Danny Vanderbilt, regarding him woodenly across the acacia expanse of the desk, was conscious for the first time of the actual size of the office, the size of the furniture, most of all the size of the vacancy left by the man by whom and around whom the department had been constructed. But he nodded politely enough in the gaps left by what Botha was saying. He knew that his opinion was not being sought. Nor was his discretion being trusted very far, which was another change. If Botha found himself running the department permanently, which God forbid, he would have to learn to confide in his operatives. He had got all this need-to-know nonsense from the Americans he was so taken with, but Vanderbilt saw nothing in the results obtained by the CIA to justify emulating their methods. “All you need to know,” said Botha, and Vanderbilt nodded politely, “is that Colonel De Witte is depending on you finding the man whose file you have there and bringing him in.”
