brunette gushed thank-yous. To him. Not to me, of course, the one who'd actually helped. I talked over her. "May I have my badge, please?" He offered it back to me. Although I made an effort to retrieve it without touching him, his fingers brushed mine, sending that charge of awareness into me all over again. "Thank you," I muttered before skirting him and pushing out to the street through the revolving door. I paused on the sidewalk, gulping in a breath of New York air redolent with a million different things, some good and some toxic. There was a sleek black Bentley SUV in front of the building and I saw my reflection in the spotless limo tinted windows. I was flushed and my gray eyes were overly bright. I'd seen that look on my face before-in the bathroom mirror just before I went to bed with a man. It was my I'm-ready-to-fuck look and it had absolutely no business being on my face now. Christ. Get a grip. Five minutes with Mr
in experts in the language to translate the messages. The Foreign Office reportedly considered no code as fully secret after it had been used for six months; consequently it changed all highly confidential codes every four months. In 1939, the Foreign Office moved what it euphemistically called its Department of Communications to Bletchley Park, an estate and mansion in Bletchley, a town in Buckinghamshire about 50 miles northwest of London. It is far and away the most history-redolent black chamber of all. The British, of course, trace the land from a Roman encampment, through its award by William the Con-querer to Bishop Geoffrey of Constance for services rendered at the Battle of Hastings, down on through the ownership of various lords (most notably the two George Villierses, first and second dukes of Buckingham) and rich men of decreasing interest. A mansion was first built on the land in the 1870s
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