It was getting dark. Outside the weather was thickening. M reached over and switched on the green-shaded desklight. The centre of the room became a warm yellow pool in which the leather top of the desk glowed blood-red.
M pulled the thick file towards him. Bond noticed it for the first time. He read the reversed lettering without difficulty. What had Strangways been up to? Who was Trueblood?
M pressed a button on his desk. “I’ll get the Chief of Staff in on this,” he said. “I know the bones of the case, but he can fill in the flesh. It’s a drab little story, I’m afraid.”
The Chief of Staff came in. He was a colonel in the Sappers, a man of about Bond’s age, but his hair was prematurely grey at the temples from the endless grind of work and responsibility. He was saved from a nervous bre
