Firewall by Andy McNab Page A

efficient corporate feel about it, with people swiping their identity cards through electronic readers to get access. I headed for the main reception desk, where two women sat behind thick bulletproof glass.
    "I'm here to see Mr. Lynn."
    "Can you fill this in please?" The older one passed a ledger through a slot under the glass.
    As I signed my name in two boxes she picked up a telephone. "Who shall I say is here?"
    "My name is Nick." I hadn't even had any cover documentation from them since my fuckup in Washington, just my own cover which I hoped they'd never know about. I'd organized it in case it was time to disappear, a feeling I had at least once a month.
    The ledger held tear-off labels. One half was torn away and put in a plastic sleeve, which I would have to pin on. Mine was blue and said, "Escorted Everywhere."
    The woman got off the phone and pointed to a row of soft chairs.
    "Someone will be with you soon."
    I sat and waited with my nice new badge on, watching suited men and women come and go. Dress-down Friday hadn't reached this far upriver yet. It wasn't often that people like me got to come here; my last visit had been in '97. I'd hated it that time, too. They managed to make you feel that, as a K, you weren't very welcome, turning up and spoiling the smart corporate image of the place.
    After about ten minutes of feeling as if I was waiting outside the headmaster's study, an old Asian guy in a natty blue pinstripe suit pushed his way through the barrier.
    "Nick?"
    I nodded and got to my feet.
    He half-smiled. "If you'd like to follow me." A swipe of the card that hung round his neck got him back through the barrier; I had to pass the metal detector before we met on the other side and walked to the elevators.
    "We're going to the fifth floor."
    I nodded and let the silence hang as we rode the elevator, not wanting to let him know that I knew. It saved on small talk.
    Once on the fifth I followed him. There was little noise coming from any of the offices along the hallway, just the hum of air conditioning and the creak of my feathers.
    At the far end we turned left, passing Lynn's old office. Someone called Turnbull had it now. Two doors down I saw Lynn's name on the door plate. My escort knocked and was met by the characteristically crisp and immediate call of "Come!" He ushered me past and I heard the door close gently behind me. Lynn's bald crown faced me as he wrote at his desk.
    He might have a new office, but it was quite clear he was a creature of habit. The interior was exactly the same as his last; exactly the same furniture and plain, functional, impersonal ambience. The only thing that showed he wasn't a mannequin planted here for decoration was the framed photograph of a group, which I presumed were his much younger wife and two children, sitting on a stretch of grass with the family Labrador. Two rolls of Christmas wrapping paper leaning against the wall behind him showed that he did have a life.
    Mounted on a wall bracket above me to the right was a TV, the screen showing CNN world news headlines. The only thing I couldn't see was the obligatory officer's squash racket and winter coat on a stand. They were probably behind me.
    I stood and waited for him to finish. Normally I would just have sat down and made myself at home, but today was different. There was what people like him tend to call an atmosphere, and I didn't want to annoy him any more than I needed to. We'd parted on less than good terms the last time we'd met.
    His fountain pen sounded unnaturally loud on the paper. My eyes moved to the window behind him, and I gazed over the Thames at the new apartment building being finished off on the north side of the bridge.
    "Take a seat. I'll be with you very soon."
    I did, on the same wooden chair I'd sat on three years ago, my leathers drowning the scratch of his writing as I bent down and placed my backpack on the floor. It was becoming increasingly obvious that this was going to be a short