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Oliver grinned. She remembered going with him to more than one of the snootiest restaurants in Washington, none of which would do anything so stupid as to annoy – ‘piss off’ had been the term Oliver had used – one of the most powerful businessmen and the most powerful businesswoman in the world. Oliver had been right so long ago, as long as she could pay, they would allow her access to anything.

“I’m going to be staying here for a while,” he said. She felt a sudden burst of delight. “Do you want to go out for tonight?”

“Do you even have to ask?” Cora asked. She smiled at him, and then her pager rang. She would have blushed if she could have. “Oh, hell; I’m late for a meeting!”

“Go call the guy and explain you’ll be down in ten minutes,” Oliver suggested. “I’ve got work of my own to do, but I’ll be back here at eight to take you out.”

* * *

Oliver smiled to himself as Cora, freshly made up and dressed in a power suit fifty years ahead of its time, left the office, her tight skirt bending nicely around the corners of her behind. She’d grown up a lot in the two years he’d known her, from shy secretary to skilled businesswoman.

And skilled in bed, he thought with a happy sigh, before standing up and heading over to the back stairwell. One reason he’d been so delighted with the building, even over the objections of his people, was that hardly anyone knew its interior design; a six-month program of renovation had allowed him to hide a few hidden stairwells and corridors from most of his people. Cora knew, of course, but she was the only one cleared for that knowledge.

He unlocked the door and stepped into the stairwell, which was a basic spiral design, heading down to the basement. Everyone in the building knew that the basement was off-limits – it was part of their hiring contract that they never even tried to go down there – and they had no idea what happened there. Even Cora didn’t know all of it.

He sneezed once as the dry dusty air touched his throat and headed down faster. Hardly anyone had come this way since the renovation; even Oliver had only come once or twice. He reached the bottom of the stairs and smiled at the biometric scanner mounted on the wall, well out of place.

“Oliver, Jim,” he said, and placed his hand against the scanner. There were none of the computer announcements that got on people’s nerves, just the click of the door unlocking. He pushed it open and stepped inside, nodding politely to the man in the centre of the room.

“You’re late,” David Berrios, a Jamaican who spoke perfect Cockney, said coldly. Oliver shrugged; Berrios wasn’t free to leave without escort; even the much-reduced FBI would have had kittens if they knew even half of what he knew about British operations. The basement itself was covered in computers of a type that had never been authorised for use outside Britain; an entire centre of operations hid beneath the building.

“You know as well as I do that travel is far harder in his era,” Oliver said. He smiled; spending time with Cora had been necessary, as much as anything else. “I understand that you went out on the town two nights ago?”

Berrios scowled at him. The MI5 operative didn’t like the thought of anyone keeping tabs on him. That was his job. “This place has very little for people like me,” he said. “If your uniform protects me, then…”

Oliver smiled. Few people would dare to offer overt disrespect to one of his employees, whatever their colour. Still, given how low he was in Berrios’s estimation, it must have killed the MI5 officer to know that his uniform was all that kept him from a drunken lynching.

“After we hunted down those members of the Ku Klux Klan for putting two of my people in hospital, they do tend to leave that uniform alone,” Oliver said. It was amazing how many eyes a lot of money could close, even to seriously wounding two bits of white trash. “The lesson had to be taught.”

“How ironic, you can do good,” Berrios sneered. “Of course, it suits you to do that kind of act, you can’t have people getting lynched while they work for you. You are, of course, aware that people are wearing your uniforms when they’re not really working for you?”

“So what?” Oliver asked, suddenly tired of the game. “What can I do for you today? More investments in Latin America? More covert funding? Perhaps some money for you personally?”

“Only if I plan to retire here,” Berrios growled. It was true; American dollars were worth very little in Britain. “We have a task for you.”

He paced over to the table and held up a sheaf of papers. “These are plans for a jet engine,” he said. “You will pass them over to your German contact. We are aware that they still have conduits through Mexico and further down.”

Oliver lifted an eyebrow. Mentally, he cursed Sir Charles Hanover, who had placed him neatly in this position. He’d thought endlessly, testing all the alternatives, only to realise that there was no way out – precisely as Hanover had intended. All he had was the promise that he would be free, one day.

He realised that Berrios was waiting for an answer and picked up the sheaf of papers. “Why do you want me to help the Germans?” He asked. “I was under the impression that I was supposed to mislead them.”

“Indeed you are,” Berrios said. The smirk on his face was ugly as hell. “These plans are for a jet engine design that we are – in theory – giving to the Americans. On the face of it, it offers the possibility of supersonic speed, but it requires extremely advanced materials to take the sudden bursts of heat.” He smiled. “When they attempt to accelerate… boom!”

Oliver laughed. That was nasty and evil… and brilliant. “They won’t have the slightest idea what’s hit them,” he said.

Berrios nodded. “Naturally, we’ve left off some other details,” he said. “They won’t know what they don’t know, of course.”

“Very clever,” Oliver said. “Was there anything else?”

“What’s happened to the German spy?” Berrios asked. “You know, your contract?”

“Remaining underground,” Oliver said. He gave an address. “I assume that you’re going to send a team in to bug his house?”

“I imagine that you know what happened to that bastard Hoover,” Berrios said. Oliver, who didn’t, glared at him. His role in the Wet Firecracker Rebellion would hardly have endeared him to Hoover… except the renegade FBI director had been missing for months.

“I have no idea what’s happened to that bastard,” he snarled. “I really am sick of hearing about that!”

“Sorry,” Berrios said, with complete insincerity. “Now… when is the next meeting?”

“In a week, or so,” Oliver said. He passed across a list of requests. “That’s what the bastard wants me to find out.”

“Christ above,” Berrios swore, as he cast his gaze down the sheet of paper. “War plans, technology demands… they don’t fuck about, do they?”

“Germans are known for their practicality,” Oliver said. “I have explained that all modern equipment is kept under very secure storage these days, ever since Crete.”

“It’s a good thing they don’t know that the connection was drawn,” Berrios said. “Otherwise… how many more would want to kill you?”

“A lot,” Oliver said flatly. “What happened to the mob?”

“The leaders were treated as terrorist leaders,” Berrios said. “The subordinates, by and large, were offered to South Africa for their POW camps. Mr Kasper, as I’m sure you’re aware, shot himself.”

“Oh, dear,” Oliver said. Like everyone else, he had lived in mortal fear of the Balkan man. “What does South Africa want with them?”