The Export J.K. Kelly (best way to read e books .TXT) 📖

worked for the U.S. government in some unofficial capacity, might have a job opportunity for him, and came highly recommended by Charlie.

Mostly, Rogers spoke about being a former member of the Royal Marines, highly respected Mountain Leaders, an elite group of experts in long-range reconnaissance, arctic warfare, and mountain climbing. He had served two tours of duty in the mountains and peaks of Afghanistan, but a devastating injury suffered in a fall during a mission there ended his career and hopes of ever chasing a soccer ball again. Both legs had been shattered as he bounced off a jagged rock face and landed hard, but four surgeries and a long convalescence back home in England made him as well as he could ever hope for. He said he couldn’t run at all, had to take stairs slowly and methodically whether going up or down, and relied on prescription meds when the intense pain returned.

Matt seized the moment to attempt to build camaraderie between them by sharing his exploits at the base of Mount Everest just a week earlier.

“I’ve seen her from the air,” Rogers said as his expression saddened. “Wanted to give her a go at some point but not now. Not with these damn legs. They function, but the cold would lock them in place, and I’d be nothing more than a frozen popsicle with two sticks up there.”

The waiter brought them a round of beer, Rogers willing to move from cola to something stronger as their discussion continued.

“So let’s get to it, mate,” Rogers said, Matt noticing the tone in his voice clearly preparing to address the elephant in the tavern.

“Before we get down to what you’re really here for, could I see some ID?” Rogers requested.

Reaching inside his right jacket pocket, Matt removed the same FBI identification wallet he had displayed at crime scenes around the world and, most recently, to the police on Everest and at the airport in Doha. “Here you go, Billy,” Matt responded as he passed the credential across the table to him.

“I’ve only seen these on the telly,” Rogers remarked and handed it back. “Someone at MI5 has set you on me, some sort of a Hail Mary, as you say in America, to sort me out.” He took a long draw on his beer and put the mug down hard on the table. “They’ve told you they think I’ve stabbed five people, but they can’t prove a bloody thing, so you must be the specialist here to drag me into the alley and beat a confession out of me.”

Matt smiled. He took a first and then second long drink from his mug, watching Rogers’ face, breathing, and body language the entire time.

“Not really,” Matt finally answered. He stared at Rogers for 15 seconds, continuing to study the Brit. No tells, nothing sending off a sign of any kind. Matt leaned forward again, this time pulling another wallet, a blue one, from his pocket. He reached across the table and flicked it open for Rogers to see closely.

“I’m here to recruit you for the CIA.”

“Well, that’s a big bag of shite,” Rogers replied angrily. “First an FBI ID and now a CIA one? Bollocks! You’re here to entrap me in some way.”

Matt smiled. “Look at me, Billy,” Matt said in a tone he hoped would allow Rogers to breathe a bit and relax so he could begin to enact the plan Charlie had laid out to lure Rogers into a mistake or a confession.

“I shit you not,” Matt said. “Personally, I don’t give a crap if you stabbed a hundred people. London is too damned crowded anyway!”

Rogers let out a laugh. Matt’s tactics were working. The laugh would cause the suspect to breathe in more air and relax, hopefully enough to follow the conversation to where Charlie and Matt wanted it to lead.

“I’ve got to go use the loo,” Rogers said almost apologetically. As he stood up from the chair, Matt saw firsthand how much the man had to struggle with his damaged limbs.

“Once we get the blood flowing…” Rogers stopped mid-sentence. “Once the circulation in my legs gets going, they’ll loosen up, and I’ll be right as I’m gonna be.”

“You coming back?” Matt asked.

“If I do, we’ll have the CIA to talk about. If I don’t, you’ll know to sod off.”

Matt nodded and then smiled to himself, noticing Rogers had left his brown beanie behind on the table. A short time later, Rogers returned, moving much more quickly than when he left the table.

“Okay, so tell me about the CIA.”

For the next hour, Matt described certain elements of the clandestine world that were so secretive only nameless stars for each of the fallen were placed on the hero’s wall at CIA HQ in Langley, Virginia.

“But what I want to talk to you about are the black ops.”

Rogers leaned in, as did the American.

“Whether you killed those five people or not, your military background, the training you received, and the experience you have most certainly qualifies you for the work.” Matt finished his beer and waved to the server for more.

“On top of it all, you’re already a UK government employee working in the intelligence service. So you have a taste and an understanding of how things work in this world.”

“Go on,” Rogers said.

Matt was watching the suspect’s face as he continued to describe the sort of work that could be had if he was indeed interested.

“The fact that you are not an American would allow our side to disavow any knowledge of your behavior and would give us full deniability and be able to say under oath before congressional hearings, or the court, that no American was involved in unlawful behavior.”

Matt’s phone began to vibrate in his pocket. It was the alarm set for 18:00, six o’clock local time. Charlie would be pulling up out front of the tavern at any minute, and the meeting, the interview, needed to conclude for now.

“Put your number in my phone,” Matt requested of Rogers