London, by the Thames River.
Vauxhall Cross, the core bastion of Britain's Secret Intelligence Service (MI6) headquarters.
The heavy bullet-proof glass insulated the room from the river's moisture and the city's noise, but it couldn't keep out the coldness and the oppression filling the meeting room.
The oval mahogany conference table was polished to a mirror finish, reflecting the cold white light evenly cast from the ceiling, devoid of any warmth.
The air was only filled with the low humming of the central air conditioning system and a heavy, suffocating tension.
At the head of the long table, sat Mrs. M.
She wore a perfectly tailored dark grey suit, her silvery-grey hair meticulously gathered at the back, revealing a smooth forehead etched with the marks of time.
Her face bore no expression, like a meticulously sculpted, yet lifeless plaster mask.
