Crocodile Tears

them noticed the two new arrivals, and if they had, it would have been extremely unlikely that they would have recognized them. Alan Blunt and Mrs. Jones had never been photographed. Their names didn’t appear on any government profiles.
    Neither of them needed to knock. The door swung open as they approached and they passed into the brightly colored entrance hall with a surprisingly long corridor stretching out in front of them. They made no sound at all as they walked along the plush carpets, beneath the chandeliers, toward the far staircase. As usual, the walls were lined with paintings that had been borrowed from a central government reserve. They were by British artists, most of them modern and rather bland.
    Blunt examined them as he continued forward, not because he was interested in art—he wasn’t—but because they might give him some insight into the mind of the man who had chosen them. There was a new prime minister in Downing Street. He had been voted in just a month before, And what did the paintings say about him? He liked the countryside, fox hunting, and windmills. His favorite color was blue.
    Of course, Blunt already knew everything about the new man—from the state of his marriage (happy) to the last payment he had made on his credit card (£97.60 for a meal at The Ivy). There wasn’t a single prime minister in England who hadn’t been thoroughly checked by MI6: their families, their friends and associates, what websites they liked to visit, where they took their vacations, how much money they spent every week. There was always a chance that the information might reveal a security risk or something that the prime minister didn’t want anyone to know.

    The two of them reached the staircase and began to climb up to the first floor, passing the painted portraits and photographs of past prime ministers, spaced out at regular intervals. There was a man in a suit waiting at the top, gesturing toward an office. The building was full of young men in suits, some of them working for Blunt, although they probably didn’t know it. Blunt and Mrs. Jones went into the office and there was the prime minister, waiting with two advisers, sitting behind a desk.
    “ Mr. Blunt … please, take a seat.”
    The prime minister wasn’t happy, and it showed. Like all politicians, he didn’t entirely trust his spy masters and he certainly didn’t want one sitting opposite him now. It wasn’t fair. He hadn’t been in power very long. It was certainly too soon for his first international crisis. There were two men sitting with him, one on each side. They were trying to look relaxed, as if they just happened to be passing and had decided to pop in for the meeting.
    “ I don’t think you’ve met Simon Ellis,” the prime minister said, nodding at the fair-haired, rather plump man on his left. “And this is Charles Blackmore.” The other man was also young, though with prematurely gray hair. “I thought it might be helpful if they joined us.”
    Blunt hadn’t met either of them, but of course he knew everything about them. They had both been at Winchester College with the prime minister. Ellis was now a junior civil servant in the Treasury.
    Blackmore had left a career in television to become director of strategy and communications. The two men loathed each other. The prime minister didn’t know this. They were also loathed by almost everyone else.
    “ Well … ,” the prime minister began. He licked his lips. “I’ve read your report on the situation in Kenya and it does seem to be very alarming. But the first question I really do have to ask you is—why did your agent feel it necessary to send his information via the Indian secret service?”

    “ I’m afraid I can’t answer that,” Blunt replied. “We only know what you know, Prime Minister. It’s all in the file. Our agent was kidnapped and smuggled out of the country against his will. Somehow he must have managed to break free and fell in with an agent from RAW.”
    “ Research and Analysis Wing,” Blackmore muttered helpfully.
    “ We have no idea what RAW was doing in Kenya, and so far they’ve refused to tell us. I’m afraid foreign intelligence agencies are always overcautious when it comes to protecting their own. But if I may say so, Prime Minister, it’s completely irrelevant. What matters is the report itself and the very serious threat it contains.”
    The prime minister picked up a sheet of paper that had been lying in front