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said ‘ ’Bye’ and walked quickly away.
    Head Office was a 22-storey 1960s office block well situated for terrorist attack. The IRA campaign was a fact of everyday life but Middle Eastern terrorists, spawn of the
Arab-Israeli conflict, had recently become active again. As everyone pointed out to everyone else, the building’s proximity to Lambeth North tube made for easy reconnaissance and escape, the
petrol station at its foot would enhance secondary conflagration, while the ramp leading down to the underground garage, and the nearness of run-down council flats, might have been designed for a
car-bomber. It was, however, a light and cheerful building in which every office faced outwards, though the lifts frequently broke down and carpenters were forever moving walls and doors as offices
were enlarged or divided according to the flux and reflux of bureaucratic life.
    This contributed to the building’s rabbit-warren feel, which was enhanced by the fact that each floor tended to be occupied by those working in the same area or controllerate, with most
offices small and individual rather than open-plan. The to-ing and fro-ing that this involved, and the ease with which everyone could be discreetly indiscreet, contributed to each floor developing
its own atmosphere. As in the Foreign Office, it was traditional to enter closed doors without knocking, though it was a serious security breach to leave unlocked any empty office with papers out.
It was known to the overseas stations as Gloom Hall.
    Students under training had little cause to visit it, so Charles welcomed the excuse. HO was the repository of secrets, the seat of mysteries, the source of power, mother and father to stations
throughout the world, of which the curious display of aerials on the roof were the only outward reminder. Also, it seemed always to be sunlit and filled with attractive girls who knew things
forbidden to the students.
    C/Sovbloc and his empire were on the twelfth floor. The controller was a stocky, closely-packed man with a beaky nose, iron-grey hair and gold-rimmed glasses. His speech was precise and rapid
and his blue-grey eyes rested with disconcerting immobility on whomever addressed him. He gave an impression of contained energy, with nothing wasted or superfluous, and he had a formidable
reputation for operational achievement, discipline and discretion. His suits were discreetly expensive and the toe-caps of his Oxford shoes had a military polish. He was rumoured to have equal
seniority with the Chief, in terms of grade, and to have taken no leave for more years than anyone could remember. He was known as Hookey.
    The twelfth floor was quieter than others, particularly floors such as the African or South American which tended to take on aspects of the areas they dealt with. Too many of the Sovbloc offices
were occupied by the custodians of great – it was assumed – secrets, and too many of the doors were kept closed for there to be any obvious liveliness. Hookey was said to have forbidden
any officer to have readable papers on his desk in the presence of anyone who had no right to see them. Even the outer office occupied by his secretary was closed, which was probably unique in the
building. His inner office was in the corner overlooking Waterloo Station.
    Controllers’ secretaries were reputedly dragons, there to protect controllers and secrets and keep distractions and trivia at bay. But C/Sov/sec, a bespectacled woman in her forties who
wore a sensible tweed skirt, smiled and breathed no fire when Charles introduced himself. ‘Hookey is expecting you. Please sit down.’ The chair she indicated was one from which he could
see nothing of what was on her desk. She stood in C/Sovbloc’s room with the door open so that she could see him the whole time.
    When ushered in Charles had to resist the levitational impulse of his right arm, due not only to the slow growing out of army habits but also to the sense of authority