D-Notice Bill Walker (online e book reading txt) 📖

MacKinnon remained silent, his eyes blazing.

“You’re all out of your minds, it’ll never work.”

“Oh, it will, Sandon, I assure you. And I’ve purchased a little insurance to make sure it happens.”

Reaching across his desk, MacKinnon pressed a button on his intercom. Sir Robert heard the muffled buzz through the wall.

“Yes?” came the reply through the speaker.

“Have him come in, now.” MacKinnon ordered.

The door leading to MacKinnon’s antechamber opened and in stepped a man in his late sixties. His hair was salt and pepper gray, with streaks of what had once been a fiery carrot-red still evident. And though he was of less than average height, there was something powerful about the man, like that of a coiled spring. It showed in the graceful, catlike way he moved when he walked out of the shadows toward the desk. The man wore a Harris tweed jacket over a chambray shirt and tight denim pants held up with a silver conch belt. His feet were shod with expensive lizard-skin boots in the style of the American West.

The man halted midway between MacKinnon and Sir Robert, his mouth twisting into a crooked grin as he placed his hands on his hips. Sir Robert caught a glimpse of a shoulder holster and the dull gleam of blued metal.

“Well, well, Roger, me boyo, we meet again. And it’s been far too long, I might add.”

Sir Robert saw the rage in MacKinnon’s face transform into his characteristic mask of aloofness. He also saw something else: loathing, and maybe a touch of fear. Somehow, this made Sir Robert feel better for the first time since walking into MacKinnon’s office. Any man who could elicit this response from the Home Secretary deserved his respect.

“Sir Robert,” MacKinnon said, beginning the introductions. “This is—”

The older man stepped forward and offered his hand. Sir Robert took it and found the Irishman’s grip surprisingly strong.

“Corwin Brady, at your service, me lord,” he said, his lopsided grin widening.

Sir Robert allowed himself an ironic smile of his own. “Are you always this irreverent, Mr. Brady?”

“Only to those that deserve it, sir.” Brady chuckled, releasing his grip on Sir Robert’s hand.

MacKinnon interrupted. “Mr. Brady is what you might call our Odd Job Man. From now on, he’ll be in the thick of it. Wherever Thorley and the girl go, he’ll be waiting in the wings...watching.”

“And then what?” Sir Robert asked, already regretting the question.

“If the Russians fail to resolve the situation as we anticipate, Mr. Brady will step in. His orders are to have all evidence point to Moscow. You are to cooperate in every way. Is that clear?”

Sir Robert turned and faced Brady, who now eyed him with the cold gaze of a sociopath. It was at that moment Sir Robert knew that his career hung by a thread. Early retirement was now out of the question, perhaps any retirement at all. He was caught up in sea change far beyond his control, and he was in it up to his bloody neck.

“Very clear, sir,” he said finally.

MacKinnon nodded. “Right. Be so kind as to close the door behind you, that’s a good man.”

His face turning red from MacKinnon’s casual rebuke, Sir Robert stalked out of the Home Secretary’s office wanting very much to have another drink.

Brady watched Sir Robert leave, and wondered what it was about the man that made him take the crap that MacKinnon dished out. Fear? Weakness? It didn’t really matter. The point that kept raising its ugly head was that he, Corwin Brady, was no better, coming at MacKinnon’s beck and call like a prized poodle. It was at the precise moment the Home Secretary had dismissed his underling that Brady decided he’d had enough. He’d spent the better part of the last twenty years on his farm and that’s where he wanted to be. Not in this godforsaken country. Oh, he was a hypocrite, that was for sure, taking the odd job over the years—as MacKinnon had so eloquently put it—so that he could maintain himself in the style to which he’d become accustomed. But now, with his diversified investments he didn’t need the work any longer.

“So,” MacKinnon said, easing himself back into his chair, “is there anything you require?”

Brady stared at the man, wanting to wrap his hands around his smug Limey neck. “That is as loaded a question as I’ve ever heard.”

MacKinnon smiled. “Perhaps, but a legitimate one, nevertheless.”

“Just a first-class ticket home.”

The smile slid off MacKinnon’s face. “This is no time for your peculiar brand of humor, Brady. You’re needed here.”

“Only because you boyos keep getting your Shillelaghs caught in the proverbial crack. I’m retired, MacKinnon. I want to stay that way. So, if you’ll pardon an old sod—”

“SIT DOWN!”

MacKinnon’s outburst came close to the edge of hysteria, and Brady reasoned it fell short only because the man was holding himself in check. MacKinnon was scared. And that made Brady uneasy. Seating himself into one of the chairs facing the desk, he kept his expression neutral.

MacKinnon leaned forward, his lips a tight angry line. “Understand something, Brady,” he said. “You have no choice, here. If it weren’t for my predecessors and their largesse, you’d be rotting away the rest of your life in Wormwood Scrubs, a convicted terrorist.”

Now it was Brady’s turn to anger. His voice remained steady, but the heat could be seen blazing in his eyes. “No one could prove I had anything to do with that bombing.”

“We don’t need proof, you bloody bastard.” MacKinnon said, picking up the phone. “All I need is to make one call and you’ll be in prison. How much effort do you think it would take to