Codename "Holly"

The air on the third basement level had always been fresh, because the only smell here was one that had been diligently circulated countless times through an efficient filtration system—"no smell."

A fair portion of the relief funds approved each year by those gentlemen in Parliament was spent on this—at least, that was what the accounts showed.

This was the area within MI6 jokingly referred to as the "Water Layer," two levels deeper than the "Aquarium" marked on visitor maps intended for non-staff.

As for why—probably because everyone thought it was a fine place to cultivate rheumatism in one's old age.

Naturally, no one came down here for a stroll unless they had business.

Of course, not many people were qualified to come down here in the first place.

Familiar with the route, Barnaby Kensington walked down the corridor and around the corner. Seeing that his superior's office door had not been fully shut, he stopped outside and, with practiced ease, silently counted to three.

Good. There was no anticipated roaring or furious outburst inside. Only silence.

Only then did he step forward, knock on the door, and push it open—whereupon he saw, unsurprisingly, something unexpected.

That old fellow who usually remained planted in his chair was not sitting behind the large mahogany desk he had "casually" bragged about to nearly every subordinate. Instead, he stood with his back to the door before an electronic situation map that covered almost the entire wall.

"You're here."

"Yes, sir. Awaiting your orders."

Rufus Claiborne, a senior figure in MI6's technical division, was an old gentleman in his sixties who was in the prime of life—make no mistake, "in the prime of life" was his own usual summary of his career and political prospects.

The man did not turn around. He had clearly