He recognized her instantly when he saw her coming toward him along the platform. The years had been remarkably kind to her; at least at a distance she seemed hardly changed at all from the time he had seen her at her wedding. She was wearing a yellow plastic raincoat, unbuttoned in front to reveal a tasteful tweed pantsuit, and she carried a small green overnight bag.

J frowned. At her side strolled her husband in a similar yellow raincoat, and following him, trotting along hand in hand, came three yellow-raincoat-clad boys. Bringing up the rear, in another yellow raincoat, was a fat, red-faced woman, who could only be their maid, loaded down with luggage. Mrs. Smythe-Evans had brought her whole family.

«Damn and blast,» J muttered, but he hid his consternation behind a set of shiny grinning false teeth as he advanced to welcome her.

«Ah, Mrs. Smythe-Evans!» He shook her hand heartily. «How good of you to come. And this, I take it, is your husband?»

«Yes. J, meet Reginald Smythe-Evans,» she answered brightly.

The men shook hands.

Reginald said stiffly, «Jay? Is that your first name or your last?»

«Neither, old man. It's only a nickname, but people have been calling me by it for so long I hardly remember any other.» Reginald obviously was not satisfied with this answer, but J turned to the children. «And these, I suppose, are your handsome children?»

«That's right,» she replied, somewhat nervously, but with a note of pride in her voice. «Here's Reggie Jr., and Smitty. Shake hands with the gentleman, boys.» Gravely they obeyed. «And this is my youngest, little Dickie.» J found a small hand thrust into his, and a pair of dark eyes peering up at him with a look of disquieting intelligence.

«Pleased to meet you, sir,» said Dickie.

«I hope you don't mind if I brought my family along,» she continued. «I thought if I was coming in to London anyway, we might as well make an event of it. The boys are out of school, and Reggie has been working so hard he deserves a holiday. It's all right, isn't it?» She looked at J doubtfully.

«Of course, of course. No problem,» J assured her. «I've booked a room at a hotel for you not far from here, and I'm sure we can expand the reservation to cover your entourage. If you'll follow me… «He led the way toward the exit, allowing no trace of his inner indignation to show outwardly.

«Perhaps I can be of some assistance with this Blade business,» Reginald offered, falling in step.

«I'm afraid not, old chap,» J said.

«I can come along for moral support, at least,» Reginald persisted.

«Thank you, but I'll have to say no.» J was firm.

«And why not?» Reginald demanded.

Awkwardly J explained, «It's a matter of security, classified information, government secrets and all that rot. I don't make the rules, but I have to play by them. Your wife is cleared-that is, she has a security clearance.»

«And I don't?» said Reginald.

«That's right.»

Now Reginald was genuinely surprised. «Why should she have a clearance when I don't?»

J hesitated a moment, then told him the truth. «When your wife was, so to speak, intimately associated with our Richard Blade, we looked into her background quite carefully, and we've kept track of her, in our quiet way, ever since. Strictly routine, you understand, but fortunate in this case. That's how we were able to find her so easily. I'm sure you're a loyal British subject, Mr. Smythe-Evans, at least as loyal as Kim Philby or some other people who have gotten the highest clearances only to turn out to be Russian spies. Obviously this security clearance business doesn't work. Obviously it only makes us keep tripping over our own feet, but it's a tradition. You can't expect us to go against tradition.»

«I suppose not,» Reginald reluctantly agreed, bewildered but clearly impressed by the cloak-and-dagger atmosphere J had managed to project.

«I'll get you all settled in your hotel,» J said in a businesslike tone. «Then I'll borrow your wife for a few hours. I hate to inconvenience you, but it's dreadfully important. You can fend for yourself for awhile, can't you?»

«I suppose so.»

J clapped him on the back. «There's a good chap!»

They came out of the station and descended the steps into Hart Street, hunching their shoulders against the chill of early evening.

The Tower of London had been officially closed for hours. The quaint red-uniformed Yeomen Warders who squired the tourists during the day and served, in their way, as guards had long since left. The only people who remained were the inconspicuous plainclothesmen of MI6A who hovered around the entrance as if waiting for an omnibus that never came.

As J and Zoe trudged across the street, two of the agents came forward into the pale illumination of the streetlamp to meet them.

«Good evening, sir,» said the taller. «Identification, please.»

J handed over his papers.

«And the lady, sir?» the other asked.

«Her name is Zoe Smythe-Evans,» J said.

She showed the man her driver's license. He frowned, dissatisfied.

«I'll take full responsibility for her,» J added.

The taller man took J to one side and said softly, «This is highly irregular, sir.»

«I know that.»

The agent shrugged. «Very well, sir. Password?»

«Lotus.»

«Countersign Eaters,» said the man, snapping on his flashlight.

«Follow me, please.»

While his partner remained behind, the tall man led J and Zoe through the deserted Tower Park, among the ancient cannons and leafless trees. There was no fog tonight, and J could see the lights on the opposite bank of the river, and their reflections shimmering in the water like ghostly spears of colored flame. Ahead and above, endless streams of headlights crossed the massive Tower Bridge.

The agent unlocked the Traitor's Gate and let J and Zoe in, then left them to continue on their own. Zoe exclaimed with surprise when J opened the hidden door. «Amazing! I could have sworn that was a blank wall.»

J chuckled and continued on.

Zoe followed though it was plain she found the long dim damp tunnel and the maze of subbasements highly distasteful.

When they reached the elevator, Zoe pressed the button.

J smiled when the elevator did not come.

«What's keeping it?» she demanded.

«It doesn't know you, my dear.»

J pressed with his thumb, and the elevator arrived an instant later.

«How did you do that?» she asked as she stepped inside.

«Magic, my dear. Magic.»

They plunged downward at an alarming speed, then slowed to a stop. «I feel ill,» Zoe said softly, long fingers touching the base of her throat.

The door slid open.

In a brilliantly lighted foyer a man behind an olive drab desk looked up from a magazine he was reading. The man wore a green uniform and was armed with a large pistol in a hip holster. He looked at Zoe and frowned.

«We're going down, Peters,» said J.

Peters pressed a button on his desk. The elevator door closed. Again they plummeted downward.

Zoe said, «I would rather have gotten off there and taken the stairs.»

J answered, «If you had stepped into that foyer, you would have heard more alarm bells, sirens and whistles than you'd care to hear in a lifetime.»

«Good Lord. You must be guarding something frightfully valuable in there. What is it?»

«The Russians know there's something in there, but they don't know what it is. I hope you don't expect to be better informed than they are.»

The elevator decelerated.

«This will be our little hospital,» J said.

«How convenient.»

The door slid open.

Standing in the hall, waiting, were Lord Leighton and Dr. Leonard Ferguson. Both looked haggard and tense, as if they had not slept in a long time.