ChapterO<br >THE DAFFODILS were out in St. James s Park. Brigadier James White<br >walked from his flat in Westminster to his office in Queen Anne s<br >Gate during the fine weather. He looked a typical soldier， striding<br >smartly along with his umbrella swinging in time， smartly dressed<br >in the civilian uniform of dark suit and bowler hat. Passersby， had<br >they noticed him at all， would have been surprised that he was well<br >into his sixties. Even more surprised by the innocuous Ford Transit<br >that idled along the route behind him. Two Special Branch men<br >followed the brigadier during his morning walk to work， and both<br >were armed.<br > He turned into Queen Anne s Gate and said good morning to<br >the security men on duty. The old-fashioned passenger lift trun-<br >dled him up to the first floor; his secretary was in the outer office;<br >they exchanged smiles and greetings. He hung up his hat and<br >hooked the umbrella over the arm of an antiquated coat stand and<br >went into his office. A comfortable， unpretentious room， with a<br >leather-topped desk， hunting prints and a watercolor of a lawn<br >meet in front of a large pink house. A Persian rug that crawled<br >across the carpet to the despair of the cleaners; a series of mahog.<br ><br >