This is an exclusive three-chapter preview of Jenny Walker's latest novel, "Breaking Cover".
Steve Williams, an intelligence analyst, faces the prospect of being sent into the field... but it wasn't to be how he always imagined it.

Breaking Cover

by Jenny Walker

ONE

The Breath of Heaven!

The phrase in the intercept had struck me as familiar and I knew I had come across it before. It had got to the stage where my determination to remember was fuelled more by the desire to win the battle with my imperfect memory than by the need to actually have the answer to the problem. I rubbed my eyes and blinked several times as I stared at the screen in front of me. Leaning back in my chair, I closed my eyes and chewed the knuckle of my right index finger as I tried to dredge my mind for the piece of information that had been eluding me for the better part of a day.
 "Having problems, Steve?" said a voice right into my left ear.
 "Wha? Crap!" I exclaimed as I nearly overbalanced backwards.
 I turned to find that Mary, the owner of the voice, had caught my chair before it could topple. She righted it and smiled with great satisfaction.
 "You startled me," I said with a rueful grin.
 "No kidding." She looked at the characters on my screen and frowned. "What's eating you?"
 I sighed and shrugged. "Damn Arabic. Could mankind have invented a more difficult language and script if they had tried?"
 She laughed. "Have you tried Mandarin?"
 I winced. "I'm having enough trouble as it is." I ran a hand through my hair. "There's this one phrase in the middle of this intercept that's bugging me. The whole thing seems innocent enough, but here's the line." I tapped the screen.
 She looked at me sceptically. "You'll have to enlighten me. Remember, genius, I don't speak or read Arabic."
 I grinned. "Yeah, well I'm still pretty much a beginner. I'm out of my depth." I pointed to the screen again. "This one phrase, it means..." I paused. "Well, it's hard to translate directly, but it's something like 'the breath of heaven'."
 "And that should mean something to me?"
 "Probably not, but it's ringing bells somewhere deep in my brain."
 Mary laughed. "That's the bell ringing to say it's time for home." She looked at her watch. "In fact, it's way past time. It's almost seven o'clock."
 I frowned and looked at my watch. "Yeah, you're right. So what are you doing here this late on a Friday evening?"
 She smiled sweetly. "I'm going on a date and was just putting in the time. No point fighting my way out of London just to turn around and fight my way back in again."
 I turned to face her and did a double take.
 "Umm, you've changed clothes."
 She laughed. "You see, you are observant enough to be a field intelligence officer. I always knew it."
 I screwed up my face. She knew me well enough to know which buttons to press to annoy me. She did look good though. The change from smart daytime trouser suit to little black dress and the addition of make up made her look very different.
 She shifted self-consciously. "What are you looking at?"
 "You," I answered. "You look good." I paused. "So, err, you're going on a date?"
 She shook her head with admiration. "Incisive powers of observation and amazing capacity for recollection."
 "Leave it out," I said good-naturedly. "So, do I know him?"
 Her eyes narrowed and she stood up straight. "I wouldn't think so and stop with your fishing for information."
 I grinned and folded my arms. "I don't believe there even is a date."
 "What are you talking about? I think your Arabic has fried your brain."
 I shrugged. "I know your game. This is all a ploy to make me jealous."
 She laughed. "Am I that transparent? Is it working?"
 I grinned. "I'm trying to resist your feminine wiles, but I know it's futile as I can feel myself being overcome with desire already."
 "I don't think I want to be around when that happens so I'd better leave now. Oh, before I forget, I'm sure you are looking forward to Monday."
 I took the bait. "Why would that be?"
 She smiled. "Your girlfriend will be back."
 I sighed and rolled my eyes. She really knew how to needle me. "Look would you give it a rest? For the thousandth time, she is not my girlfriend."
 She giggled. "Well, you seem to know who I'm talking about even though I didn't say her name."
 I grimaced and realised I'd played right into her hands. "I guessed you were talking about Miranda," I said in a flat tone.
 She winked. "Bingo." She checked her watch once more. "I'd better get going." She turned and walked a few steps before looking back over her shoulder, grinning. "Steve, do try and get a life sometime tonight..."
 I looked up from where I had been staring.
 "Hey!" she exclaimed. "You were looking at my ass!"
 I grinned and shrugged. "Where else would you have me look?"
 She tutted and haughtily walked off. I thought I heard a muttered, "Men!"

After Mary left, I had tried to focus on the text I was studying, but my concentration had gone. At half past seven I decided to call it a night and switched off my terminal. I was the last one on the floor and I dimmed the lights before heading to the security doors. I inserted my pass and exited onto the hallway. I rode the lift up to the ground floor and walked across the spacious but deserted atrium. My footsteps echoed across the marble floor and I looked up the high narrow well that rose through the centre of the building to the glass roof that allowed natural light to filter down. As I passed the security desk, a familiar cheery voice rang out, "Evening, Mr. Williams."
 I smiled and turned. "Night, Fred. You pulling a double shift again?"
 A large smile beamed from his red cheeks. "That I am, Mr. Williams, that I am. The missus has expensive tastes and I like to keep her in the style to which she is accustomed."
 I laughed. "It's a hard life, Fred."
 Fred was practically part of the furniture. He had been there longer than anyone could remember - even including the bigwigs on the tenth floor. It was rumoured that he knew every employee by name and I wouldn't have bet against that fact. I had given up trying to get him to call me by my first name; it just wasn't going to happen. Many joked that all the new-fangled modern security wasn't needed when Fred was on duty as he'd spot an intruder within seconds, no matter what security pass they might possess.
 I slid my security card into the slot by one of the six door pods and typed in my PIN number. A buzzer sounded and my card resisted my efforts to extract it. I sighed. "Am I doomed to spend my life here?" I muttered.
 Fred, who had arrived at my side, chuckled and said, "No, Mr. Williams, that's my destiny." He gave the pod a kick. "This damn pod has been playing up all day - pardon my language." He kicked a certain spot on one side of the pod's base and the buzzer stopped, my card was released and the pod slid open.
 "Thanks, Fred." I gave a mock-salute and stepped into the pod. The door slid closed behind me and, after a fraction of a second, the door in front of me slid open to allow me to step into the still evening air outside. It wasn't quite dark yet and although it was only the middle of April, there was a hint of warmth in the air. It was like a faint promise of the summer to come.
 I walked over the bridges that spanned the two 'dry moats' and exited through the front gates onto Albert Embankment. After strolling around the side of the towering edifice, I stood at the edge of the Thames beside Vauxhall Bridge. With amusement, I leaned against the wall and listened to a tourist couple who were paying great attention to my place of employment.
 "Is that really where MI6 are based? It's so... public?"
 "That's what the book says, dear."
 "It can't be right. Surely they'd pick somewhere less conspicuous."
 The man turned and, spotting me nearby, wandered over. "Excuse me; I wonder if you could settle something for us. Is that the MI6 building?"
 I smiled and shrugged. "I'm sorry, I really wouldn't know."
 "No worries. Sorry to bother you." They wandered off along the embankment.
 I chuckled to myself and headed towards Lambeth, looking forward to a good workout in the gym. The MI6 building was something of a paradox. A large, unique stone and glass edifice that was instantly recognisable on the South Bank of the Thames, yet inside was housed the most secretive organisation in British life. I often wondered if it didn't reflect a degree of self-assured overconfidence. Here we are, it says, you know we're here, but you will never know anything more about us and you can't touch us. Of course, that isn't to say that no-one ever tried to breach the fortress. In September 2000 a dissident Irish republican group had launched an anti-tank missile at the building using a rocket launcher. The result? One broken window, no casualties, no sweat broken. This was understandably reassuring to those of us who spent our days in Legoland - Legoland being the colloquial term of endearment the employees had given to the new home of the British Secret Intelligence Service when it had moved there in 1995.
 After a brisk twenty-minute walk, I found myself at my destination and entered the dingy-looking premises.

It was just over two hours later when I wearily arrived back at the door of my apartment building. From the gym, I'd had to backtrack past Vauxhall Cross and over to the north side of the Thames before carrying on down the river a while to Pimlico. After the vigorous exercise of the evening, climbing the two flights of stairs was like the straw that broke the camel's back. I dropped my kit bag at my feet and dug my keys out of my pocket to open the door. The apartment was in darkness. I remembered that my flatmate, Sean, had told me that he was seeing some new girl and not to expect him home before dawn. I flicked the light switch and nothing happened. I sighed. Sean had told me that the bulb had blown and neither of us had gotten round to replacing it. I kicked my bag over the threshold and closed the door behind me. I felt my way along the wall and bent down to turn on the table lamp in the hallway.
 I was aware of movement behind me a split second before I was driven to the floor by a strong blow. My head hit the wooden floor and I briefly saw stars. I was pinned to the ground by someone sitting on my back. My assailant's knees were on my arms and I couldn't move them. I took a breath and let instinct take over. My arms were immobilised and my face was being pushed down hard against the floor. I raised myself a fraction on one knee and with the other leg swung my foot upwards hard until it connected with something soft. A grunt from above told me I had made a good connection and instantly I tried to roll to one side. Realising what was happening, the intruder tried to force me down again, but I had moved enough to free one arm. Keeping my hand stiff, I chopped upwards, hoping to hit his windpipe. My hand jarred against what felt like his chin. It wasn't the desired target, but it knocked him sufficiently off balance so that I could free my other arm. I pushed myself up and rammed my head backwards into his face. It was then easy to push him off my back and I jumped to my feet, grabbed his hair and shoved him to the floor, giving him a knee in the kidney for good measure. I twisted one arm up his back, used one leg to pin the other arm and the other to keep his feet from doing to me what I had done to him.
 "Who the hell are you?" I snarled.
 "Mmmmf," he murmured.
 I pulled his head back sharply by the hair. "Try again," I said harshly.
 "Steve, it's me, Sean. You're killing me."
 As his words sank in, I held him in this position for a few seconds before unceremoniously dropping his head to the ground. I stood with disgust and switched the lamp on. Sean gingerly sat up and held his nose, which was bleeding.
 "What on earth did you think you were doing?" I shouted at him.
 Sean winced. "I think you've broken my nose."
 I exhaled slowly. "Don't be such a wimp. If I'd broken your nose, you'd know. There'd be no thinking about it. What was that all about? I could have really hurt you."
 "You did!" he protested.
 I raised an eyebrow. "You're able to walk, talk and breathe. Stop complaining."
 He got to his feet, unsteadily walked into the living area and collapsed into a chair, holding a tissue to his nose. I sat down opposite him and glared. I waited for him to speak.
 After a few minutes, he shrugged. "I was just trying to get the jump on you for once. Why'd you have to go and unleash your ninja stuff on me like that?"
 I shook my head with incredulity. "Because I thought you were some bloody psychopath who was going to kill me or something." I paused, "Although, on reflection, I think I was right on the psychopath count. Most flatmates say 'hello' or 'how's it going' rather than trying to beat the living daylights out of their room mate. Weren't you supposed to be out all night with some babe or other?"
 Sean managed a smile. "Ah, that was part of the cover story to throw you off guard. Did it work?"
 I gave a hollow laugh and gestured to his face. "You're the one with the bleeding nose; you tell me if it worked."
 Sean was undeterred. "And the blown light bulb in the hallway: I put a dud one in yesterday and was fairly sure you wouldn't get round to changing it. Then I waited until I saw you coming down the street; I chimney-climbed up the walls and held myself spread-eagled there until you came in and then I dropped you."
 "Masterful work," I said sarcastically. "But I'm still left wondering... why?"
 He sighed. "I've been working out and all. I really thought I'd built up my upper body strength. I thought I could take you this time."
 Over the past year, Sean on occasion would jump out at me inside the flat and try to take me by surprise. This usually led to a bit of friendly sparring that inevitably escalated and finished with me extracting a promise of submission from him. I knew it galled him. The previous episodes had never been as violent as the one that had just passed.
 I sat back in my chair. "I don't see why you get so worked up about it. You want to work out and beef up? Fine, but why do you feel you have to try to take me?"
 He screwed his face up. "I just don't get it. I'm fairly well built, reasonably strong. With a bit of work, I was sure I could take a..."
 "Take a what, Sean?"
 He grinned. "You know what I mean."
 "Say it."
 "All right," he replied with some frustration. "I was simply going to say that I thought I could take someone who seemed as... weedy as you do."
 I nodded. "Someone as weedy as me just beat you senseless. It's lucky I realised it was you before..." I let my voice trail off as I eyeballed him with a menacing look on my face.
 He leant forward, looking intrigued. "What would you have done, Steve? Tell me. Can you show me a few moves."
 "No, no and no. We are not doing this." I paused and tried to change the subject. "So there was no girl?"
 Sean waved a hand. "There might have been."
 "She turned you down?"
 He grinned. "How'd ya guess?"
 I smiled. "I'm familiar enough with the concept, remember?"
 The tension had passed. Sean filled me in on the details of his latest fancy while I went to the kitchenette to defrost and cook some pizza in the microwave. I shared it with him and we sat munching it in silence for a few minutes.
 "So, what about you?" Sean asked.
 "What about me?"
 "On the girl front, I mean."
 "It's non-existent."
 "What do you call that chick we met that works with you?" Sean asked with his mouth half-full of pizza.
 "Huh?"
 "You know: brunette, not bad looking, feisty."
 "Mary Jenkins?" I asked tentatively.
 "Yes, that's the one. What about her?"
 I shrugged. "We're just friends. There's nothing going on there."
 "Yeah right."
 "I mean it. We get on well, but she drives me crazy." I sat back and, feeling more relaxed, continued, "It's as if she knows me too well - like she's right inside my head. She knows just what to do or say to irritate the hell out of me. She knows my Achilles’ heels and all my sore spots."
 Sean winked. "Maybe I could get her to share them with me and I might have more success next time I take you on."
 I laughed. "She'd make mincemeat out of you. And next time you try your luck with me, call 999 for your ambulance beforehand."
 Sean nodded. "Nah, I can see why you aren't interested in her."
 "Why's that?"
 "She's a little pudgy, isn't she? Not that attractive and brunettes aren't really your thing."
 "I wouldn't say she was pudgy," I said defensively. "She's... curvy and it's not that she's unattractive..." I saw the look on his face and stopped. "What?"
 He chuckled. "I knew it. You do like her."
 I threw a cushion at him. "Smartass. It's irrelevant anyway; she was heading out on a date tonight."
 "Doesn't mean anything. Might not be serious."
 "Don't judge others by the low standards you set in your relationships."
 "Have you heard her talk about him? Who is he?" Sean asked.
 "She hasn't said anything about him. I tried to plug her for some info, but she wouldn't say."
 "There you go," Sean said triumphantly, "it's probably a first date. She's not sure about the guy and doesn't want to say anything. It'll all go horribly wrong and she'll be driven into your arms and you'll live happily ever after... and I'll give you a hell of a stag night!"
 I laughed, "What's it like living in Seanworld?" I shook my head. "It's not going to happen. We're too different." I stretched out on the sofa and yawned. "Did you save the world today?"
 Sean grinned and spread his hands. "Oh, you know, just a few times. The PM did get on the blower and ask my advice on a few policy points; I foiled a major terrorist plot to replace meaty British sausages with stringy European ones and I saved a beautiful maiden from a horrible death." He ran a finger around his collar and winked lecherously. "Boy, was she ever thankful? What about you?"
 I laughed. It was hard to be angry with Sean for long. "The usual. Had to fly to Zanzibar to meet a contact."
 "A woman?" Sean interrupted.
 "Of course," I continued. "And we are talking buxom. Unfortunately my cover was that I am an internationally renowned playboy and to get the information we needed from her, I had to let her have her wicked way with me." I grinned. "Then I had to personally brief the PM with the intel... by the way, he said to tell you that your policy advice sucked and that you're sacked."
 Sean laughed. "Touché"
 Sean and I had met four years previously as eager, but naíve interns on the Joint Security Induction Course. It was abbreviated to JSIC and phonetically called Jesic, which got unfortunately expanded to Jessica. The field intelligence officers, smart asses that they are, loved to refer to us 'stay-at-homes' as 'Jessies'. During our training, Sean and I became fast friends, despite our differences: Sean was irresponsible and irreverent whereas I was the steady, rational one. After the six month course, Sean was assigned to MI5, the Security Service responsible for UK security, whereas I was assigned to MI6 as an intelligence analyst. As part of our training we had been advised to be wary about telling others who we really worked for. This rule wasn't as absolute for support officers like ourselves as it was for the field intelligence officers. Nonetheless it seemed like good practice. The usual cover for MI5 employees was that they worked for the Home Office; as for MI6, we worked for the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. For several reasons, it made sense for us to share a flat together. Not only did it help with the prohibitively high London rent, but it meant that we didn't have to be constantly on our guard at home. Although we had the discretion not to share specific details of our work with each other, it was common for us to bluster about how important we were and how we were really super spies. In truth, Sean had no such aspirations beyond his comfortable office-based job. I was different. I hated the artificial division that had been made at recruitment. How could they decide at that point who was suitable for field training and who was to be a desk jockey? Plus I had a history that weighed heavily on me.

TWO

I hammered on the bathroom door. "Sean, for goodness sake hurry up. You've been in there for over half an hour. I'm going to be late for work."
 The door opened and Sean sauntered out with his trademark cheeky Irish grin plastered on his face. "You see, your problem is that you need to get up earlier. Then you can have the bathroom first."
 I shook my head. "I do get up early. I swear you stand and wait just inside your door until you hear me coming out and then you nip out and get into the bathroom just before me."
 Sean winked. "I always said you were a smart guy."
 "Git!" I murmured under my breath as I pushed past him.
 "Oh, by the way," he said, turning round, "You're out of moisturiser."
 "Sean!" I whined. "Why don't you buy your own?"
 He spread his hands. "Male moisturiser? You won't catch me buying that."
 "But you're happy to use mine?"
 He grinned. "That doesn't count."
 I sighed with frustration and slammed the door. There was only time for a brief shower and I jumped out a little too quickly. I slipped on the floor and just caught myself before falling. "I hate Mondays," I murmured as I checked my appearance in the mirror. No time to shave, but no great need for it either. There was a loud thump from the other side of the bathroom door.
 "C'mon, slowcoach," Sean shouted, "You're going to make me late for work too."
 I opened the door and scowled at Sean as he casually leant against the wall. "Want me to wait?" he asked. "Or are you going to take too long deciding what to wear?"
 "Up yours," I growled.
 He chuckled. "Someone got out of the wrong side of the bed today. I'll take that as a reluctant yes."
 I threw on a shirt and a pair of slacks and grabbed a jacket before heading out with Sean. It was fairly chilly outside, but walking briskly soon warmed us up. At Vauxhall Bridge, we parted ways. Sean was heading on up the north side to Thames House, the headquarters of MI5, and I was crossing over to Vauxhall Cross.
 "Lunch?" Sean called out as he walked away.
 "Uhh, yeah, sure," I replied. "Doug's?"
 "OK, see you there."

I joined the queue outside the pods to get into the MI6 building. I heard a familiar voice cursing behind me. I turned to see a middle-aged plump man with red cheeks glaring at the line in front of us.
 "Morning, Gibson," I said cheerily.
 He focussed on me. "What? Oh, hello, Steve. I say, isn't this a bloody fiasco. Not only does one have to fight the London traffic for over an hour, but once one gets here then there is this stupid routine to get in the damn doors."
 I chuckled. "Can't have the world and his wife just walking in, can we?"
 "I suppose not," he agreed reluctantly.
 "Good weekend?" I asked.
 His expression brightened. "Not bad at all, thanks. We took a ride on the Chiltern line on Saturday. Was a fine journey and the engines were splendid." Gibson Fairfax worked with me in the Western European and North African Controllerate - called WENA by those who worked there and called worse things by others. He headed up the technical support end for the Controllerate. To say that he was anal would have been putting it mildly. He was pristinely dressed in an Italian wool suit, crisply-ironed shirt with matching silk tie. He was unmarried and, besides technology, his great love was steam trains. He was a member of some railway enthusiasts' club or other and was only too happy to talk about their expeditions at great length. I let him give me all the minute details and managed to feign enough interest to convince him I was actually listening to what he was saying. Thankfully, I found myself at the pods, just as Gibson was about to tell me the serial numbers of the engines that had been running at the weekend. I jammed my card into the slot, typed in my PIN and enjoyed a split second of silence in the pod before entering the main atrium of the building. Whereas the previous Friday night it had been empty, this morning it was a hive of activity as the myriad employees of MI6 headed to their respective offices. It always seemed strange that everyone looked so normal. I never knew what I thought they should look like, but surely something should stand out about those who worked for the Secret Intelligence Service. I nodded to the young guard on duty and said a hello, but didn't get any response. Fred was the last of a dying generation and his eventual departure would be mourned by many, including me.
 Gibson and I waited at the large bank of lifts for one that was going down. Whilst the upper floors of the building were obviously evidenced by the external appearance, from outside there were no signs of the subterranean world that existed within. There were six underground floors housing the more sensitive aspects of the Service's work. WENA was on the lower fourth floor. Gibson and I exited the lift and headed to the security doors leading to the WENA area. Forget retinal scanners: the latest technology was spatial facial scanners. Our security passes had a 3D holographic picture of our faces embedded in them and the badge had to be pressed against a flat scanner while the corresponding face was presented to the adjacent facial scanner which looked like a fancy camera. Apparently retinal images were easier to fake and the 3D topography of the face was therefore a more secure identifier. One quirk of this system was that if you went for a radically different hairstyle, you had to apply for a new badge. Perhaps that was part of my excuse for rarely getting around to a haircut as mine was now creeping below collar-length. I figured that once the scanner wouldn't permit me access, then it would be time to visit the hairdresser.
 After a quick check of my email on arriving at my desk, I headed into the back office to where Jack and the rest of my team were based. For the past year, I had been the senior intelligence analyst for WENA and headed up a team of four junior analysts who reported to me. The WENA floor was arranged slightly differently from what you might expect. The main department heads had desks on the open floor whereas the supporting teams shared the enclosed offices. The theory was that the teams could get on with their particular tasks that they were focussed on without being distracted, but that the heads should be able to openly share information and work together with the big picture. Jack Montgomery was my deputy and each day would start with a review of what was new and what was priority.
 "Morning, Steve," Jack said. "Coffee?"
 "Thanks, that would be wonderful." We swapped idle conversation for a few moments before getting down to business. "So, what have we got?" I asked.
 Jack nodded to Mike. The juniors took turns in coming in early to sift through the relevant reports and intercepts. Mike was the most recent addition to the team and, although he was lacking in confidence, I had found him to be quite perceptive with a logical organised mind.
 Mike cleared his throat nervously. "Umm, not too much of note in the weekend trawl. Usual collection of bogus sounding chatter on the net, but there's a few that we'll need to chase down and look into further. The Spanish had a suspect device in Seville yesterday that sounds like the handiwork of ETA, but no confirmation on that. Some rumblings from our right wing friends in Germany, but doesn't look like anything more than the usual posturing although there were a few British-specific threats." He nodded to the only woman in the group. "Jane's going to follow it up to be sure. A Moroccan group kidnapped a Dutch couple who were holidaying in Marrakech. We're not sure who's behind it or what their demands are. Terry's going to monitor the situation." Mike paused and looked at a sheaf of papers in his hand. "Endless chatter and intercepts from Algeria." He frowned. "It's been building up over the last few weeks, but I don't know what to make of it."
 I chewed my knuckle and nodded. "Any thoughts, people?"
 Jack shrugged. "Most of it seems like crap, but there's so much, it's hard to be sure we aren't missing something. There have been a few patterns flagged by Betsy." Betsy was the pet name for our large data processor into which we could feed masses of data to see if anything was identified as matching previous intercepts.
 "I'm still working on some of the intercepts from last week." I paused. "Something doesn't smell right, but it's hard to tell which pile of crap it's coming from. Why don't you see if one of you can persuade Carp to try and do some trace-routing and IP hunting for us?" I grinned at the collective grimace. "Thanks people. Keep me informed if you turn up anything before the briefing."
 I headed back out to my desk to prepare for the daily briefing. The department heads met with Ben Singer, the Head of the WENA Controllerate, each morning to update him on any emerging threats or ongoing operations.

I was still trying to figure out my cryptic piece of Arabic when Mary tapped me on the shoulder. "Steve, I want you to meet Sally Eastwood."
 "Hi Sally, I'm Steve Williams."
 I stood and shook Sally's hand. She was a thin girl with dirty fair hair that was pulled back from her face. Her nose was a little upturned at the end, but she had bright blue eyes. She looked somewhat distracted.
 "Sally's the new EA," Mary explained.
 I saw the blank look on Sally's face. I grinned. "Executive administrator?"
 Sally's face brightened. "Gosh, sorry. I'm just totally spazzed by all of this." Her accent was distinctive.
 "You're from Birmingham I take it..." I held up a hand, "but don't tell me." I thought. "OK, originally from Birmingham, but sounds like a twinge of Oxford thrown in."
 Sally's mouth gaped. "How on earth can you tell?"
 Mary laughed. "Steve is our senior analyst and is a bit of a language whiz to say the least. One of his favourite games is 'spot the accent'."
 I smiled. "It's about the only good party trick I can do and I've already used it now. You've seen the most impressive thing I have to offer within two minutes of meeting me." I sighed wistfully. "That's kind of sad, isn't it?"
 Sally laughed. "I'm sure you're just being modest."
 Mary interrupted, "Steve, can you help Sally get settled in? I've a few calls to make." She headed back to her desk and Sally took a seat beside me.
 Sally whispered, "What does Mary do again? She told me, but I've forgotten. My head is like a sieve this morning."
 I chuckled. "Mary is our Agent Handler. She's the point of contact for any agents in the field. She gets their reports and sends them instructions. So where were you working before here?"
 "I was working for the Treasury. I got recommended for a promotion and thought I'd be sent to the Home Office or something. Then I had these in-depth interviews which made me wonder if I'd actually done something wrong."
 I nodded. "You were being vetted."
 "Yes, I realise that now. I nearly died when they told me I was being transferred to MI6. It's just so surreal."
 I smiled. "I'm afraid it becomes rather routine after a while. It's not too glamorous really."
 "I'm just worried that I'll cock things up. What's Mr. Singer like?"
 "Ben?" I shrugged. "He's a good guy. Fair, even-tempered mostly. He does expect a lot, but if you work hard and don't bullshit him, you'll be grand." I laughed at the worried look on her face. "Seriously, you'll do fine. He knows it'll take you a while to find your feet."
 We were interrupted by a voice from behind us. "Well... hello there!"
 I groaned inwardly and slowly turned round to face the source of the voice. "Hi Carp, what's up?"
 Carp looked briefly at me before returning his attention back to Sally. "No-one told me the bees were coming," he said enigmatically as he shook Sally's hand. She looked as bemused as I felt.
 "What on earth are you on about?" I asked.
 He looked at me with a straight face. "Well, the bees must have been here - who else would deliver such a honey to us."
 I winced and looked at Sally apologetically. "Sally, meet Carp Nixon. Carp is..." I paused. "There are so many ways I could complete that sentence, but let's keep it simple: Carp is our Internet expert." I sighed. "For goodness sake, let go of her hand, Carp."
 "Now, don't be tetchy," he said amiably. "Just because you saw her first, doesn't mean she can't have the option of a real man."
 Sally turned to me. "Is he for real?"
 "I'm afraid so."
 "Real and pure, baby, believe it!" he said puffing out his chest. Carp was like the grungy computer kid who never grew up. He was always dressed in a sloppy T-shirt that looked like it had never been washed. His hair stuck out at angles that defied the laws of gravity and he didn't look like he knew how to use a razor. He would have looked more at home in a skateboard park. A few weeks after he had started with us, persistent and increasingly unsubtle hints from Mary led to Carp being introduced to the benefits of using deodorant. Despite all this, Carp seemed to have the idea that he was God's gift to women. In his favour, when his hands were gliding across his keyboard as he surfed the distant corners of the net, it was like watching a virtuoso pianist playing Rachmaninov. He was good and he knew it. If he hadn't been, he would have been fired for any number of reasons long ago.
 "Give it a rest, Carp," Mary said, rejoining the conversation. "Sally's a smart girl; do you think she's totally lacking in taste?"
 "Give Carp a taste," he said lecherously, "And you'll be sure to come back for more." He winked at Mary. "You can vouch for that, can't you, babe?" This was typical Carp: such comments had previously earned him trips to the Personnel Department, but most people tried to ignore him as he never seemed to change.
 "Oh please, I think I'm going to be sick," Mary said, screwing up her face. "Anyway, Carol from the tenth just phoned. Ben's on his way down and he was looking pissy." Carol was the Executive Assistant to the Deputy Chief of MI6. Every Monday morning, the DC, Julian Topley, met with the Heads of all the various Controllerates. Mary not only was an agent handler for those out in the field, but she also had a network of 'friends' within the building who provided her with inside information on many things. There was no major breach of confidential secrets, just useful titbits like the one she had shared with us.
 I grimaced. "Great! What a start to the week. What's got him wound up?"
 Mary shrugged. "Word is that the DC was riding all the Heads pretty hard. There's a lot of noise from various sources that something big is in the wind. DC wants all the Heads to step up the pace and provide him with good hard intel."
 "Aww crap," I moaned. "We're going to have to chase down every loony bin who says anything vaguely impolite."
 Mary grinned. "The joys of being an intel analyst."
 "Yeah," I replied, "some bagman farts in Tripoli and I'm going to have to prepare a three page brief on the significance of it."
 "Heads up," Carp murmured in a low voice.
 We all looked up and saw Ben striding purposefully onto the floor. His face was grim and he headed for his office. At the last minute, he whirled round and headed towards us.
 Ben stopped in front of my desk and scowled at us. "I want the briefing in thirty." He frowned and pointed to me. "I want to know what's going on from the usual suspects in Algeria and Morocco. Middle East and Far East Controllerates say there's a lot on the wires from their Al Qaeda sources, but that the finger is pointing in WENA's direction." He pointed to Mary. "I want to know what assets we can tap or squeeze; which trees can we shake and see what falls out?"
 Mary tried to appease him. "We may have a possibility. An old contact has just got in touch again: Jamil Fariq, French-Algerian, based in Paris."
 "Who's the agent who handled him before?" Ben asked.
 "Miranda."
 Ben nodded. "Good. It seems she's getting back from holidays just in time for once." He paused. "Let's get to work. Julian is halfway up my ass about this and I don't like it."
 Carp couldn't resist it. "Better keep your cheeks clenched, Ben."
 Mary and I shared a knowing look. I closed my eyes.
 "I beg your pardon, Carp?" Ben asked, looking none too pleased.
 Carp never knew when to quit. He chuckled. "Well, one loose fart and we'll have a messy DC to clean up down here."
 Despite myself, I felt a terrible urge to laugh. I squeezed my tongue viciously between my teeth and avoided looking at Mary. I was sure she was doing the same. Waiting for the explosion, I inwardly counted down from five.
 "Do you think this is a laughing matter?" Ben spluttered right on cue. "Do you think this is a game?" He paused, his face red. In a more even voice, he continued, "Get back to your desk, mister, and you can sit out the briefing this morning. I've already had enough of you for one day."
 Carp looked like he was going to protest, but the look on Ben's face was clear enough for even Carp to catch the signals. "Yes, boss," he murmured. Ben spun on his heels and strode into his office, slamming the glass door behind him.
 "Well done," Mary said sarcastically. "As if he wasn't pissed off enough. Why did you have to go and do that? Now he's going to be like a bear and the rest of us haven't been given the luxury of staying out of his way like you just have."
 Carp shrugged. "Aww come on, can you blame me? If he feeds me lines like that, what do you expect me to do?"
 Sally chipped in, "It seems like we can count on you to put your foot in it like an asshole, but what would I know? I'm new here."
 I grinned at Sally. "Welcome to the team."
 She frowned. "It's really going to help me on my first day. Thanks a bunch, Carp."
 There was no reply. I looked up and saw him staring transfixed. I followed his gaze and stared too.
 Mary sighed. "Typical men: like Pavlov's dogs."
 The object of our gaze was Miranda Carlos who was just entering through the security doors. Her entry to any room was usually accompanied by all males in the vicinity, and probably a few females, stopping what they were doing to simply gaze in wonder. To say that Miranda was beautiful would be a major understatement. It was more than that: the way she carried herself screamed "sexy" at anyone within a wide radius. She was tall and slim with flowing jet-black hair. Her skin was tanned - not in an overdone leathery way, but natural and healthy looking. However, she was a study in contrasts: as attractive as she was physically, she was abrasive and aloof in personality. It didn't stop us looking. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that even Gibson had looked up from whatever gadget he was working on. The way she walked, with her hips swinging, was like watching the pendulum swing of a hypnotist's watch. Not today though. As she came into full view, she seemed to be having trouble walking. In fact, she was on crutches and her right leg was encased in white plaster from just below the knee. She was obviously in great discomfort as every step she took made her wince and grit her teeth.
 "Oh no," Mary muttered. "Can this day get any worse?"
 It could and it had. Ben had noticed her arrival and had opened his door. "Miranda, good to see you... what the bloody hell is this?" He pointed to her cast. "Is this one of your jokes?"
 "Nice to see you too, Ben dear," she said coolly. "If it's a joke, am I laughing?"
 "What happened?" He noticed his audience and glared at us. "Get in here, now!" he ordered and stormed back into his office.
 Miranda looked down her nose at us. "What are you all staring at?"
 Carp piped up, "My future wife?"
 She gave a short sharp laugh and looked as if trying to remember something. She clicked her fingers. "Crap, isn't that your name?" She didn't pause for an answer, "More like your future killer."
 Carp shrugged and grinned. "Could be worth it; at least I'd die happy."
 Miranda shifted one hand from a crutch to give Carp a one-finger gesture, before tossing her head and following Ben into his office.
 "Charming," Sally commented.
 "That's our Miranda," Mary said. She turned to me and whispered, "Glad to see your girlfriend back?"
 I screwed up my face and hissed back, "You couldn't be more wrong; I'm not interested in her."
 "Like hell, you aren't. You want her body."
 I smiled patronisingly. "Dearest Mary, it's not her body I want - just her job." It was partially true.
 She laughed. "Super Steve the Secret Spy." I knew Mary was only teasing me, but she had no idea how her words penetrated my meagre self-confidence.
 "Mock all you want," I said with my head held high. "You don't want me out on the field, because it would break your heart not to have me here with you each day." She snorted and chuckled. She looked thoughtfully towards Ben's office. "What are they saying in there?" she asked.
 "You really want me to do that?"
 "Yeah, go on."
 "Do what?" Sally asked.
 "Watch and see," Mary advised. "Steve has another party trick that he was too modest to admit to."
 I grinned, shrugged and then concentrated on the animated pair behind the glass wall. Thankfully Ben hadn't closed the blinds.
 "Uhh, Ben says why weren't you more careful? She says," I paused and then caught it. "I didn't plan to break my bloody ankle, did I? I thought the meaning of 'accident' was quite clear."
 "How's he doing that?" Sally whispered, looking somewhat in awe.
 "Lip reading," Mary replied.
 "Shush," interjected a new voice, "We want to hear too."
 I briefly turned to see Gibson at my right elbow and Carp just behind him. I rolled my eyes and returned my attention to the task at hand. "Uhh... do something less dangerous like sunbathing? She says so you want to tell me how to spend my time on leave as well as telling me what to do when I'm working for you?"
 "Do the voices," Carp urged.
 I winced. "No."
 "Voices?" Sally asked.
 "Oh go on, Steve," Mary said.
 I sighed and began to imitate.
 "And since when do you ever do what I tell you?" I said mimicking Ben's rich tenor tones.
 "Stop being such a control freak and listen to yourself. It's not the end of the world. The plaster will be off in a month's time. Calm yourself, man," this time parodying Miranda's icy tones.
 "My God," Sally whispered. "How does he do that?"
 "What's Ben saying now?" Carp asked enthusiastically. We all looked at him as if he was stupid. "What? What did I say?"
 Gibson sighed. "Ben has his back turned to us at the moment, silly boy."
 "Oh and that means... oh right, I see." He grinned foolishly.
 "Well I can't help it now, can I? What's done is done. Stop getting your Y-fronts in a twist. I went skiing off piste, I hit a tree, I broke my ankle - what are you going to do? Fire me?"
 Ben had turned round again. "As much as I might like to, I need you. That's my point. You're not much use to me in..."
 "Ahem," came a forced cough from behind us.
 I whirled around to find Gary Bailey, the WENA deputy head, listening in and looking on with bemusement. "Don't feel you have to stop the show on my behalf," he said with a twinkle in his eye.
 I shrugged and grinned like the schoolboy caught by the teacher. "I was... well... we were..." I inclined my head. "I think I'll stop. The moment has gone."
 Gary chuckled. "For a minute I was standing there wondering if Carp had bugged Ben's office and that was how I could hear them. Darn impressive."
 "Uhh thanks." I paused and then winced. "You won't tell them, will you?"
 He laughed. "Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me." We groaned. It was a corny old MI6 in-joke. Gary was what most would term 'a decent bloke'. He had retired from the field a few years back and his practical knowledge combined with common sense and a gentle way of handling people was helping him to rise through the ranks in Vauxhall Cross. "However, perhaps we should all look like we're doing some work before Ben looks out and spots us."
 Everyone dispersed to their respective desks. I showed Sally where her desk was and she started on the list of tasks her temporary predecessor had left for her while I got back to preparing my brief.

THREE

"It doesn't sound like there is too much of importance in that lot," Ben noted impatiently.
 The briefing was not going well. We had all known it wouldn't. He was combative, finicky and difficult to satisfy. I had just given him a short summary of the weekend's new European intel and he was less than impressed.
 "What about North Africa?" he asked.
 I told him about the kidnap in Morocco and whilst he seemed interested, he lambasted me for not having more information. Who were the couple? Why were they important? Who took them? I couldn't answer any of his questions. I could see his left eyebrow twitching more frequently. This was a bad sign.
 He sighed. "Well, is there anything else you can tell me?" he asked after I had told him about the shed loads of Algerian chatter, none of which seemed too substantial.
 "Err... well there is one anomaly I am working on," I began hesitantly.
 "Spit it out, I don't have all day," he growled.
 I shrugged. "It's fairly soft... there's an intercept we picked up last week with some unusual phrasing in it. There's a particular phrase I can't quite get my head round. Something like 'the breath of heaven'."
 Ben frowned. "Why's that so important."
 I shook my head and was beginning to wish I hadn't brought it up. I could predict where this was going to lead. "I'm not sure. I'm fairly sure I've heard it before, but I can't place it."
 "What's the source?"
 I winced. "We haven't isolated it yet. I was going to get Carp to look into it."
 The very mention of Carp's name made the eyebrow twitch more. "Have you asked the Middle and Far East guys to look at it? After all, they are the Arabic experts are they not?" he asked with a hint of sarcasm in his tone. I bristled at his implications. Ben was a good leader, but in moods like this, you could not please him.
 "Yes, I asked them," I hesitated.
 "And?"
 I shrugged. "They didn't think it meant anything too much."
 "Did they run it through their computers?" He was like a dog with a bone.
 "Yes. It didn't flag anything up."
 "So why are you wasting my time and your own time with it?"
 "I just have a hunch. Something doesn't add up."
 "Great. Well, I'll be sure to pass that onto the DC next time he's tearing me a new one. That's bound to appease him."
 I felt my cheeks colour but I didn't say anything. I just looked down at my notes and avoided eye contact with the others. When I did look up, I spotted Miranda watching me with a smirk on her face. I wasn't sure whether it was because someone else was on the receiving end of Ben's wrath or whether she just had a sadistic streak; either explanation was plausible.
 Gibson gave his brief report and then began to founder as he had to deliver Carp's report too. It was more technical than usual, and proved difficult for even Gibson to handle. I suspected that Carp had deliberately done this as his way of getting back at Ben for benching him from the meeting. Ben probably gathered this as he went easier on Gibson than he had done with me. Or perhaps my seeming ineptitude had quenched his desire to vent his anger.
 Mary delivered her agents' reports briefly and succinctly. She only attracted minor irritation and came through reasonably unscathed. However, she had left that which was guaranteed to rekindle the flames until the end.
 "Then there is the request for contact from Jamil Fariq..." she began tentatively.
 "Ah yes," Ben said, his brow furrowing. "Remind me about him, Mary."
 "He was born in Algeria, mother was French, father Algerian. Family moved to Marseilles when he was a child. He is a fashion designer based in Paris, but does a lot of work in New York too."
 "We get our intel from fashion designers these days?" Ben asked sceptically. He looked at me. "What about the product we get?"
 Miranda butted in, "He's a ponce, but he does have connections."
 Ben turned stiffly towards her. "Miranda, it may come as a surprise to you, but when I'm looking for intelligence analysis, please remember I'm not talking to you." This was harsh and although she more than deserved it, I still winced inwardly. Mary was having trouble hiding a smile. Miranda just scowled at Ben before producing a nail file with which she began to attend to her nails.
 I cleared my throat. "Miranda's right." I noticed her glance up at me with a transient look of curiosity on her face before she returned her attention to her cuticles. "Fariq doesn't provide much of substance himself, but he does move in circles that include some of the usual suspects. This is seemingly under the pretences of business investment, but there have been suspicions that Fariq is used for laundering the monies of Algerian terrorist cells." I used my terminal to activate some PowerPoint slides on the wall screen. I listed off the names of suspects that had been seen at times in Fariq's company. "Last and by no means least, there have been unconfirmed reports that Fariq channels money to Hamid El-Ajaf." This got Ben's attention as El-Ajaf was near the top of the 'Most Wanted List' and it was thought he had had a hand in several incidents stretching from the US to the Middle East.
 Miranda was staring at the screen and she pointed to it with her nail file. "Confirm the reports."
 "What do you mean?" Ben asked.
 Miranda nodded. "I recognise this man. When I last met Fariq, this man briefly spoke to him. I'm sure of it."
 Ben glared at her. "Then why, pray tell, did you not include it in your report?"
 She glared back at him and spoke slowly, "Because I didn't know who the hell he was until Brains here threw up his photo."
 This pained me. It underlined what I had often tried to say to Ben. Agents in the field with no appreciation of wider intelligence reports and no ability to analyse on the spot resulted in sub-par reports and distorted information. I had often argued that splitting MI6 into field intelligence officers and intelligence analysts was an artificial division and one that would have implications for ongoing operations. My point was that training analytical minds in the physical and tradecraft skills required for the field might actually be easier than trying to take skilled field operatives, give them a broad base in current intelligence analysis, and teach them how to instantly appraise what they were discovering rather than simply reporting what they thought they had seen. Whilst Ben acknowledged my point, he constantly wrote it off as too risky. He would say that The Powers That Be would not conscience such a paradigm shift in operative policy. Consequently my three applications to IONEC, the Intelligence Officer's New Entry Course, had been summarily denied. Ben had admitted that he had canned it the first time. The second time was care of the IONEC director and the third time, I had applied directly to the DC. Julian Topley had even called me to his office to explain face-to-face why he would not be recommending my application. It was phrased so positively: my value to the service as a senior analyst was incalculable. He agreed that such skills were perhaps rarer than those required to survive in the field, but he used that to turn my argument around. Basically, if analytical skills were harder to come by, then those with them had to be protected. I felt that there had been a seepage over the years in MI6 policy. In years gone by, the most successful field agents had been those who could process the raw intel and amend their operation accordingly. I knew this was the case. My father had been a prime example.
 Ben exhaled slowly. "Steve, any recent sightings or reports of El-Ajaf?"
 I chewed my knuckle as I thought. Ben often threw random questions that it was impossible to be prepared for. I racked my brain and then slowly shook my head. "No... there's been nothing for quite some time. I think it was about a year ago when I last saw his name."
 "You think?" Ben pushed. "Do you want to check the records?"
 Mary shook her head as she perused the terminal in front of her. "He doesn't need to, he's right. February 2004 was the last report. A Mossad source thought he spotted El-Ajaf in Damascus, but then lost track of him."
 Ben nodded. "OK. Mary, who has had contact with Fariq?"
 Mary gestured across the table. "Only Miranda."
 Ben turned to Miranda who looked back at him with a coy smile. "So Ben, you want me to speak now or am I here just to look pretty?"
 "Don't be a wise ass. Give us your impression of Fariq."
 She smiled triumphantly. "He's an arrogant, self-centred prig. He certainly does appear to be a successful designer and he is not short of cash at all. I don't know whether his supposed links to terrorism are ideological or a means of appeasing his conscience regarding his capitalist wealth. Alternatively, the likes of El-Ajaf may create external... pressures... let's say, to persuade him to help from time to time. I suspect, however, that they appeal to his vanity and assure him of his importance to whatever they are doing. Fariq lives with an air of assumed invulnerability. He thinks he is untouchable due to his prominent profile in French society."
 I was impressed by her summary. I hadn't thought she was capable of such reasoned evaluation and realised that I had fallen into the same trap which probably many opponents had also done previously: underestimating her.
 Ben was impressed too. "All right then, Miranda, so what is your assessment of the value of meeting with him?"
 She shrugged. "It's hard to say. Fariq likes being surrounded by beautiful women." I was amazed at her lack of modesty with her blunt statement, but no one in the room was going to challenge her on that point. "Don't get me wrong though, I'm convinced he's a poof. A meeting with him may be just to flatter his ego, or it may be something more."
 "What has your cover been?" Ben asked.
 "Catalin Segura," she replied. "A Spanish model. Hence the connection, although there are other deeper facets to my legend that he may or may not be aware of."
 Ben turned to Mary. "How did he make contact?"
 "An untraceable email account that I operate on 'Catalin's' behalf. He has invited her to dinner in Paris."
 "When and why?" asked Miranda.
 Mary checked her terminal. "Let's see. He is having dinner with a few special friends, so he says, to celebrate the completion of his new summer line."
 Ben looked back at Miranda. "How long did you say you are going to be in plaster for?"
 "A month at least," Miranda replied. "But it's not a problem. I can handle dinner with Fariq with my leg in plaster."
 "No," Gary spoke for the first time. He held up a hand, seeing Miranda's expression. "And I'm not prepared to discuss it, Miranda. I'm not sending an agent into the field with such a handicap. You can barely walk at the moment."
 "Oh for heaven's sake, Gary, I'm having dinner with a foppish designer. Get some perspective."
 "Perspective? Here's mine: if it's as simple as only having dinner with this chap then we can afford to pass on the invitation. However, if it's a potential opportunity to make a connection with some of his unsavoury friends, then I'm not putting an agent in a situation where she is not fit to handle what might arise."
 "Gary's right," Ben said. "Can we postpone the invite? Arrange to meet up with him some other time?"
 Miranda shook her head. "He's more likely to huff and not get in contact for another year."
 "What do you mean 'another year'?" Ben asked.
 Mary spoke up, "About eighteen months ago, when Miranda was undercover in Egypt, a similar invite from Fariq came in. I replied on Catalin's behalf to see if it could be rescheduled for a mutually suitable time. He never replied and this is the first contact we've had from him since."
 "It looks like we have an impasse," Ben stated. "If we can't send Miranda in, perhaps we could infiltrate someone to this dinner? Gary?"
 Gary looked over at Mary's terminal and read the invitation. He shook his head. "I don't know. It sounds like a private party. Again my previous point: if it is a simple dinner, we could infiltrate without any trouble, but for no benefit. If there are bad guys present, we could get burned with that approach."
 "I can see no alternative then, but to pass up on the invite," Ben concluded.
 I chewed my knuckle again. "It is a golden opportunity going begging," I said with regret. "We've spurned this guy once and if he's likely to throw Catalin off for good if we turn him down again."
 Ben placed his hands flat on the table. "You're all bright people. Go and find me a solution if there is one. If not, then we know where we stand." He paused and rubbed his forehead. "Look... I'm sorry for being a bit tetchy today." He grinned and turned to Sally who had been watching the exchanges in silence. "I'm not usually like this."
 "Glad to hear it," she said and then gasped and put her hand to her mouth. "Oh my, I didn't mean to say that out loud."
 We laughed and some of the earlier tension dissipated. Ben chuckled too. "Don't worry; you can get away with that... but only because it's your first day." He winked.

Mary, Sally and I slipped out for lunch just after one o'clock. Gibson had said he couldn't spare the time as he was fiddling with some electronic trinket, so we slyly got him to occupy Carp while we made our escape. It might sound unfair, but small doses of Carp were hard enough to take. With a new female on his radar, he would be even more obnoxious than usual. We headed round the corner to Doug's. Doug's Sandwich Bar was a favoured haunt of Six employees and attracted a few across the river from Five too. The urban myth was that Doug and his staff were actually vetted by Six. I believed it. I wouldn't put it past the Service and given some of the things that were said a little indiscreetly over working lunches, it made sense. We grabbed sandwiches and found a table amongst the lunchtime crowd. Sean joined us before long and we introduced Sally. I hoped I was the only one to catch his little knowing wink when he nodded towards Mary. I ignored it.
 "So Steve, doing your showing off again?" Sean asked with his mouth half-full of sandwich. Mary and Sally had regaled him with the tale of me getting caught imitating the boss that morning.
 "How did you do that?" Sally asked, leaning forward with interest.
 "Which part?"
 "The lip-reading. I was so impressed."
 I spotted, and again ignored, another Sean-wink. I shrugged diffidently. "One of my cousins is deaf. I used to spend a lot of school holidays with him and his family. I learnt sign language, but was so taken with how Sam could eavesdrop on his parents by lip-reading..." I paused and grinned. "...that I wore earplugs for a fortnight solid until I could do a bit too. Every holiday after that, I would work on it."
 Sean, giving me the 'you're in there mate' sign, was tactically engaging Mary in conversation, leaving Sally and me free to converse together. Sean had a one-track mind, but at least the situation was keeping him from making tactless comments about Mary and me, given his silly theory about my interest in her.
 "Why did you spend your holidays with your cousin's family?" she asked. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry."
 I smiled. "You're not prying. My Dad worked... with the Foreign Office." To my ear and I'm sure to anyone in Doug's who heard it, this was the corniest cover up. Given Sally's lack of familiarity with such things, I hoped to get away with it. "He was posted overseas a lot. I was at boarding school, and my Uncle Henry didn't live too far away. It was more convenient sometimes."
 Sally was smarter than I had given her credit for. "The Foreign Office?" she asked with a sly grin on her face.
 I laughed. "All right. It's not really a secret and since you work with us, I won't have to kill you. My Dad was with Six, originally in the field, then after I was born he took on Head of Station jobs in various places."
 "Right, so I presume that's why you ended up working for Six too?"
 I screwed up my face. "Yeah, you might think so. I don't even know how to start to answer that one. I wouldn't exactly say I was following in my Dad's footsteps though."
 "I would have hated to go to boarding school," Sally said with a grimace. "I grew up in Birmingham, lived there all my childhood, went to school there and probably would have died there if a friend hadn't encouraged me to move in with her in Oxford."
 I asked her about her family, her training, what jobs she had done. I was warming to Sally. She was open and honest, not exactly what MI6 normally looked for, but it made her a personable companion. She talked about her brothers and sisters and lamented her lack of a boyfriend. Sean was practically drooling for me as he overheard that fact.
 "So where's home for you, Steve?" she asked.
 I chuckled. "I've never really been able to answer that question. I live in London now, but before that? I boarded from when I was fourteen, then went to Cambridge. When I was younger, wherever Dad was posted, we went too."
 "Where did you live then? Go on, make me envious."
 I laughed. "We lived in Madrid until I was about six, then we moved to Vienna."
 "Is that how you picked up different languages?"
 I nodded. "Well, partly. My Mum is Italian so I grew up with both English and Italian at home. Instead of sending me to an expatriate British school in Madrid, I was sent to a Spanish one. And then again in Vienna, I went to a German-speaking school."
 Sally shook her head. "You can speak English, Italian, Spanish and German?"
 Sean and Mary were listening in again. Mary piped up, "Oh that's only the tip of the iceberg, isn't it, Steve?"
 I gave her a disdainful look. "Mary!"
 Sean nodded. "Yep, the git also speaks French and Russian."
 Mary grinned. "Not to mention a smattering of Dutch, Polish and Portuguese. His Arabic needs a bit of work though. Have I missed any?"
 I scowled and turned to Sally. "They're exaggerating. Really I can barely ask where the toilet is in a lot of those languages."
 "What are you listening to at the moment?" Sean asked.
 Sometimes I really wanted to kill him. I told him so with the look I shot him.
 "What's that?" Mary asked with interest.
 Sean chuckled, delighted to be providing some fresh information. I just sat back in my chair and glared at him waiting to see how far he could take his treachery. He didn't disappoint. "It's not uncommon to see people walking round London with a Walkman. Steve listens to one on his way to and from his gym." He turned to Sally, "What would you listen to?"
 She shrugged. "Oh, I don't know, Oasis or U2 probably."
 Sean paused. "Good choices." He found his stride again. "Not our Steve. A new language course every few weeks. Which one is it at the moment, buddy?"
 I smiled sardonically at him. "Algerian, what else?"
 Mary and Sally laughed. Sean didn't get the joke and I took a fair amount of satisfaction from that.

I was trying to work on some overdue reports at my desk that afternoon and was wishing that our floor wasn't organised the way it was. Gibson and Mary were poring over her computer screen and arguing and disagreeing about something. I thought about going back to the analysts' office, but reconsidered as it would probably mean I'd be plagued with needless questions. I tried to tune them out and was succeeding until they both exploded with laughter. I looked up with irritation.
 "What are you two up to? Some of us are trying to work."
 They looked at me, looked at each other guiltily and laughed again. I set my pen down. "You aren't looking up porn on the net again, are you, Gibson?"
 Gibson was predictably outraged at such a suggestion. "Certainly not. Why don't you come over here, dear boy, and see exactly what we've been up to."
 Mary didn't seem so keen on that idea. "Ignore him, Steve; we're just working on a wild theory."
 I rubbed my eyes. "No, come on, share the joke. I've lost my train of thought now anyway."
 Sally had got up from her desk and wandered over. She perched on the edge of my desk. "What's going on? Someone got a good joke?"
 Mary shrugged. "No, nothing like that. I was simply trying a new module we've been given for the agent database."
 "And?" I prompted.
 "I was just thinking about our problem with Miranda going to meet Fariq. Then I remembered this module. As you may or may not know, the agent database stores every conceivable piece of information on our agents - and on all employees of both Five and Six actually. Since they brought in the facial scanners, they also have mathematical models of facial topography."
 Gibson didn't want to be left out. "So we set out to see if we could encourage the little beastie," he patted Mary's computer, "to see if we could find a reasonable match for Miranda."
 Mary inclined her head. "Just a thought really. It's been a few years since Fariq met Miranda, if there was a plausible replacement... well, you get the idea."
 I nodded. "And let me guess, the result was rather humorous?" I got up and walked over. "Let's see who it came up with."
 Mary shifted uncomfortably and Gibson just beamed at me. "Steve, we're just getting to grips with it..." Mary explained.
 I looked over at her screen and then it hit me. My profile was there and my face stared back at me.
 "Ha, bloody, ha," I said and shook my head. Sally came to take a look and started to giggle.
 I walked back to my desk and sat down. "A set up and I fell for it. Happy now?" I grinned, despite myself.
 Mary smiled and nodded. "Sorry, just a little joke to brighten the afternoon."
 "Oh no," Gibson interjected. Mary frowned at him and shook her head. He continued undeterred, "You don't understand, dear boy. As humorous as it might appear, you actually were the result the computer outputted."
 I sighed. "Gibson, joke's over. Don't stretch it."
 He nudged Mary. "Tell him." She glared at him. "Well, tell him the truth," he persisted.
 I looked at Mary, raising an eyebrow.
 She sighed. "Steve, we put in Miranda's details and selected the parameters we wanted the comparison made on. Yes, you were the result we got, but we did forget to check two important parameters."
 I smiled coolly. "Do tell."
 She smiled. "I forgot to restrict the search to field agents and... I forgot to restrict it to females." She spread her hands. "Computers! Only as good as the information you input."
 Sally was still staring at the screen. She pointed at something. "Is that for real?"
 Mary shifted in her chair again. "Well... yes... but the information it is based on is flawed, as I've explained."
 "What now?" I asked with resignation. "Let me again be the butt of your hilarity."
 Sally screwed her face up. "It says that you and Miranda are a ninety-two percent match."
 I laughed. "I think you can safely feedback to the writers of your fancy new module that it doesn't know what it's talking about."
 Mary grinned. "You're right. I'm really only fiddling about with it. I'll give it the proper information and see if it functions any better."
 I went back to my work, but found it hard to focus. The bizarre exchange had left me strangely unsettled.