likes to pretend that things canât work when they can.â
Mr. Jones hovered nearby, refilled both their glasses and began to move away.
Dixwell looked directly at Verney. âUnder the fancy coats of arms that you Brits like to indulge in you have mottos in Latin. Maybe General Verneyâs should be on the lines of âIt does work but why donât we just make it look as if the thing has broken down.ââ Dixwell laughed.
Jones was still within earshot just. He stood absolutely still. The head turned slowly and he looked back at the general. As the head turned Jonesâ smile was gone. The usually kindly face wore an expression of hatred, pure full-on, outraged high-octane hatred â sharp and strong at first but then with a moment of confusion. The eyes blazed in barely controlled fury. Luckily no one could see Jones â it was frightening, as if he was having a fit. Then the face reposed once again, like a clown changing expressions, as he served the next guest.
Verney laughed too. The Master laughed but felt uncomfortable, although he could not work out why. The jibe was perfectly within the bounds of civilised conversation, even if Dixwellâs aura of triumph, âGotchaâ he believed the Americans called it, did seem over the top. Verney reached for his glass. His hand was shaking.
âRather a lot of Americans here tonight donât you think? Time I think for some port.â With that the Master pushed back his chair.
The Jamesian dons and their guests took their cue from the Master. They got up together gowns flapping and processed to the other end of the collegeâs Combination Room to drink port.
II
Cabinet Office, 70 Whitehall, London SW1
â Tuesday 17th January,
100th Anniversary of Captain Scottâs Arrival at the South Pole
The prime ministerâs morning intelligence report was due with the duty private secretary by eight oâclock. It was not yet dawn. But behind Gibbsâs 18th-century façade at 70 Whitehall and the guarded, bulletproof entrance, the second floor of the Cabinet Office was already busy. Colonel Daniel Jacot had been working half the night to make sense of over 100 separate intercepts and intelligence reports on the situation in Iran. The scarlet Cabinet Office folders bulged. But he had reduced the thousands of words to a side and a half. Really, couldnât these politicians follow a complex story? Jacot was a soldier on secondment to the senior civil service. His passion for accuracy, attention to detail and critical judgment made him the ideal intelligence analyst. Immaculately turned out as was expected of a Guards officer, he wore plain and severely cut suits always in dark blue or dark grey. His highly polished black shoes made his colleagues feel underdressed.
Jacot also wore gloves â all the time. They covered his hands badly burned thirty years before during the Falklands War. The skin grafts taken from his thighs had worked well over the years but had a different tone and texture from the remaining original skin on his hands. The tips of some of the fingers were missing â burned through. Jacot had never minded their gnarled and blotchy appearance but as he grew older the skin scratched easily and the fingers ached after hours typing at a computer. The cool silk of the gloves soothed and protected. Usually black but occasionally, for fun, Jacot would wear brighter patterns and colours often given to him by friends and relatives. At least he never got socks for Christmas.
The pale blue eyes had a steadiness and clarity that many found reassuring. Towards the end of the day Jacot sometimes had an air of melancholy softening his brisk and military manner. The vulnerability this revealed was attractive to women â not that Jacot understood this for a moment.
He pressed the speed dial key on his secure phone connecting him with the duty CIA desk in the complex below the White House. Although the
Mr. Jones hovered nearby, refilled both their glasses and began to move away.
Dixwell looked directly at Verney. âUnder the fancy coats of arms that you Brits like to indulge in you have mottos in Latin. Maybe General Verneyâs should be on the lines of âIt does work but why donât we just make it look as if the thing has broken down.ââ Dixwell laughed.
Jones was still within earshot just. He stood absolutely still. The head turned slowly and he looked back at the general. As the head turned Jonesâ smile was gone. The usually kindly face wore an expression of hatred, pure full-on, outraged high-octane hatred â sharp and strong at first but then with a moment of confusion. The eyes blazed in barely controlled fury. Luckily no one could see Jones â it was frightening, as if he was having a fit. Then the face reposed once again, like a clown changing expressions, as he served the next guest.
Verney laughed too. The Master laughed but felt uncomfortable, although he could not work out why. The jibe was perfectly within the bounds of civilised conversation, even if Dixwellâs aura of triumph, âGotchaâ he believed the Americans called it, did seem over the top. Verney reached for his glass. His hand was shaking.
âRather a lot of Americans here tonight donât you think? Time I think for some port.â With that the Master pushed back his chair.
The Jamesian dons and their guests took their cue from the Master. They got up together gowns flapping and processed to the other end of the collegeâs Combination Room to drink port.
II
Cabinet Office, 70 Whitehall, London SW1
â Tuesday 17th January,
100th Anniversary of Captain Scottâs Arrival at the South Pole
The prime ministerâs morning intelligence report was due with the duty private secretary by eight oâclock. It was not yet dawn. But behind Gibbsâs 18th-century façade at 70 Whitehall and the guarded, bulletproof entrance, the second floor of the Cabinet Office was already busy. Colonel Daniel Jacot had been working half the night to make sense of over 100 separate intercepts and intelligence reports on the situation in Iran. The scarlet Cabinet Office folders bulged. But he had reduced the thousands of words to a side and a half. Really, couldnât these politicians follow a complex story? Jacot was a soldier on secondment to the senior civil service. His passion for accuracy, attention to detail and critical judgment made him the ideal intelligence analyst. Immaculately turned out as was expected of a Guards officer, he wore plain and severely cut suits always in dark blue or dark grey. His highly polished black shoes made his colleagues feel underdressed.
Jacot also wore gloves â all the time. They covered his hands badly burned thirty years before during the Falklands War. The skin grafts taken from his thighs had worked well over the years but had a different tone and texture from the remaining original skin on his hands. The tips of some of the fingers were missing â burned through. Jacot had never minded their gnarled and blotchy appearance but as he grew older the skin scratched easily and the fingers ached after hours typing at a computer. The cool silk of the gloves soothed and protected. Usually black but occasionally, for fun, Jacot would wear brighter patterns and colours often given to him by friends and relatives. At least he never got socks for Christmas.
The pale blue eyes had a steadiness and clarity that many found reassuring. Towards the end of the day Jacot sometimes had an air of melancholy softening his brisk and military manner. The vulnerability this revealed was attractive to women â not that Jacot understood this for a moment.
He pressed the speed dial key on his secure phone connecting him with the duty CIA desk in the complex below the White House. Although the
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