“Who are we using?” The Russian. Huge. Short-tempered.

“His name is Commander Robert Bellamy.”

“How was he selected?” The German. Aristocratic. Ruthless.

“The Commander was chosen after a thorough computer search of the files of the CIA, FBI, and a half dozen other security agencies.”

“Please, may I inquire what are his qualifications?” The Japanese. Polite. Sly.

“Commander Bellamy is an experienced field officer who speaks six languages fluently and has an exemplary record. Again and again he has proved himself to be very resourceful. He has no living relatives.”

“Is he aware of the urgency of this?” The Englishman. Snobbish. Dangerous.

“He is. We have every expectation that he will be able to locate all the witnesses very quickly.”

“Does he understand the purpose of his mission?” The Frenchman. Argumentative. Stubborn.

“No.”

“And when he has found the witnesses?” The Chinese. Clever. Patient.

“He will be suitably rewarded.”

The headquarters of the Office of Naval Intelligence occupies the entire fifth floor of the sprawling Pentagon, an enclave in the middle of the largest office building in the world, with seventeen miles of corridors, and twenty-nine thousand military and civilian employees.

The interior of the Office of Naval Intelligence reflects its seagoing inheritance. The desks and file cabinets are either olive green, from the World War II era, or battleship grey, from the Vietnam era. The walls and ceilings are painted a buff or cream colour. In the beginning, Robert had been put off by the spartan decor, but he had long since grown accustomed to it.

Now, as he walked into the building and approached the reception desk, the familiar guard at the desk said, “Good morning, Commander. May I see your pass?”