July 1991
London
Buckingham Palace
The dark coloured Jaguar XJ6 rolled forward with quiet authority, its engine a low restrained murmur that seemed almost respectful of the place it approached. After a long and thorough security check at the outer gate, the car was waved through and passed beneath the wrought iron archway, entering the palace grounds proper. Gravel sounded beneath the tires as the vehicle followed the curved drive toward the parking area near the garden entrance, a space reserved for staff, official visitors, and the discreet cars of invited guests attending for visits as well as those of daily service workers.
The car glided to a smooth halt. For a few seconds the engine idled on, then fell silent. The driver's door opened, and a woman emerged into the crisp, damp London air of early afternoon.
She was a mature woman in her early forties, with composed features that suggested both discipline and careful self possession. Her brown hair was styled neatly, practical yet elegant, and her brown eyes held a watchful calm that missed very little. She wore a finely tailored suit, understated in colour but unmistakably expensive, the sort of clothing chosen not to impress but to signal competence and authority to those who knew how to read such things. Closing the car door behind her, she paused only briefly to straighten her cuffs before moving away from the vehicle.
She walked through the parking area and into the adjoining garden, her heels making soft measured sounds against the stone path. The palace gardens were immaculate, as always, their symmetry carefully maintained by the special palace gardeners. She did not slow her pace to admire them. She had been here before, and seen this beauty, while appreciated, did not distract her from the purpose of her visit to Buckingham Palace.
From the garden she entered a side building where uniformed palace guards stood at attention. Their gazes flicked toward her with professional assessment before returning forward. Inside, the atmosphere changed subtly, becoming quieter and controlled, as she entered the reception building.
She approached the reception area, where a man sat behind a polished desk, his attention focused on a computer screen. He looked up as she stopped before him.
"Name, and invitation letter please," he said, his tone neutral and professional befitting his role as the receptionist at the Royal Palace.
The Woman reached into her handbag and produced a folded document. The paper was thick, the crest embossed with restrained authority. At its head were the words Private Secretary's Office Authorized Visitor. She handed it over calmly.
"My name is Olivia Brooks," she said in an even voice. "I was invited to the office of the Private Secretary to the Sovereign."
The man took the letter, examined it carefully, then glanced at her again. He dialed a number on his telephone, speaking in low tones for several moments. When he hung up, his demeanor softened slightly.
"Please sign in this logbook for your entrance record."
Olivia took the pen he offered and signed her name with a steady hand. When she finished, the man nodded.
"You may proceed, ma'am. Someone will receive you and lead you to the Private Secretary to the Sovereign's office."
She inclined her head in acknowledgement and moved away from the desk, passing through a door into a long hallway. The corridor stretched ahead, its walls lined with portraits whose subjects watched silently as she passed. Her footsteps echoed softly, measured and unhurried.
At the end of the hallway, another door was opened for her by royal guards. Beyond it lay another garden, smaller and more secluded. As Olivia stepped into the open air, she came face to face with a woman who greeted her with a warm smile.
"It is good to see you, Madam Brooks," the woman said. "The Secretary will be seeing you in half an hour. Would you prefer to wait inside the office, or would you like to walk around the palace?"
Olivia returned the smile, though hers was more restrained.
"Thank you, Emily, for receiving me," she said. "Who else is invited besides me?"
Emily clasped her hands politely. "Sir James Clive is waiting inside the office."
Olivia nodded once.
"Then please lead the way. It would be rude for Secretary Cavendish to see Clive there and not me."
Emily inclined her head and gestured for Olivia to follow. Together they walked toward the main structure of the palace, heading into the North Wing. Their path took them through corridors that grew progressively more formal, the atmosphere shifting subtly with each step. By the time they reached the ground floor hall where the office was located, the sense of authority was unmistakable.
They stopped before a polished door bearing a discreet plaque that read Private Secretary to the Sovereign Office.
Emily opened the door and stepped aside. "Ma'am."
Olivia entered.
The office was a study in restrained elegance and quiet power. The furnishings were traditional, heavy wooden desks polished to a deep sheen, shelves lined with leather bound volumes whose titles spoke of constitutional matters, royal correspondence, and decades of carefully recorded precedent. Soft light filtered in through tall windows draped with rich fabric, illuminating the room without harshness. The walls bore framed documents and subtle symbols of office rather than ostentatious decoration. Everything here spoke of continuity, discretion, and influence exercised behind closed doors.
Several staff members moved quietly within the space, clerks and aides who worked with practiced efficiency, their presence unobtrusive. At the far end of the room stood the main desk, substantial and immaculately ordered, though its occupant was not yet present.
In one of the chairs set before the desk sat a man who appeared to be in his late fifties. He had a neatly groomed mustache and a closely shaved beard, his posture relaxed but confident. A teacup rested in his hand. When he looked up and saw Olivia, his face brightened.
"Oh," he said cheerfully, setting the cup down as he rose. "Fancy seeing you here, Olivia, my old friend."
He extended his hand toward her.
Olivia paused, gave a brief nod, and said, "James Clive."
She did not take his hand. Instead, she moved past him and took the seat beside his. James hesitated for a fraction of a second before withdrawing his hand, his smile tightening slightly as he sat back down.
"Tsk," he said, his voice losing some of its warmth. "Always the cold one, Olivia. It has been three years since we last met, and you are still like this. But I suppose that is part of your charm. It makes you more attractive."
Emily approached. "What would you like to drink, ma'am?"
"Tea," Olivia replied. "Three sugar cubes."
"Of course," Emily said, and left the room.
James lifted his teacup again and took a sip. "So, Olivia, what do you think? Why do you suppose Secretary Cavendish invited us here this afternoon?"
Olivia glanced around the office, her eyes briefly noting the arrangement of papers on a side table, the subtle movements of staff, the way the room seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of its master's arrival.
"I do not know," she said calmly. "I was simply told to come. We will find out when the others arrive."
James raised an eyebrow. "Oh? I thought you might know, given how close you are to Secretary Cavendish. I assumed you might have some insight."
She turned her gaze to him, her expression cool. "What is that supposed to mean?"
He smiled, a little too easily. "You know. Out of the four of us, you are the only handler who seems to receive information ahead of time. Special treatment, some might say. You even had a private audience with Her Majesty."
A flicker of irritation crossed Olivia's face, quickly suppressed.
"So because I had the honor of meeting Her Majesty, you assume I receive special treatment from Secretary Cavendish?" she said. "That is an immature thing to say, James. We are not teenagers whispering in corridors. We are professionals. Why would you concern yourself with such trivialities?"
James held up a hand placatingly, though his smile remained. "It is not my concern, personally. The other handlers have raised questions. Your recent operations have been remarkably successful. They wondered whether there was something more behind it."
Olivia's lips curved into a faint sneer. "So because my OCA (Operative Crown Agent) succeeds in the tasks assigned to him, you assume we are receiving assistance beyond what is proper? Do you not hear how ridiculous that sounds? My OCA is competent. That is all. Does it truly matter whether he receives special consideration, even if he did?"
James leaned back in his chair. "All right, all right. It was not my accusation. But you must understand their perspective. Your OCA is quite young compared to ours. That alone draws attention."
Olivia opened her mouth to reply, but the door opened before she could speak. Emily entered, accompanied by a staff member carrying a tray. The tea was set before Olivia with practiced grace.
"Is there anything else you require, ma'am? Sir?" Emily asked.
Olivia shook her head. "No."
James smiled at Emily. "Nothing for me, thank you."
Emily nodded and withdrew, closing the door softly behind her.
James turned back to Olivia, his voice lowering. "So where is your agent now? The last time I saw him, he was barely more than a child. That meeting was brief, after that incident."
Olivia picked up her teacup, though she did not drink. "You know the rules," she said. "We do not discuss our OCAs unless a mission requires it."
James chuckled. "Come now. I might already know him. You were always very protective of him. You even went so far as to erase his information from the organization's archives. That is unusual, even for you."
Her eyes hardened.
"I know he is related to your previous OCA," James continued. "I knew her well. My own OCA met her once, decades ago, and was very impressed. It took quite some time to help him move past that admiration. He still speaks of her occasionally."
Olivia remained silent, her grip on the teacup tightening almost imperceptibly.
"I was simply curious," James said. "Especially given how effective your current OCA is."
"He is occupied," Olivia said evenly. "He is carrying out his assigned mission."
James looked away, then smirked faintly. "I heard an amusing bit of news from France. About a young man who seems to be quite popular with the ladies."
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water.
Olivia's expression changed, her composure faltering just enough to reveal tension beneath the surface. Her jaw tightened, and her eyes darkened. She did not respond immediately. She did not need to. She knew exactly whom James was referring to, and the knowledge stirred a complex mix of irritation, concern, and something dangerously close to frustration.
James glanced at her from the corner of his eye, clearly satisfied that he had struck a nerve.
Before Olivia could reply, a door behind the main desk opened. Both she and James rose to their feet at once, their conversation cut short as the figure of the Private Secretary entered the office.
The moment carried with it the weight of authority, and whatever tensions lingered between them were set aside, at least for now, as they turned to face the person who had summoned them both to Buckingham Palace on this quiet July afternoon.