A Hostile State Adrian Magson (reading e books txt) 📖

London for a briefing session, had drawn a sharp intake of breath from Iain Jacobsen, her young office-based deputy field controller.

‘That’s idiotically risky and against all the rules of the game,’ he reminded her sternly, like a headmaster talking to an errant pupil. ‘You do not approach the security authorities under any circumstances because that instantly puts you under the spotlight.’

Isobel had toyed idly with taking out one of the line of pens from his top pocket and stabbing him in the eye, but common sense had prevailed. Instead she’d reminded him tersely that she had worked at this ‘game’ long enough to know the dangers, unlike some fast-track university types she could mention, and when was the last time he’d been out in the field? Jacobsen, an MBA-wielding management moron with a love of computers and a comfortable work environment, had quickly changed the subject.

She spotted the RV up ahead on the left. The Mansion Café and Restaurant served as a go-to spot for wanderers, aid workers and transients, and nobody paid much attention as long as you paid your bill and didn’t break the furniture. Isobel had used it often and was on good terms with Hadid, the owner, who had a lengthy list of cousins providing all manner of useful services such as electrical work, plumbing, driving and building repairs at absurdly low prices, some of which she’d been forced to use to keep the building habitable. He also served the best coffee in the area and made sure nobody pestered the little white lady who was here to help people.

She had no idea what the American she was meeting looked like but had been assured he would be in place when she arrived. She hoped he wasn’t going to be the kind of muscle-bound contractor type dressed in multi-pocketed sleeveless jackets who regularly breezed through the region on the kind of business that meant someone down the line was going to be suborned, threatened or hurt. It would be like having a warning beacon tied around her neck, suspicious by association.

She crossed the street, hopping on her good foot to avoid an ancient pick-up truck belching smoke and rattling like a tin shed in a high wind, and entered the café. The interior was cool and sombre after the bright sunlight outside, but after a couple of seconds her eyes had adjusted and she scanned the tables, taking in everybody at a glance. A couple of backpackers, probably German or Dutch, one or two elderly men, passing time with tiny cups of treacle-like coffee, and a single man at a small table near the rear door who didn’t pay her any attention. She noted a slim backpack on the floor between his feet.

She flapped a hand towards Hadid who smiled back and nodded, and she walked across to the single man’s table. She didn’t wait to be invited but sat down with a sigh, dragging her injured leg out of the way where it would be safe from a chance encounter with a passing customer.

Before she could speak Hadid delivered two cups of coffee. As soon as he faded away she said softly, ‘You’re on time, Watchman. That’s good. I get the impression there’s a shit-storm heading your way.’

EIGHT

I had the woman who walked through the door of the café pegged as a tourist who’d got herself separated from the rest of her fun-time pack. I’d seen a couple of such groups on the way in, looking oddly out of place and ill-at-ease, which they had every right to be, given the current unrest in the country. She was dressed in pale voluminous pants and a floaty top, with a thin gossamer scarf around her neck, and was carrying a large rucksack in one hand. I noticed she had a serious limp. The rucksack didn’t quite gel with the tourist bit, but what did I know? Tourists crazy enough to come here were probably dumb enough to carry unreasonable amounts of baggage.

Compact and neat, I put her age at somewhere on the north side of fifty, although it was hard to tell. She had short, silky-looking white hair and was nicely made up in spite of the heat and dust. German or American, I guessed, and gave it twenty seconds before she realized that this was no tourist hang-out and hauled a sharp U-turn to scoot back to the rest of the herd before she got robbed or trafficked into white slavery.

I was wrong on all counts. She eyed the other customers for a second, completely ignoring me, which was its own signal, before flicking two fingers at the guy behind the counter. He smiled and nodded and got busy at the coffee machine while she walked across to my table and sat herself down with a sigh.

She arranged herself carefully, her rucksack giving off an ominous clunk as she placed it against the table leg. The barman drifted across in no time with two cups of coffee and placed them in front of us. When I looked at him he gave me a shrug as if to say, I know, but the crazy lady ordered them so what can I say?

Then she delivered her greeting and I wondered why I didn’t believe in unicorns.

‘You’re on time, Watchman. That’s good. I get the impression there’s a shit-storm heading your way.’

It was surreal hearing the word ‘shit-storm’ come out of the mouth of a sweet-looking little lady of middle years who dressed like a schoolteacher from Florida but sounded more like an escapee from England’s home counties. It was also reassuring in a weird kind of way, hearing the calm way she spoke. It told me she was no beginner in this kind of environment. Still, I wasn’t about to accept her at face value. Not yet.

‘Do I know you?’ You have to be careful, even with a person in the right place at the right time and with the correct recognizer – in this case