“Go right in, please, gentlemen. The General is expecting you.”

Harrison Keller said, “This way.”

Robert Bellamy followed him into the inner sanctum. He found himself in a spacious office, the ceilings and walls heavily soundproofed. The room was comfortably furnished, filled with photographs and personal artifacts. It was obvious that the man behind the desk spent a lot of time there.

General Mark Hilliard, Deputy Director of NSA, appeared to be in his middle fifties, very tall, with a face carved in flint, icy, steely eyes, and a ramrod-straight posture. The General was dressed in a grey suit, white shirt and grey tie. I guessed right, Robert thought.

Harrison Keller said, “General Hilliard, this is Commander Bellamy.”

“Thank you for dropping by, Commander.”

As though it had been an invitation to some tea party.

The two men shook hands.

“Sit down. I’ll bet you could do with a cup of coffee.”

The man was a mind-reader. “Yes, sir.”

“Harrison?”

“No, thank you.” He took a chair in the corner.

A buzzer was pressed, the door opened and an oriental in a mess jacket entered with a tray of coffee and Danish pastry. Robert noted that he was not wearing an identification badge. Shame. The coffee was poured. It smelled wonderful.

“How do you take yours?” General Milliard asked.

“Black, please.” The coffee tasted great.

The two men were seated in soft leather chairs facing each other.

“The Director asked that I meet with you.”

The Director. Edward Sanderson. A legend in espionage circles. A brilliant, ruthless puppet-master, credited with masterminding dozens of daring coups all over the world. A man seldom seen in public and whispered about in private.

“How long have you been with the 17th District Naval Intelligence Group, Commander?” General Milliard asked.