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

my code name. I added, ‘Only, you might have to vacate that seat soon because my wife’s on her way here and she’s the seriously jealous type.’

She gave me a look of mild scorn. ‘Don’t worry – you’re not my type,’ she said, dumping a lot of sugar into her coffee. ‘My name’s Isobel Hunt and I’m on your side … and I bet you’re not the marrying type. Robert Vale can vouch for me.’ she leaned across and said, ‘You know Robert, of course?’

‘No.’ I knew a Tom Vale, but I figured she was simply being careful. I was right.

‘Sorry. Did I say Robert? I meant Tom. Slip of the tongue.’ She gave me a wily smile. ‘He said you’d be very cautious. So you should; this is a risky part of the world. What about Doug Tober? I’m told you saved his life. Nice work. I could carry on dropping names all day but it wouldn’t be appropriate and we do have to be moving as soon as I’ve had my coffee.’ She punctuated this by taking a healthy sip followed by a shiver of appreciation.

I let her drink and kept a weather eye on the front door and the street outside. The Vale I knew worked for Britain’s MI6 or Secret Intelligence Service. Or had done; it had been a while since I’d last seen him. Tober was one of their heavies from a group called The Basement, the equivalent of the CIA Special Activities Division. Tober and his colleagues were employed to do any heavy lifting required when other options were limited or non-existent.

But I still wasn’t convinced.

‘Sorry, lady, but you’ve lost me.’ I got ready to leave. Anywhere else it would be considered rude, but right here and now in hostile territory it would be standard practice. If in doubt, don’t sit waiting for the hammer to fall; just get up and go. One thing you don’t do when the odds are against you is outstay your welcome.

She gave me her sweet smile and pushed her cup away. ‘My apologies. How about Callahan and Citera – will that do you?’

‘How do you know Vale?’ I relaxed. She was on the side of the angels, having just mentioned a handful of names of people I’d worked with and trusted. The last two were from the CIA in Langley, Virginia and too well covered to have come to the notice of any casual outsiders.

‘I’ve worked with him on various projects. He rates you very highly.’

That made her MI6. ‘You’re a field worker?’ I used the innocuous term in case anyone was listening. She looked nothing like an operative, but unassuming ladies like her have been able to walk below the radar forever. The Russians, French and Israelis use them successfully all the time. Besides, there was the age thing at play here and I was trying to be tactful. I’d come across a handful of women field operatives in my time, and they were all extremely good at what they did. There were also plenty of older agents and assets in this business, but they were usually background operatives and surveillance workers, chosen because they could fit in almost anywhere and had the skills to merge and disappear. Like this one.

‘Not always. I started out in research.’

I looked at our surroundings. ‘This doesn’t seem much like research work.’

‘It’s not far off it but I won’t bore you with the details. I was dumped a few years ago in a budget squeeze and I didn’t have any high-tech skills to keep me on. I got fed up and asked them to take me back before I did something unpleasant to my irritating neighbours.’ She shrugged. ‘I must have timed it right; the grey element among us were suddenly found to have value and they nearly took my arm off.’

It was a story I’d heard before about former operatives, although rarely the bit about being taken back. Many active service personnel found returning to a ‘normal’ life difficult, especially adjusting to no specific daily routine and a lack of excitement. Add in the demands of skirting around what they’d been doing for the past however many years with friends and neighbours and you had a different kind of stress. Most either knuckled under or took contracting work in somewhere like Afghanistan or Iraq until they realized they’d pushed their own personal envelope a bit too much and went back home for good. Not all of them made it.

‘Good for you,’ I said.

‘Thank you. I managed to convince them I still had something to offer. Or maybe because they’re ludicrously overstretched at the moment they agreed to take me on.’ She gave me a steely look. ‘Are you surprised?’

Actually, I was only surprised she was telling me. You don’t usually open up on a first meeting like this to a complete stranger. But I put it down to operational stress. Once the green light is given for any aspect of rapid movement in the field, especially with the clock ticking, it’s easy to find comfort in talking to someone who shares the same background. ‘Is the limp real?’ I asked, changing the subject.

‘It is. I had a shin-kicking contest with a camel. The camel won. But enough about me … let’s get down to business. What did they tell you?’

‘They?’

She puffed out her lips. ‘Your boss in Langley. Callahan.’

‘Not much. I got targeted while on a pick-up assignment and he ordered me to bug out and to meet you here.’

‘You got blown? I’m surprised you’re not locked up.’ Her expression became faintly suspicious, as if I’d been walking around with ‘SPY’ printed on the back of my jacket and might now be a double. ‘Hezbollah don’t usually let anyone slip out of their sticky little fingers once they zero in on them.’

‘It was more terminal than that. They weren’t trying to catch me.’ I made the sign of a pistol and she looked shocked.

‘Gosh, that’s a bit mean-spirited. What did