Brooke began. “But let me explain why the two of you are here. The fact of the matter is, we need a little help.”
“You want our help?” Jack looked around her. Suddenly it all made sense. “You want Alex.” She spoke the words heavily. She knew now who the men were, or at least what they represented. She had met their type before.
“We’d like to make Alex a proposition,” Brooke agreed.
“Forget it. He’s not interested.”
“Won’t you at least listen to what we have to say?” Brooke spread his hands. He looked completely reasonable. He could have been a bank manager advising them on their mortgage or a family lawyer about to read a will.
“We want the visa.”
“You’ll have it. As soon as I’m done.” Alex had said nothing. Jack looked at him, then turned to Brooke and Damon with anger in her eyes. “Why can’t you people leave him alone?” she demanded.
“Because he’s special. In fact, I’d say he’s unique. And right now we need him, just for a week or two. But I promise you, Jack. If he’s not interested, he can walk out of here. We can have him on a plane tonight. Just give me a minute to explain.”
“Who are you?” Alex asked.
Brooke glanced at Damon. “We work for ASIS,” the younger man replied. “The Australian Secret Intelligence Service.”
“Special Operations?”
“Covert Action. The two are more or less the same.
You could say that we’re the rough equivalent of the outfit that Alan Blunt runs in London.”
“I’ve read your file, Alex,” Brooke added. “I have to say, I’m impressed.”
“What do you want me for?” Alex demanded.
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“I’ll tell you.”
Brooke folded his hands, and to Alex it seemed somehow inevitable, unsurprising, even. It had happened to him six times before. Why not again?
“Have you ever heard the term
