while he listened.
‘Did he learn the names of those who interrogated him, the principals?’
‘One called Brennie did most of the talking. There was a younger one, less to say, seemed uncomfortable. He thought the name was Malachy, or Malchie, something like that. I reckon he did well.’
‘Prague? When?’
‘Within a couple of days.’
‘So, our boy’s best contact in the Czech Republic – who would that be?’
‘Timofey Simonov. He’s Russian. That’s all. It’s funny, Matthew, but the Joe talks his head off about the Irish and is economical with stuff about his pal who’ll provide the hardware.’
‘The relationship will go back a long way – not to worry. Thank you, Gaby. I’d like a few minutes.’
‘Of course. Can I say one more thing?’
‘Whatever.’
‘Hugo Woolmer is complete crap, a waste of space. He needs a shrink. I can handle this, Matthew. I can lead the team that travels. The Joe likes and respects me. He’ll jump when I tell him to. I just need a sidekick, but I’m up to running the show.’
There was a pencil in his hands and he twisted it, the motion constant with the movement of his jaws. He had shown neither interest in nor indifference to the names from the mountain, nor had seemed to register that of Timofey Simonov. She’d thought her play for taking charge was not to be argued with. Nothing wrong with ambition. It had taken her clear of her street, and driven her through American studies at Essex University, then into the Security Service. A girl with her accent and background had had hurdles in front of her and she’d cleared them. She was a little in awe of Matthew Bentinick, and it was his style to give away nothing of his feelings or inclinations. She had no partner at the moment. If Bentinick – double her age – had made a pass at her she was likely to have accepted: part of the ‘ambition’ package. It was hard enough to maintain a relationship outside Thames House and shagging guys on the inside often led to tears or gossip. An older man had his attractions – but no invitation had been forthcoming.
‘Thank you, Gaby. As I said, a few minutes, please. Could you ask our Dragon to attend here? Persuade her.’
A man sat in a fourth-floor office. He let slip a small suspicion of emotion, but not for others to see. Memories were stirred and pain recalled. He thought an opportunity was paraded, unannounced, in front of him. There was a light knock at his door.
‘You’d go for Vagabond.’
‘It would be a powerful call.’
The Dragon was Jocelyn. She was a tall woman, flat-chested. From the creases in her dress it was possible she’d slept in it, and there were food stains by the buttons. She wore open leather sandals. Her hair was grey, her complexion ragged and wrinkled. She was at the top of the tree, and the ethos of the Service ran in her veins: her grandfather had interrogated senior German officers after the 1945 surrender while hunting for war criminals and a few, as a result of his diligence, had gone to the gallows. Her father had served in Cyprus, Aden and Ireland while her mother had filed expenses dockets in an admin department.
Jocelyn had been with them since 1973. It was said of her that she didn’t suffer fools, also that her memory was elephantine. She had been an ally of Matthew Bentinick through all his days in the Province, knew his teams in Force Reconnaissance Unit and liaised between the FRU and the Service. He sought her guidance on any remotely contentious matter that crossed his desk. Half of the floor was quietly nervous of attracting one of her outbursts of fury at what she might consider incompetence or lack of commitment. She had never married, but had a large, lemon Persian cat and lived in a Barnes apartment. Bentinick rarely ignored her advice. She leaned against the wall and declined his offer of a chair.
‘He was the best you ever had.’
‘But ran out on me.’
‘A long time ago. It was never
‘Did he learn the names of those who interrogated him, the principals?’
‘One called Brennie did most of the talking. There was a younger one, less to say, seemed uncomfortable. He thought the name was Malachy, or Malchie, something like that. I reckon he did well.’
‘Prague? When?’
‘Within a couple of days.’
‘So, our boy’s best contact in the Czech Republic – who would that be?’
‘Timofey Simonov. He’s Russian. That’s all. It’s funny, Matthew, but the Joe talks his head off about the Irish and is economical with stuff about his pal who’ll provide the hardware.’
‘The relationship will go back a long way – not to worry. Thank you, Gaby. I’d like a few minutes.’
‘Of course. Can I say one more thing?’
‘Whatever.’
‘Hugo Woolmer is complete crap, a waste of space. He needs a shrink. I can handle this, Matthew. I can lead the team that travels. The Joe likes and respects me. He’ll jump when I tell him to. I just need a sidekick, but I’m up to running the show.’
There was a pencil in his hands and he twisted it, the motion constant with the movement of his jaws. He had shown neither interest in nor indifference to the names from the mountain, nor had seemed to register that of Timofey Simonov. She’d thought her play for taking charge was not to be argued with. Nothing wrong with ambition. It had taken her clear of her street, and driven her through American studies at Essex University, then into the Security Service. A girl with her accent and background had had hurdles in front of her and she’d cleared them. She was a little in awe of Matthew Bentinick, and it was his style to give away nothing of his feelings or inclinations. She had no partner at the moment. If Bentinick – double her age – had made a pass at her she was likely to have accepted: part of the ‘ambition’ package. It was hard enough to maintain a relationship outside Thames House and shagging guys on the inside often led to tears or gossip. An older man had his attractions – but no invitation had been forthcoming.
‘Thank you, Gaby. As I said, a few minutes, please. Could you ask our Dragon to attend here? Persuade her.’
A man sat in a fourth-floor office. He let slip a small suspicion of emotion, but not for others to see. Memories were stirred and pain recalled. He thought an opportunity was paraded, unannounced, in front of him. There was a light knock at his door.
‘You’d go for Vagabond.’
‘It would be a powerful call.’
The Dragon was Jocelyn. She was a tall woman, flat-chested. From the creases in her dress it was possible she’d slept in it, and there were food stains by the buttons. She wore open leather sandals. Her hair was grey, her complexion ragged and wrinkled. She was at the top of the tree, and the ethos of the Service ran in her veins: her grandfather had interrogated senior German officers after the 1945 surrender while hunting for war criminals and a few, as a result of his diligence, had gone to the gallows. Her father had served in Cyprus, Aden and Ireland while her mother had filed expenses dockets in an admin department.
Jocelyn had been with them since 1973. It was said of her that she didn’t suffer fools, also that her memory was elephantine. She had been an ally of Matthew Bentinick through all his days in the Province, knew his teams in Force Reconnaissance Unit and liaised between the FRU and the Service. He sought her guidance on any remotely contentious matter that crossed his desk. Half of the floor was quietly nervous of attracting one of her outbursts of fury at what she might consider incompetence or lack of commitment. She had never married, but had a large, lemon Persian cat and lived in a Barnes apartment. Bentinick rarely ignored her advice. She leaned against the wall and declined his offer of a chair.
‘He was the best you ever had.’
‘But ran out on me.’
‘A long time ago. It was never
Similar Books
