Fraser was sitting at his desk, staring at the computer screen in front of him when I arrived mid-morning on Wednesday, having left Whitehall in Hannah"s more than capable hands. I wasn"t expecting any communication from Sir John Scarlett at the Box, Vauxhall Cross, but if we had inadvertently ruffled his feathers, then I knew I could depend on Hannah having the perfect riposte for any questions he might have. As I closed Fraser"s stout office door and was on my way to gather up the whisky decanter and a glass before sitting in one of the comfortable sofas and pouring myself a very large glass of agreeable Scotch, he turned to face me and loudly proclaimed, “Nothing!”
“Yes, nothing,” I grumbled in reply. “We have legends galore on Ivy as Ivy or as Kudashov, but not a grain on Tomsa other
