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leadership values, stupid role-playing games involving pretending to be circus performers organizing a fantasy big top night, sly digs from the Ministry of Sport—pass me by in a blur. I go upstairs to my bedroom, force myself to shower and unkink my clenched jaw muscles, then dress again, and go downstairs.
    They’ve set up a buffet in one of the meeting rooms. It’s piled high with tuna mayo sandwiches, cold chicken drumsticks, and greasy mini-samosas, evidently in a misplaced attempt to encourage us to mingle and network after working hours. Halfway across the campus there’s a bar, although the beer’s fizzy piss and the spirits are overpriced. I check the clock: it’s only six thirty. If I do the mingling thing they’ll start badgering me about their aunts’ speeding tickets, but the prospect of drinking on my own does not appeal.
    I make the best of a bad deal and strike out across the campus to the nearest bar, where I order a pint of lemonade to calm my nerves and contemplate the menu without much enthusiasm. The ghastly truth is beginning to sink in when one of my fellow victims walks in and approaches the bar. At least I think he’s a victim; he might be staff. Three-piece suit, mid-fifties, distinguished gray hair and a salt-and-pepper mustache. Something about his bearing is familiar, then I realize where I’ve seen it before—ten to one he’s ex-military. As he taps the brass bell-push he catches me watching him and nods. “Ah, Mr. Howard.”
    I stare at him. “That’s me. Who are you?” It’s rude, I know, but I’m not in a terribly good mood right now.
    “I heard one of you young people would be here, and thought I ought to meet you.” The barman, who looks younger than most of the single malts behind the bar, sticks his head up. “Ah, that’ll be a Talisker, the sixteen-year-old, and”—he looks at me—“what’s your poison, Mr. Howard?”
    “I’ll try the Glengoyne ten,” I say automatically.
    “Bill it to my tab,” says my nameless benefactor. “No ice!” he adds, with an expression of mild horror as the barman reaches for the bucket. “That will be all.” The barman, to my surprise, makes himself scarce, leaving two tumblers of amber water-of-life atop the bar. “Make yourself comfortable,” he says, gesturing at a couple of armchairs beside the empty fireplace. He makes it sound like an order.
    I sit down. He sits down opposite me. “You still haven’t introduced yourself,” I say.
    “Indeed.” He smiles faintly.
    “Indeed.” There’s nothing I can say to that without being rude, and we in the Laundry have an old saying: Do not in haste be rude to whoever’s buying the drinks. So I raise my tumbler, take a good sniff (just to make sure it isn’t poison), and examine him over the rim.
    “You surprised Dr. Tring, you know. Most of the students here are aiming to network and make connections; you might want to pick a slightly less objectionable cover story next time.”
    Cover story. I give him the hairy eyeball. “For the third time. Who’s asking?”
    He reaches into his jacket pocket with his right hand and withdraws a familiar-looking card. Which he then holds in front of me while I read the name on it and feel a prickling in the balls of my thumbs (and a vibration in the ward that hangs on a chain around my neck) that tells me it’s the real thing.
    “All right, Mr. Lockhart.” I take a sip of his whisky and allow myself to relax—but only a little. “I’ll take your helpful advice under consideration, although in my defense, I have to say, the story wasn’t my idea. But what—if I may ask—are you doing here?”
    “I’d have thought it was obvious; I’m enjoying an after-work drink and networking with a useful contact in the Highways Agency.” Gerald Lockhart, who at SSO8(L) is a stratospheric four grades above me—that’s four grades up in the same organization—replies without any noticeable inflection.
    “Uh huh.” I think for a