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the promotion ladder.
    Immaculately dressed, as ever, Harcourt-Smith received Preston warmly in his office. Preston was wary of the warmth. Others had been received just as warmly, so went the stories, and had been out of the service a week later. Harcourt-Smith seated Preston in front of his desk and himself behind it. Preston’s report lay on the blotter.
    “Now, John, this report of yours. You’ll understand, of course, that I take it, along with all your work, extremely seriously.”
    “Thank you,” said Preston.
    “So much so,” Harcourt-Smith went on, “that I’ve spent a good part of the festivities break right here in this office to reread and consider it.”
    Preston thought it wiser to remain silent.
    “It is, how shall I put it, pretty radical ... no holds barred, eh? The question is—and this is the question I have to ask myself before this department proposes any kind of policy based upon it—is it all absolutely true? Can it be verified? This is what I should be asked.”
    “Look, Brian, I’ve spent two years on that investigation. My people went deep, very deep. The facts, where I’ve stated them as facts, are true.”
    “Ah, John. I’d never dispute any facts presented by you. But the conclusions drawn from them—”
    “Are based on logic, I think,” said Preston.
    “A great discipline. I used to study it,” resumed Harcourt-Smith. “But not always supported by hard evidence, wouldn’t you agree? Let’s take this thing here—” He found the place in the report and his finger ran along one line. “The MBR. Pretty extreme, wouldn’t you say?”
    “Oh, yes, Brian, it’s extreme. These are pretty extreme people.”
    “No doubt about it. But wouldn’t it have been helpful to have a copy of the MBR attached to your report?”
    “So far as I could discover, it hasn’t been written down. It’s a series of intentions—albeit very firm intentions—in the minds of certain people.”
    Harcourt-Smith sucked regretfully at a tooth. “Intentions,” he said, as though the word intrigued him, “yes, intentions. But you see, John, there are a lot of intentions in the minds of a lot of people vis-à-vis this country, not all of them friendly. But we can’t propose policy, measures, or countermeasures on the basis of these intentions.”
    Preston was about to speak, but Harcourt-Smith swept on, rising to indicate that the interview was over.
    “Look, John, leave this with me awhile longer. I’ll have to think on it and perhaps take a few soundings before I decide where I can best place it. By the by, how do you like F1(D)?”
    “I like it fine,” said Preston, rising also.
    “I may have something for you that you’ll like even more,” said Harcourt-Smith.
    When Preston had gone, Harcourt-Smith stared at the door through which he had passed for several minutes. He seemed lost in thought.
    Simply to shred the file, which he privately regarded as embarrassing and which might one day prove dangerous, was not possible. It had been formally presented by a section head. It had a file number. He thought long and hard. Then took his red-ink pen and wrote carefully on the cover of the Preston report. He pressed his buzzer for his secretary.
    “Mabel,” he said when she entered, “take this down to Registry yourself, please. Right now.”
    The girl glanced at the cover of the file. Across it were written the letters NFA and Brian Harcourt-Smith’s initials. In the service, NFA stands for “no further action.” The report was to be buried.

Chapter 2
    It was not until Sunday, January 4, that the apartment owner at Fontenoy House was able to get an answer from the number he had been ringing every hour for three days. It was a brief conversation when it took place, but it resulted in his meeting with another man just before the hour of luncheon in a recessed alcove of one of the public rooms in a very discreet West End hotel.
    The newcomer was about sixty, with iron-gray hair, soberly