"A government agency," said Gray-face.
Birrel said, "Listen, how long are you going to keep this—"
He stopped, and was aware that his jaw was hanging in foolish surprise. A man had come into the office.
A stocky, iron-haired man of fifty or more, with a heavy, seamed face and eyes not much softer than flint. Birrel had never seen him face to face before, but he knew him.
"Why—"
"Yes," said Gray-face, obviously enjoying himself. "It's Mr. John Connor." He turned and said, "Here he is, Mr. Connor. I believe he thought we were taking him for a ride."
"All right, Paley," said Connor brusquely. "Sit down. Birrel. Sorry to haul you out here but this is important. Will you take that moronic stare off your face and sit down?"
Birrel sat, swallowing hard. This he hadn't expected.
He had been in the OSS more than a year, and he'd never even got within shouting distance of John Connor, the most famous of its directing brains. And now, eleven years later, to meet him this way in a masked factory that was an office—
Birrel said, weakly, "Then this is a government agency?"