“Great. Thanks a lot.”

“Thank you for coming.”

“Seems like a nice hotel,” I said, holding back half a dozen wisecracks about my closet-sized room.

“No,” he said, leaning forward on his elbows and looking me in the eyes. “Thank you for coming to England.”

I said something that I hoped didn’t sound idiotic and followed his directions. His thanks unsettled me. I didn’t want to be here, never was a fan of the British Empire, and the only American I had met so far didn’t act like he gave a rat’s ass if I was here. I thought about the woman and the V-for-victory sign. Was she still alive? The image of her swam through my mind as I wondered if she had made it. I noticed I had already crossed South Audley without turning left. I tried to forget about her and concentrate on not getting lost.

I saw a sign for Piccadilly and knew that was something a tourist would go see. I was tempted to explore. But duty called and, more important, I thought they’d have coffee at the office. Coffee at the office. OK, that sounds almost normal, I thought. It may not be Boston or even the States, but I’m in London walking to the office. How bad can this be?

A few minutes later, standing at my best imitation of attention in front of Major Harding, I began to get an inkling of just how bad it could be. He sat behind his desk, leaning back in a swivel chair, reading a file. My file, I guessed from the expression on his face. He wasn’t smiling. He had a row of campaign ribbons and medals on his uniform jacket that made it look like he had been in the army since God was a child. He sported a neatly trimmed mustache, and a brush haircut that almost hid the gray at his temples. He looked pretty trim, like he had been a football player-maybe a quarterback-who worked at not going soft when he hit forty, which is about what I guessed him to be. He wore a West Point ring and no wedding band. Worst of all, he sipped from a china cup of steaming black coffee while he read. I didn’t see a service for two.