Free Enemy Agents by Shaun Tennant Page A

still hurt a bit to walk, but he wouldn’t let it show. He had to look invincible for the people here. He had to look like the man who always kept England safe.
    The building was known as the London headquarters for a multinational bank, and was most definitel y no t known as the headquarters for a secret branch of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.
    Entering the reception room, Thorpe was glad to see that there was already a woman sitting in the waiting area. She was Kathy Cashmere, the coordinator for the ten Triple-Digit agents. Kathy was almost forty, with a soft, round face and a body that she worked hard to keep skinny. She wore a skirt suit as always, and immediately Thorpe wished she would one day abandon those long skirts for something shorter, with a slit up the thigh. Still, Kathy was warm and energetic, and would rescue Thorpe from having to be alone with the receptionist, Ms. Halstrom.
    For almost thirty years, the Ringmaster’s secretary had been a rather plump woman with hair that Thorpe thought resembled a bird’s nest. Ms. Halstrom was joyless, followed every rule to the letter, and her scornful looks reminded Thorpe of the nuns from the orphanage where he’d grown up.
    Ms. Cashmere grinned when Thorpe sat down next to her.
    “Nice to see you again, Triple-Eight. You’ve lost weight.”
    “Likewise, Kath,” he smiled his best cheeky smile, “although your weight loss was voluntary.”
    “Mmm-hmm.”
    “Have you seen him today? Has he seen my report?”
    “Don’t know. He sent a message asking me to accompany you but that’s all he’d say.”
    “Likely not good then.” Thorpe waved at Ms. Halstrom.
    “Afternoon Ms. Halstrom. How is he today? Not particularly angry about everything that happened, I hope?”
    Ms. Halstrom pushed her glasses up her nose and pursed her thin lips. She pulled out ear buds that Thorpe hadn’t noticed at first, and for a moment he wondered if the old bat had been listening to music, before realizing how silly the very thought of it was. For a joyless creature such as Ms. Halstrom, music and the workplace must exist in separate universes.
    “I’m a receptionist, not a psychologist, Triple-Eight. And I’d appreciate a little quiet while I transcribe Triple-Four’s debriefing, if you don’t mind.” She gave him a condescending smile and put the buds back into her ears, turning her attention back to typing.
    “Did you know that she was typing?” he whispered to Cashmere. “I had no idea. Just pulled those headphones out of nowhere.”
    Kathy grinned like a schoolgirl who’d just seen a classmate get caught passing notes, then pointed to the lights on the wall beside the Ringmaster’s door.
    “Let’s get on then. Light’s green.”
    “Oh it is, isn’t it?” Thorpe stood, facing the two lights, one red and one green, which indicated whether the boss was available. “Guess we’ll just go in then,” he said loudly, turning toward Ms. Halstrom, “seeing how the light’s green. Wouldn’t want to trouble you to tell us when it turned green, since you’re so busy.”
    The older woman scowled but said nothing, so Thorpe and Cashmere went into the old man’s office.
    The Ringmaster was in his sixties; a thick, stocky man in a finely tailored suit. Thorpe knew little of the man’s life outside this room, but had long-ago deduced that Ringmaster never had any children with Mrs. Ringmaster, and therefore had much disposable income to spend on his exquisite wardrobe. Thorpe had complimented the old man’s suit from time to time, and Ringmaster always sighed, saying that when one worked in a financial building, one had to dress the part.
    His office was small, with a window looking out at the river and the huge London Eye Ferris wheel. The other walls were panelled in lightly coloured wood, and the old man’s desk was a massive thing of black-stained oak. In such a bright office that desk was a black hole, and the eye was drawn toward it. Thorpe wondered