Not Exactly Allies

CHAPTER 1 – THE CALLS

Hallo?

Durand? Is that you?

Who wants to know?

Sorry. Hugh here. Did you know men and women see things differently?

Pause.

Well, yes, Leandre Durand said at last, slowly, obviously not quite sure where his British friend was leading with this phone call.

Sorry, I didn't put that very well.

Perhaps not.

What I mean to say is that women not only put their own spin on things, they actually see differently. I've been studying it. You should see some of these studies. They put a group of girls in a room and drop hundreds of dollar bills all at once, and the girls see everything at once and rarely grab a bill. They just jump and giggle and grab thin air, mostly. You put boys in the same room, drop an equivalent flurry of bills, and they can isolate them and wind up with booty.

My Perrine says such experiments only show that men like to prove their prowess and women are happy just to play.

That's a new twist. I hadn't thought of that.

Or perhaps the people performing the experiment have, one hopes inadvertently, prepared the girls differently leading into the experiment. It is hard to say. Certainly boys and girls are different, but children like to please grownups who pay them the least little attention, and psychologists, alas, are prone to pet theories.

I'd have to say I'd noticed that. Odd theories, too, some of them.

But of course. You cannot make your name with a discovery of something that makes sense. Not in some circles, at least. Excuse me a little minute, if you please.

Richard Hugh was astonished to hear gunshots and glass shattering. Being experienced, he held his tongue. Durand would get back to him when he could. If he could.

To kill time and to feel like he was doing something, he tried to trace Durand's phone and pin it down with a satellite reading. The French, he unhappily noted, were still being obnoxious and stubborn and blocking all the ways that British intelligence services had given their field agents to use in such situations. If it were not Leandre Durand being shot at, it would probably serve the French right for insisting on going their own way, Richard thought, with a bit of peevishness.

All right. I am back, Durand said. Now what is it we were talking about? Ah, yes. You were instructing me on the differences between males and females, was it not?

Not exactly.

Oh, do not be so touchy, M. Hugh. It is Hugh this week, is it not? That is what you just said, I think. And Richard is it? Or do we have a new forename for my aged brain to try to remember?

Pull your only-50-something brain into focus, will you, old sport, and tell me if that was gunshot and massive physical destruction in the background just now.

Such a simple question. I ask an old friend his current assigned name and-

Enough already. You may call me Richard Hugh. Are you happy now? In a more civilized tone he added, Are you all right?

Perfectly. It is nothing, really, Durand said, as something exploded and the sound of rushing water, as if from large broken pipes, nearly drowned out his voice.

That definitely doesn't sound like nothing, Richard said.

Oh, well, I hadn't anticipated that the pipes would burst. One little minute more, please. I must move I think. The severed electrical cord hanging above the water has me a tiny bit concerned.

There was the sound of splashing footsteps, then dryer footfalls at a dead run, five more gunshots, and then Durand's voice saying, Hah, missed me again.

I hate to be rude, but may I call you some backup or something?

"A courteous thought, mon vieux, but our vastly-superior equivalent of SWAT teams are already at work to get me out of here. Thank you all the same."

You're welcome. But let me see if I have this straight. You're in the middle of being rescued and you let me blather on about psychological studies?

Believe me, my friend, it is the most amusing thing to happen to me in five hours. I cannot tell you how ready I was for a good laugh.

Glad to oblige, I'm sure.

And, to clarify, I am not exactly being rescued. I am sure that I could eventually extract myself. But the higher-ups, they want such things handled their way, and what is a mere foot soldier such as myself to do?

You're such a modest fellow, Richard said. He wasn't sure his friend heard him, over the sudden roars, crashes, thuds and snaps of what sounded like a building coming down.

Durand coughed, sputtered a few angry words, and gasped. This didn't seem like a good sequence of sounds. But again, it seemed a very bad time to insert himself into the situation, and so Richard sat tight, his nerves protesting the restraint.

I do not believe it, Durand said, sounding awestruck.

That was too much. Durand was almost never awestruck. Richard's curiosity got the better of his caution. What don't you believe? he whispered, a notebook at the ready to jot down whatever might be useful, should something horrible happen to Durand and an investigation be necessary.

My supervisor himself! He is leading the men into the building. Or, more precisely, what is left of the building. Can you believe it? The man himself, Durand said.

Richard barely resisted the urge to throw his notebook wildly skyward in frustration. Here he was expecting almost anything short of space aliens using death rays, and it was only one standard-issue spy chief. Keeping his tone as level as he could manage, he said, From what you told me about Blondet-

Bah. Blondet is dead. He killed himself. This is my new supervisor, Castelneau. He is worse than Wilmot, even. He never leaves his desk, this Castelneau.

Obviously not.

Excuse?

Unless he has the bloody thing strapped to him, if it is Newcastle, he has left his desk.

Do not translate names to English. It ruins them.

"Did I get it right? Castelneau, Castle New, Newcastle? Ja?" Richard said, throwing in a third language just to be obnoxious.

Do not distract me just now. I am sure I need my wits about me, Durand said. He sounded deadly serious.

Richard collapsed into laughter.

Do I wish to know what is so funny? Durand asked icily.

Probably not. Call me back and tell me how it goes, Richard said, ringing off.

What's so funny? his wife asked him.

Oh, Emma, my love, Richard said, grabbing her into a hug, Our friend Leandre Durand is so funny. He can handle gunmen and explosions and having buildings being demolished around him, as far as I can tell. But get him within eyeshot of a supervisor on the prowl, and suddenly he feels an overwhelming need to have all his wits about him.

I've had supervisors like that.

Richard started to say something, but checked himself. To be honest, he'd had supervisors like that, too.

You're shaking, lover, Emma said.

Oh, am I?

Emma took a step back, held up one of his hands, and displayed it. It was shaking. She cocked her head, looking up at his face.

Durand is okay, isn't he? she asked.

I think so.

But you're not sure?

The ruddy man never says when he's in trouble, does he? Richard groused.

It was a patently ridiculous statement. She chose to ignore it. So is this worried shaking, or shaking from relief? she asked.

Darned if I know, he said. He pulled her tight, kissed the top of her head, and searched his brain for a way to change the subject. Shaking was bad enough without study and analysis.

HQ called while you were on the phone, Emma said, changing the subject for him. That would be on our landline, which we are duty bound to answer while we're here, as opposed to my mobile, which I'm duty bound to answer 24 hours a day, she added, with just a touch of resentment.

I don't know what to do about having too many phones, luv, Richard said.

They were both of an age (nearly 50) that they could remember less-sophisticated networking, not to mention months on end with no contact with the home office that wasn't initiated by the agent. These days, the technology was so much better that it practically demanded to be used, whether it made sense or not to bother with it. In retrospect (and in relative safety) the old ways seemed much better.

Stolemaker wants both of us there, his office, eleven-thirty tomorrow morning. That's all Dourlein would say, Emma said.

Richard got a gleam in his eye.

Correction, Emma said, her eyes twinkling. She also said that it was no use you calling her up and calling her gorgeous and trying to wheedle advance information out of her, because she hasn't any.

Richard blushed. It would be nice, once a man got married, if secretaries might at least pretend he never said anything playful. It's not like a man could break himself entirely of a lifetime of low-level flirting with levelheaded colleagues who knew better than to read anything into it. Could he?

I lied, Emma said. She didn't say not to call her, and I made it up about the nickname. Personally, I think she adores being called Gorgeous. I know I adore it when you leave smiling women in your wake. Especially when they get a little jealous of me afterward. It gives me a chance to pointedly ignore them, and makes them wonder what I've got that they don't have.

Richard studied his wife. For the life of him, he couldn't tell if she meant to be funny, or reassuring, was making fun of herself, or if she was telling him he'd been a cad. I give up, he said. Am I in trouble?

Emma shook her head and hugged him.

Richard decided that if she had been angry, she was over it already. But women were confoundedly hard to read. Especially wives. It was annoyingly obvious now and then that he didn't have her figured out yet. Not that he'd expected that the marriage ceremony would magically make it possible for him to read her mind, but still, this many months on he expected fewer bouts of cluelessness.

Richard's phone rang. The display said it was Durand's phone. British Adamant Asset Management, London, Richard answered, on a hunch.

Oh, I am not sure I have the right number, a French-accented male voice said, as if being connected to British Adamant was unexpected, but meaningful. That could mean anything, though, as BAAM was a perfectly legitimate business, on the front end of it anyway, the best front company 'MI5 1/2' had, in Richard's opinion. (That he helped run it had nothing to do with that humble assessment, of course.)

Castelneau is it? Richard said, playing another hunch.

The other man said nothing.

We're just getting preliminary reports, of course, Richard said, but it sounds a fine job you've done today. Do let us know if we can be of service.

Eh, em, well of course we appreciate the offer, the man said.

Awfully glad to have you as an ally, sir. Anything else? Richard said, piling it on.

Eh, no... No.

Oh, if I may, sir? Just a trifle? No, on second thought, I could have your secretary clear this up for us. Richard let his voice imply that it would be a shame to resort to a mere secretary.

No, no, I am at your service.

We seem to have – I hate to admit this – we seem to have your name spelt two ways. C-a-s-t-e-l-n-a-u for one, and n-e-a-u for another.

N-e-a-u, the man confirmed, doing quite well with the English pronunciations of the letters.

Thanks awfully. It's so embarrassing to have clerical errors. Carry on then, Richard said, and rang off. He grinned at Emma, raising his eyebrows playfully, as if to say: hunch obeyed, game won, points to the British side.

Now you're in trouble, Emma said. She wasn't joking.

What? I was just having a bit of fun with a stuffed shirt. Do him good, I should say. Besides, what's the harm in buttering up Durand's chief for him?

Stolemaker is unhappy with Durand's new chief. Doesn't want to have anything more to do with him than absolutely necessary. I haven't figured out why yet.

Oh. Sorry. I should have stopped mid-conversation to ask why you were shaking your head. I assumed you just thought I was being too silly. My mistake.

Perhaps you'd like to call Stolemaker's office. It could get a little embarrassing if Castelneau takes your kind opening, and they don't know what he's talking about. If you'd like to try to save the situation by throwing yourself at the boss's feet in the morning, that's your business, but if I were in your shoes, I'd give the chief fair warning of what's gone down, to avoid the need to throw myself at his mercy later.

Perhaps you're right.

And maybe I'm not. You know him better than I do. And you've worked with British intelligence longer than I have. Maybe Dourlein would be kind enough to help soften things, if you asked her nicely.

Richard hemmed and hawed. Mostly he had to overcome minor resentment that his wife thought he could use Darlene Dourlein's kind assistance, even if she was world-class at dealing with this sort of kerfuffle.

Emma kindly left the room so he wouldn't have an audience to his indecision.

He decided to call, mostly because the mental picture of throwing himself at Stolemaker's feet in the morning had planted itself in his mind and he didn't like it.

Eh, hello there, Gorgeous. Hugh here, he said. He faltered. He wasn't sure how to admit he'd probably blundered, all the more so because he wasn't sure if he had.

Ah, Triple-O Five. Let me guess. You're the fellow who impersonated someone representing this office and made nice with French intelligence, right in the middle of a make-mean-with-French-intelligence campaign?

I didn't know about the make-mean campaign. Honest. You can't tell me Castelneau called already? I've just barely rung off.

The man was desperate for a kind word, apparently. Couldn't offer his cooperation on future projects fast enough, from what I understand. The chief's on the phone with him now. No. The connection's just off. Hang on, he's ringing.

Stolemaker asked her to call Triple-O Five.

He's standing by, sir, she said.

She put the men on the same connection.

We've just had an odd call from your friend Leandre Durand's boss. I wonder if, by any wild chance, you have any idea what in the world prompted Castelneau to suddenly declare himself cooperative? Stolemaker asked Richard.

Would you like my resignation now or later?

So you do know?

Call it a bit of a joke that may have backfired. To be honest, I not only didn't know there was trouble with Castelneau, I didn't know the man existed until a few minutes ago. I thought Durand was still answering to Blondet.

Give yourself some slack, will you? You and I both know you've just come out of a maelstrom of a case that required your full concentration. Just tell me what just went down, will you, so I know where the man is working from.

Synopsis, or taking a stab at verbatim?

Synopsis, please. I'm swamped today.

Richard got dutiful, and gave his chief an unembellished brief.

-

Durand, meanwhile, was largely left guessing.

His chief had seen him talking on the phone, and asked who was on the other end.

Durand had tried tossing out the short, honest, and uninformative The other party called me, sir. It didn't sound important.

Castelneau had grabbed the phone and hit the callback button. After ringing off from that conversation, Castelneau had triumphantly whisked through seven layers of security on his ultra-sophisticated pocket computer/phone to come up with his own super-confidential number for Chief Stolemaker of one of the United Kingdom's unacknowledged little gnarled branches of secret service, one that bridged the usual divide between foreign and domestic investigations (hence its nickname of MI5 1/2, a joking reference that it was neither MI5 nor MI6, nor really quite substantial enough for its own number). Castelneau had then proceeded to give his regards to the top man himself, puffing and strutting as he did so.

During Castelneau's astonishing display of ego, Durand and members of the special forces team had managed to steer him out of the shattered building and away from stray boards and bricks that were falling here and there, but that's as much as they'd been able to accomplish, as far as Durand could see.

He bit back a surge of annoyance. Beyond his outrage over the phone theft and the callback button trespass, there was the minor fact that he'd been outnumbered, pinned down, and shot at for hours. He'd had a building bulldozed around him, for all intents and purposes. Surely his supervisor might have had the decency to take two or three seconds to ask if he was injured or otherwise in need of anything. Not that he would necessarily admit it if he were. But it would be nice to be asked.

It would also be nice to go get something to eat, and a bit of wine. It's not like he'd been able to eat or drink all these long hours of his ordeal.

It was just like a desk warrior to not think about details like that. The man, obviously, lived in a world where refrigerators were down the hall and doting female secretaries brought you snacks when you were even just barely hungry.

A member of the rescue squad handed him some candy. It was somewhat squished from being in the man's jacket pocket during a flying leap onto his belly, but it was nourishment of a sort, and it was offered unbidden.

Now, that was a true comrade in arms, Durand thought, as he accepted the gift.

He glanced at the young man's name pin. Nason, the tag said. So this was the new man the other men called The Nose. Probably it was just a juvenile attempt at humor, based on the young man's facial features and his surname, but Durand had a hunch that it implied more than that. This man, to be sure, was more than usually aware of his surroundings. It wasn't obvious. He wasn't one of those hyper-diligent sorts. But still, if you watched, quietly and carefully, you could tell he didn't miss much.

Almost instinctively, Durand flattened his emotions and tried to come across as just dull and bland enough to not be worth anyone's bother.

CHAPTER 2 – THE CALLER

The next morning, Leonard Loomis, age 52, sat in his tidy house and flipped the pages of his wedding album. It was silly, really, he thought, to be doing this – and in broad daylight, too. It seemed the sort of thing to do at night, with a tall glass, and a few regrets. But it had been five years Tuesday since he'd become a widower. He had mourned, and honestly. But his life had righted itself, and nicely. To his amazement, there were very few pangs as he went from picture to picture. Time did heal all hurts, apparently.

Between the milestone of five years without recommitting (which made it seem decent, by his lights, to be in circulation again), and the anticipation of golfing with his number one girlfriend in a few days, Loomis was feeling peace at heart mixed with something akin to pride. He had a number two girlfriend if you stretched the accounting a bit, but she was half his age and was only a business colleague, and he gave her no encouragement – still, it was flattering, having a young thing make eyes at you, and there wasn't any reason not to be civil to the girl.

The look at wedding pictures, he supposed, was some sort of semiconscious test, to see if he'd really made it far enough that he could leave that marriage behind. Not that he meant to forget his first wife. Nothing of the sort. But he was a considerate man, and wouldn't remarry until his heart was truly free, or at least free enough to properly give to someone, if you wanted to be precise. By his age, he'd discovered, the heart got pulled twenty different directions as a matter of course, and there didn't seem to be any help for it.

There was a scuffling noise from the kitchen. Loomis set the album aside and went to mediate, if necessary, among 'the girls.'

He thought it was funny, in a way, how a man could get so contradictory as he got older. Here he was, ready to retire in less than a year thanks to some prudent planning and better luck, and suddenly – just when he could be tying up loose ends so he could travel – what was he doing? Collecting stray dogs. Three of them. He had decided he would stop at these three, but was aware that he'd decided to stop at one, and just as solemnly and soberly had decided to stop at two.

If there was anything non-conducive to being able to pick up and go on a moment's notice, it had to be collecting misfit dogs. None of these dogs was the sort that would be easy to sponge off on maiden aunts for the duration. None of the dogs were mean, mind you. They'd just been mistreated along the way, and needed extra patience and adaptability on their human's part. Maiden aunts, at least Loomis's maiden aunts, weren't especially known for their adaptability. Plus, their patience was mostly of the longsuffering kind, aired regularly for public approval. 'Just look at what I do for everyone else, with no thought for myself, poor me' – that sort of thing. It was hardly worth it to ask them for actual favors, not when they wanted gratitude in perpetuum as payment even for imaginary assistance. No, thought Loomis, what with one thing and another, he'd probably doomed himself to home-centered life for what was left of his time, unless he could bear to part with his misfits.

That was one nice thing about his number one girlfriend. She also had pets that couldn't be left alone or handed over easily. In her case it was salt-water fish, finicky varieties that died off easily if the conditions weren't kept just so. But she liked dogs in addition to fish. She even liked these specific dogs.

He liked these dogs. And usually they liked each other. But they did have their disagreements, and in the present squabble it was patently two against one. Well, that was easy to solve. Come, Marti, he said, as he turned back into the front room.

Marti gave her companions a look that may well have been interpreted in human speech as Hah! and walked away with the human head of the pack. The other two gave each other looks that translated more or less into Oh, well. The boss is the boss, and barreled out the dog door into the back garden to find something else to do. Unlike Marti, they were naturally resourceful, and didn't bear grudges. Loomis was gentle and they adored him. They saved their fussing for any attempts to separate the two of them. After a rocky beginning, they had become fast friends.

Loomis looked at the clock. It was still early. He grabbed a book and sat down, even though he didn't feel like reading. It was unusual, the head of the department asking him to stay home and wait for word. It felt odd, being knocked off routine. Probably that was at least half the trouble with Marti, Loomis thought. She fretted when things didn't go as expected.

Marti was short for Martinet, someone who demanded obedience. The term was used unconventionally, but accurately enough in its way. Marti demanded obedience to a schedule, or someone paid for it. She'd pee on the floor or hide under the bed, or just sit and look at a person with eyes conveying how deeply she felt her betrayal. Much more than the other two, Marti had been a challenge. By the same token, there was that much more room for improvement, and she had improved greatly in the five months she'd been in the household.

Come, Marti, what's so bad this time? I thought you'd learnt to manage those two slightly better than this, Loomis said, indulgently.

Marti sat her squatty, elongated body just out of reach and wagged her tail. Loomis shook his head. What sort of dog liked to have human company, but hated to be petted? Marti generally sat as close as she could without running the risk of actual contact. She was a funny case.

She was also a funny-looking dog. Loomis called her his corgi, but she wasn't really. The proportions were slightly off. The ears and tail were wrong. And the coat? Whatever mixture of dog breeds would result in a semi-corgi with hair that smacked of what a Yorkshire terrier's coat would be if a Yorkie's coat was shorter – well, it was beyond Loomis. He'd speculated, of course. So had the neighbors. And friends. This is not to mention the postman, the policeman, and practically everyone else who had come into contact with her. The only consensus was that, whatever her ancestry, Marti had been a basket case when Loomis had adopted her, and was still too apt to crumple compared to your average mutt.

The doorbell rang. Marti ran behind Loomis. He chuckled. The mutt had, at first, been prone to run off entirely when someone came to the door. But lately she'd developed the habit of running for his aid in times of uncertainty. It was a nuisance. A man had to watch his step because sometimes she was too nervous to move out of the way. But it was a flattering nuisance, all the same, having some poor creature looking his direction for protection.

Loomis peeked out the front door peephole, opened the door, and invited the caller in. Marti went berserk with fear. Here, now, girl. It's all right, Loomis said automatically, just as it dawned on him that it wasn't all right at all. Death had walked in the door. He could smell it. It made no sense. This person shouldn't be a danger. But that this person was here to kill him, he suddenly had no doubt.

Run, Marti! Loomis squawked, in a voice choked with fear and confusion.

Marti went in entirely the wrong direction, as far as Loomis had wanted. For the first time in her mostly sad and pathetic life, she was overwhelmed with a sense of loyalty, and against all odds she tried to drive off her master's attacker.

Loomis saw her peril and hesitated.

It was not a situation that allowed for hesitation.

CHAPTER 3 – THE GRAB

Don't tell me, Darlene Dourlein said when Emma walked in alone, Your husband has decided to go back to his old trick of refusing to show up more than 30 seconds early for an appointment?

Actually, internal review goons grabbed him en route. For what it's worth, they mumbled something I took to mean they'd probably have him loose in time for him to make the appointment here, Emma said.

You're joking.

No.

Darlene furrowed her brow.

Stolemaker walked in and smiled at Emma. Good morning, Mrs. Hugh. I hope I'm not late. My conference with other chiefs ran over its allotted time. He looked around for Richard. I suppose your husband will be joining us shortly? he said. It wasn't like Triple-O Five, somehow, sending his wife ahead to a joint meeting.

The chief realized that his secretary was giving him a rather unusual look. It wasn't hostile, exactly, but there was disapproval in it nonetheless. Now what have I done? he asked.

Nothing, Darlene said.

Stolemaker decided there was at least an outside chance his secretary was accusing him of doing nothing when he should have, in her opinion, done something. Do we need to talk? he asked her, motioning toward his office so they could talk in private.

Darlene didn't budge. You might have told me, she said, that Triple-O Five was under internal review again.

Stolemaker shot a look at Emma, then drilled Darlene with a look that could only be translated as 'I'm through with fun and games. Explain yourself.'

So she did. Succinctly.

Stolemaker excused himself to go make a few inquiries, and to explain protocol to whosoever seemed in need of a refresher course in how things were supposed to be done.

CHAPTER 4 – DR. ORCHARD ARRANGES MATTERS

This won't take long, Triple-O Five, the senior member of the internal review panel told Richard Hugh after everyone got seated.

Sounds rather like a dentist giving a patient false hope, Richard quipped.

Dr. Orchard was annoyed. He took his job seriously. He didn't appreciate it when field agents insisted upon being flippant. Most of them did insist on being flippant, too. Mistook it for wit, or something like that, he supposed.

I have an appointment with my chief very shortly. If we could cut to the car chase, please? Richard said. He waved his hand in small, forward-brushing movements, like he was trying to move things along. Most people around the table looked like they found this annoying, but, almost without exception, they keyed in on him all the same.

Orchard tried to not clinch his jaw. That was another thing about most field agents. After tossing off ridiculous remarks, they usually tried to assume control of the meeting. From past experience, he knew that Richard Hugh was surprisingly good at seizing control of meetings.

Orchard squinted, to concentrate his focus so he could pick up all the nuances of Richard's reaction to the bombshell he intended to drop. It annoyed him that Richard had gone over to wearing eyeglasses. Bare eyes were ever so much easier to read. (This is why he, himself, wore glasses that featured a light to moderate tint of a color scientifically chosen for best distraction value.)

Did you know your wife has been sending rather a lot of money to Nigeria and Kenya lately, Mr. Hugh? Orchard asked, after what he considered a suitable pause, intended to make Richard feel uncomfortable with the growing silence.

Yes, of course, Richard said. Not to mention Uganda.

Most members of the review panel couldn't decipher his attitude, and showed it. Orchard cursed under his breath. Hugh was good, no question about it. His whole attitude seemed to convey that he was not only telling the truth, but that he was sure that the truth in this case was perfectly acceptable. Orchard furiously tried to think of a new tack, something that would catch Hugh off guard.

The junior members shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

Orchard shifted his body language to convey extra authority.

Richard didn't alter his posture in the least.

Honestly! Is that what this is about? he asked.

The investigators looked at each other.

We'd like an explanation, Mr. Hugh, Orchard said.

On what grounds? Richard asked.

We're asking the questions here, Mr. Hugh.

Richard scratched his head. I can't remember where I signed off on my rights as a citizen when I joined the service. All the same, I guess it wouldn't hurt to tell… He rubbed his chin, and occasionally looked as if he were on the verge of talking, but didn't say anything more.

We're waiting, Mr. Hugh, Orchard said.

Do you realize that you never call me Mr. Hugh except when you're hoping to catch me out in something horrible? Sloppy interrogation technique, really. Lets me know you're out for blood, you know.

Orchard clinched his jaw, opting to let the agent hang himself if only he would, now that he was branching out into new subjects.

That's the other thing, you know, Richard said, wagging a finger at him. You really ought to learn to control your face better for this kind of work. Unless, of course, you want me to think you're hoping I'll stumble into trouble if you let me chat along. If that's the case, you're doing a first rate job of it, I'd say. He glanced meaningfully at a clock on the wall. Time to run, he said. He got up and left.

I say, a junior man said, he forgot to give us the explanation.

Forgot, my foot, Orchard said.

Shall I have him handcuffed and brought back? another junior man asked. The suggestion was made with some eagerness, as if handcuffing and hauling in a top British agent would fulfill a cherished ambition.

We can't, Orchard said.

Why not?

His chief is bigger than our chief, Orchard said, bitterly.

That's not true, one of the junior people said.

And even if it were, it shouldn't matter, another junior person said, as if pronouncing truth to the masses.

Welcome to the real world, Orchard said. Stolemaker may not outrank our chief, but he's friends with the Prime Minister.

So why do we mess with his people in the first place? a nervous little man asked.

Are you suggesting that we run this office based on political favoritism? Orchard asked. The nervous little man shrunk into his chair and shook his head.

Good. Never let me hear you say that we're politically minded around here, Orchard said. Never mind that they were, and half the people present knew that. It paid to keep up appearances around the more idealistic sorts – like the 'pronouncing truth to the masses' fellow.

Orchard snuck a peek at his roster. Dennis Uppington. Oh, yes of course. Behind his back the senior men called him Uppity. That's why they called him Dennis to his face. There was too much chance of slipping up and using the nickname instead of the last name once you'd let yourself get into a habit of joking around. It was better, far better, to feign familiarity instead of being caught out on something like that. Besides, in Orchard's opinion it helped keep the chap in his place, calling him by his first name in a last-name sort of office. The chap himself might not notice, but the chap's colleagues would, most likely. They should, at any rate. Highly-trained social scientists ought to notice such nuances, whether the rest of the world did, and ought to be able to ascribe the proper weight to them, too, whether the rest of the world could or not. The world, in Orchard's considered opinion, sadly lacked a proper appreciation of nuance of any sort, but particularly in precisely those nuances most important to social scientists.

Did you want something, Dr. Orchard? Dennis asked.

No.

Sorry. The way you were looking at me I thought you wanted something, the young man said.

Orchard had the beginnings of a plan jump into his brain.

Later, Dennis. Thank you. I was just thinking of something I might have you do for me later. Just then it hit Orchard that Hugh's comment about 'cutting to the car chase' might have been a stab. In fact, it had almost certainly been meant as an insult, personally directed at himself. He'd been partially responsible for ascertaining Hugh's fitness for duty after a horrific car crash resulting from a car chase. Hugh hadn't understood, and certainly had not appreciated, internal review's role in that recuperation process, the ungrateful wretch.

Is something wrong? Dennis asked, anxiously.

No. I was just thinking of Triple-O Five's response to our pulling him in, Orchard said.

Rather cheeky fellow, isn't he? Dennis said.

Orchard grunted what might have been assent.

But then, so many of the field forces are, it seems like, Dennis said.

Orchard grunted something less assent-like than before and left the room.

I guess the party's over, one of the women said.

Everybody get back to work, the nervous little man said. He could sound surprisingly sure of himself when he was the most senior man around (and was giving orders for people to go ahead and do what they'd already started to do).

Not long afterward, Dr. Orchard walked into the room where a couple dozen people under his command worked. Orchard spoke quietly to a young woman, putting his hand alongside his mouth as a shield against eavesdroppers and lip readers.

The woman grabbed her purse and left. On her way, she passed a gaggle of men who had assembled mid-room to discuss a case. Most of them pointedly ignored her.

As she hurried by, Dennis noticed that she had a determined look on her face. Whether that meant she'd just been handed a big assignment and was determined to live up to it, or whether she was offended, was anybody's guess as far as Dennis could see. A feminine clinched jaw around here was common enough, and could mean practically anything. It probably had something to do with the sort of woman drawn to this kind of work, Dennis guessed, and Ms. Janice Pendergrast was radical even by local standards. Her jaw was hard set as often as not. It was a shame. She had the makings of a pretty woman. Not stunning, perhaps, but pretty enough, if she'd only smile once in a while. Not her, though. Angry all the time, Janice was. Angry and defiant. The men avoided her en masse, except when they wanted something from her. A shame, that – but not something Dennis felt any need to correct personally. Not usually. Not any more. He'd been batted down once too often.

He'd put his twopenn'orth into the conversation (or had tried to, without much apparent effect) and he'd heard the other men's arguments twice over at least. He excused himself and headed to his desk feeling strangely discouraged. He didn't notice that Orchard was bearing down on him, but the others did, scattering to the relative safety of their own