"What do you want?"
"An audience with His Highness the Interim Director, if it please His Grace." Fred grinned unpleasantly. "A private, audience, if you please, m'lord."
"Very well. Come on up here."
Fred shook his head. "Sorry, no go. There are too many tricky spy pickups in that office of yours. Let's meet elsewhere, shall we?"
"Where?"
"That club you belong to. The Bronze Room."
Walton sputtered. "But I can't leave the building now! There's no one who—"
"Now," Fred interrupted. "The Bronze Room. It's in the San Isidro, isn't it? Top of Neville Prospect?"
"All right," said Walton resignedly. "There's a doorsmith coming up here to do some work. Give me a minute to cancel the assignment and I'll meet you downstairs."
"You leave now," Fred said. "I'll arrive five minutes after you. And you won't need to cancel anything. I was the doorsmith."