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a solid man in his midsixties, identified only as “the Admiral.” He wore a gray suit that perfectly matched his eyes. His face was jowled and his head crowned with a sparse constellation of birthmarks, evident through the thinning, swept-back brown and gray hair. The Admiral had looked steadily at Bond without challenge or disdain or excessive analysis. Bond had no trouble returning the gaze—a man who has killed in battle and nearly died himself is not cowed by anyone’s stare. He realized, however, that he had absolutely no idea what was going on in the man’s mind.
    They did not shake hands.
    Menus descended. Bond ordered halibut on the bone, steamed, with hollandaise, boiled potatoes and grilled asparagus. The Admiral selected the grilled kidney and bacon, then asked Bond, “Wine?”
    “Yes, please.”
    “You choose.”
    “Burgundy, I should think,” Bond said. “Côte de Beaune? Or a Chablis?”
    “The Alex Gambal Puligny, perhaps?” the waiter suggested.
    “Perfect.”
    The bottle arrived a moment later. The waiter smoothly displayed the label and poured a little into Bond’s glass. The wine was the color of pale butter, earthy and excellent, and exactly the right temperature, not too chilled. Bond sipped, nodded his approval. The glasses were half filled.
    When the waiter had departed, the older man said gruffly, “You’re a veteran and so am I. Neither of us has any interest in small talk. I’ve asked you here to discuss a career opportunity.”
    “I thought as much, sir.” Bond hadn’t intended to add the final word but it had been impossible not to do so.
    “You may be familiar with the rule at the Travellers about not exposing business documents. Afraid we’ll have to break it.” The older man withdrew from his breast pocket an envelope. He handed it over. “This is similar to the Official Secrets Act declaration.”
    “I’ve signed one—”
    “Of course you have—for Defense Intelligence,” the man said briskly, revealing an impatience at stating the obvious. “This has a few more teeth. Read it.”
    Bond did so. More teeth indeed, to put it mildly.
    The Admiral said, “If you’re not interested in signing we’ll finish our lunch and discuss the recent election or trout fishing in the north or how those damn Kiwis beat us again last week and get back to our offices.” He lifted a bushy eyebrow.
    Bond hesitated only a moment, then scrawled his name across the line and handed it back. The document vanished.
    A sip of wine. The Admiral asked, “Have you heard of the Special Operations Executive?”
    “I have, yes.” Bond had few idols, but high on the list was Winston Churchill. In his young days as a reporter and soldier in Cuba and Sudan, Churchill had formed a great respect for guerrilla operations and later, after the outbreak of the Second World War, he and the minister for economic warfare, Hugh Dalton, had created the SOE to arm partisans behind German lines and to parachute in British spies and saboteurs. Also called Churchill’s Secret Army, it had caused immeasurable harm to the Nazis.
    “Good outfit,” the Admiral said, then grumbled, “They closed it down after the war. Interagency nonsense, organizational difficulties, infighting at MI6 and Whitehall.” He took a sip of the fragrant wine and conversation slowed while they ate. The meal was superb. Bond said so. The Admiral rasped, “Chef knows what he’s about. No aspirations to cook his way onto American television. Are you familiar with how Five and Six got going?”
    “Yes, sir—I’ve read quite a lot about it.”
    In 1909, in response to concerns about a German invasion and spies within England (concerns that had been prompted, curiously, by popular thriller novels), the Admiralty and the War Office had formed the Secret Service Bureau. Not long after that, the SSB split into the Directorate of Military Intelligence Section 5, or MI5, to handle domestic security, and Section 6, or MI6, to handle