Two tall men walked along a corridor two hundred feet below the Tower of London. Their footsteps raised echoes from the tiled floors and painted cement of the walls.

The man on the right was known only as J. A casual look at him would have suggested that he was a senior civil servant, nearing retirement age after many years of faithful and unobtrusive service. The Oxford accent, the erect carriage, and the flawless, understated tailoring of his dark gray suit all reinforced the impression.

The man on the left was named Richard Blade. He had always been harder to classify than J, and always would be. A dark man, one might have called him-dark hair, dark, closely trimmed beard, skin tanned almost to swarthiness. A wealthy man-he wore a custom-tailored suit, handmade brown shoes, a fine digital watch. A powerful man-under that suit was obviously an athlete's body, massively muscled and conditioned. If asked to guess about Richard Blade, the onlooker would have probably said, «A well-off amateur athlete and man about town.»

The onlooker would have been spectacularly wrong about both J and Richard Blade.

J had indeed served the British Crown faithfully and unobtrusively for many years. In espionage a man has to be faithful, and a man who isn't unobtrusive doesn't live very long. J was one of the century's great spymasters and head of the secret intelligence agency MI6. He had also reached an age where a normal man would have been at least thinking about retirement. But those who make distinguished careers in the dim shadowy world of espionage are seldom so normal.

Richard Blade was indeed a trained athlete, and not at all short of money. He'd been one of MI6's finest and deadliest field agents, picked by J himself when fresh out of Oxford. There was nothing of the amateur about him, and there never would be. He was a brilliant and formidable professional in a game more demanding and far deadlier than polo or tennis or steeple-chasing.