The other man chuckled, his bulldog face creasing into a smile. 'Why not Warlock?'

They both laughed. 'Appropriate,' Franco nodded. 'Operation Meltdown, with you -its creative and directive force -Warlock.'

The man behind the desk laid his hands flat on the leather top. 'So be it.' He nodded his head in a quick, birdlike, manner. 'You had no trouble?'

'Nothing at all. Clean as your proverbial English whistle. The chopper was on time; there were no tails. By now you should know I always have care.'

'Good.' The birdlike pecking nod again. 'Then I trust, my friend, that this will be your last visit here.' Franco gave a quirky little grin. 'Perhaps. But maybe not quite my last. There is the question of payment.'

The man behind the desk opened his hands, fingers splayed, palms upward. Т mean, of course, your last visit until after Meltdown is completed. Yes, of course there is the question of picking up your share. But first, location and the small detail. That's one of the things we have to discuss; one of the reasons you will be here for a slightly longer period this time, Franco.'

'Naturally.' Franco's voice took on a cold edge and the word came out in four syllables, spoken curiously like the slow, cautious footsteps of a man testing an ice bridge across a deep crevasse.

'There is much to talk about. Europe, I presume, is completely arranged?'

'Everyone ready, yes.'

'And the States?'

'Ready and waiting for the final instructions.'

'The men…?'

Franco leaned forward. 'These people, as I've already told you, have been waiting for a long time. They always were the least of my worries. Each of them is dedicated, ready to give his or her life for his separate cause. To all purposes, they consider themselves martyrs already. But the various organisations that have provided the personnel for your operation – organisations outlawed by most Western governments, and regarded as terrorists – are anxious. They want assurances that they will receive their share of the money.'

'Which, I trust, you have given them, Franco.' From behind the desk the bulldog face had ceased to beam. 'Our commitment was clear. I seem to recall that we spoke of this, at great length, over a year ago. I provide the plan, the – how do you say it these days? – the know-how. I also arrange the means. You are the go-between, the contact man. Now, we have more interesting things to talk about.'

BOND BECAME MORE alert when he reached the far side of M's door. He was prepared for his old chief to be seated in his usual concentrated position behind the large glass-topped desk; but he was not expecting to find two extra men in the room.

'Come in, Bond.' M addressed him with a small, economic, movement of the hand. 'Gentlemen,' he glanced towards his visitors, 'allow me to introduce Commander James Bond. I think he's the man to fit the bill.'

Bond warily acknowledged the other men. He knew well enough who they were, though it would not do to show it openly.

M allowed the pause to lie for just the right length of time, as though testing Bond's discretion, before completing the introductions. 'Commander, this is Sir Richard Duggan, Director-General of M.I.5; and Deputy Assistant Commissioner David Ross, head of the Special Branch of the Metropolitan Police.'

Bond reached out and, in turn, shook hands with the men, noting they both possessed firm dry handshakes. They also looked him straight in the eyes. These were two features Bond had long since come either to admire or guard against – depending on what side he suspected the owners of such attributes to be working.

It was certainly a puzzling situation. M.I.5, and its executive arm, the Special Branch, constituted what was known officially as the British Security Service – responsible for counter-espionage and anti-terrorist activities on British sovereign territory.

To Bond's service they were always jokingly known as 'The Opposition', and there had always been a keen rivalry between the two organisations: a rivalry which had sometimes led to grave misunderstandings; even open hostility.

It was certainly most unusual for the heads of 'The Opposition' to come calling on M, who saw them regularly anyway – at least once a week at the Joint Intelligence Committee meeting.

M motioned Bond into a leather chair and looked – a shade too benignly, Bond thought – first at his two visitors, then at Bond. 'Our friends from M.I.5 have a small problem, Commander,' he began, and Bond noted with caution that M was treating him with almost military correctness. 'It is an interesting situation, and I feel you might be able to help; especially as it has all the marks of moving out of M.1.5's jurisdiction, and into our own area.' He tapped his pipe into the copper ashtray on the desk. For the first time, Bond noticed his chief had a file lying directly in front of him. It was thick and marked with the red Most Secret: Classified tags. Two small circles, on the top right hand corner of the white binding, denoted that the file concerned both European and Middle East connections; while a small sticker bore the words, which Bond could easily read upside down, 'Not for Brotherhood', which meant it contained information not to be circulated to the American service, the C.I.A.

The fact of the file was enough to alert Bond. M would have had it photostated on a blow-up, direct from its stored microfilm, especially for this kind of meeting. It would be shredded once those instructed to read it had done so.

'I think,' M said, looking at the Director-General of M.I.5, 'it would be best if the two of you put Commander Bond in the picture. Then we can take it on from there.'

Sir Richard Duggan nodded, and leaned down to open his briefcase, removing a file and placing a matt ten-byeight photograph on the desk in front of Bond. 'Know the face?' he asked.

Bond nodded. 'Franco – to the Press, public, and most of us. Code Foxtrot to those in the field – ourselves, G.S.G. 9, Gigene, Squad R, Blue Light, C.ll and C.13.' Bond was referring to the German, French, Italian and American anti-terrorist squads, together with C.1l and C.13, of Scotland Yard, who often worked closely with Special Branch (C.11 staffs the Anti-Terrorist Squad, in conjunction with C.1).

The head of M.I.5 was not, however, going to let Bond get off so lightly. Did the Commander know anything else about Code Foxtrot – Franco?

Again Bond nodded. 'Of course. International terrorist. Wanted in most European countries and some in the Middle East. There is a request for him to be held in the United States; though, as far as we know, he has not operated from, or in, that country. His full name is Franco Oliveiro Quesocriado; born Madrid 1948 of mixed parentage – Spanish father and an English mother. I believe her name was something quite ordinary, like Jones, Smith or Evans…'

'Leonard actually,' said D.A.C. Ross quietly. 'Mary Leonard.'

'Sorry,' Bond smiled at him, and the policeman returned the smile. He had the look of a modern copper, Bond thought. Almost certainly one of the university intake – quiet, with a watchfulness buried deep in his eyes, and the sense of a coiled spring held back by the retaining pin of both caution and calmness. A very tough and sharp baby if roused, was Bond's instant assessment.

He turned back to Sir Richard Duggan, asking if they wanted him to continue.

'Naturally.' Richard Duggan was a very different breed, and Bond already knew his pedigree – that was, after all, part of his job. Duggan was old school Home Office. Eton and Oxford, then a career in politics, which lasted only a short time before the Home Office snapped him up. Tall, slim and good-looking, with thick light-coloured hair, which his enemies claimed was tinted, Duggan looked the part-young and rich, authoritative and in control. The youthfulness, Bond also knew, was an illusion, and the luck of a good facial bone structure.