gone. We fear that her reliability and judgment are, how shall I say it, in doubt.'
I couldn't help a smile. That was the standard ruck-off when what they were really saying was: 'We don't like you anymore. You have done something wrong and you are no longer one of us.'
Now it was time for Elizabeth to join in. She said, 'Let's just say, since her posting in Washington she has been engaging in too many initiatives of her own.'
Still looking at Lynn, I smiled again.
'Oh, I see too many initiatives.'
I gave her word the full five syllables.
I hated it when they beat around the bush. Why didn't they just get on with it and tell me what the fuck was happening and what they wanted me to do about it? Before I could get an answer we were interrupted by the arrival of some punters.
'Oil You're not on holiday now; give a hand with these sodding bags!'
'All right, don't get out yer bleedin' pram!'
Everything stopped as we all looked over to the driver's side of the wagon. I couldn't see Lynn's face, but Elizabeth's registered disgust. Two couples were standing by a Ford Escort XR3i. While we'd been waffling away they'd turned up, opened the trunk and were loading their luggage.
One young couple, both in their mid-twenties, had come to pick up the other one. The girl back from holiday was wearing white cut-down jeans with half her ass hanging out to show us how brown she was, but the effect was spoiled a bit by all the exposed skin being goose bumped, what with this being Gatwick rather than Tenerife. Just in case we didn't get the message that she'd been away, her bottled blond hair was in beads where it had been braided by a beach hustler.
Our man in the driving seat was keeping an eye on them continuously, still with the paper up, still on the same page, the skin of his massive neck hanging over his collar even more as he looked right in his wing mirror checking everything out. These boys had to be jacks of all trades, offensive and defensive drivers, as well as bodyguards to protect their 'principals' and great joke-tellers to entertain them. Maybe that was why the Serb worked for Elizabeth. She wasn't the sort of person who understood jokes, and judging by the Serb's expression as he tried to follow the estuary English outside, he wasn't up to speed on banter either. I just hoped he wasn't learning his English from these two in the wagon people would think that Prince Charles had been hitting the gym.
The entertainment was over. We all turned back to our original positions and Elizabeth carried on, physically affected by what she had just seen. Her breed found such people a terrible stain on their ordered lives.
'We are concerned that there might be a conflict about the ethics of her employment.'
I tried not to laugh.
'Ethics? That's not Sarah. She's got ethics filed under 'Things to worry about when I'm dead.'' I risked a chuckle, but either Elizabeth didn't understand, or she got the joke and didn't like it.
The atmosphere felt so frosty I wondered if the Serb had adjusted the air conditioning. I was slowly welcoming myself out of this wagon.
Elizabeth continued as if I still hadn't spoken.
'We feel that this could expose current operations and put operators' lives in very real danger.'
That stopped me smiling.
'How do you know Sarah might be putting operations at risk?'
'That,' she said, 'you don't need to know.' I could see she'd enjoyed saying that.
'However, let me give you an example of the problem we face. The information that Sarah Greenwood retrieved from Syria I understand that you were part of that operation? that material delivered to us was in fact incorrect. It would appear that she quite deliberately distorted information she knew was important to us and the Americans.'
So they had wanted what was on the computers after all. And, as usual, I had been one of their mushrooms, kept in the dark and fed on shit.
She was on a roll now.
'It was most unfortunate that the Source was killed--after all, that was your task: to bring him back. We still don't know what intelligence the Syrian operation would have revealed-because you destroyed the computers on site, I believe.'
She made it sound as if I'd done all that on some kind of whim. I let her carry on, but inwardly I was ready to punch her lights out.
'The Americans were not pleased with our efforts, and I have to say, it was hardly one of our finest hours.'
I wasn't going to let her rev me up even more. For years we'd done jobs for the U.S. that Congress would never sanction, or that were against the 1974 executive order prohibiting U.S. involvement in assassination.
The job had been false-flagged as an Israeli operation because the
U.S.
could not be seen to be screaming into Syria and kidnapping an international financier, even if he did happen to be the right-hand man of the world's most prolific terrorist. However, by making it look like a joint operation between the Israeli military and Mossad, everyone was a winner:
America would get the Source, the U.K. would have the satisfaction of doing a difficult job well and Israel would reap all the kudos. Not that they knew about it when it was happening--they never did--but they would still take all the credit.
I thought back to Syria and Sarah's frantic work on the laptop, and the fact that she had killed the Source. Sarah had certainly sounded convincing during the debrief, and after that I didn't even think about it, it was finished.
Whatever had happened since then didn't worry me either; it wasn't going to change my life. Well, maybe it was now.
Elizabeth continued, 'She could have caused a major change in foreign policy, and that, I must say, would have been most detrimental to the U.K.'s and USs balance of payments and influence in the region ...'
She was talking crap. I bet the reason she was pissed off was because Clinton had recently signed a 'lethal presidential order' against Bin Laden. He had authorized, in advance, an aggressive operation to arrest him if the opportunity arose, at the same time recognizing that some of those involved might be killed. In other words, Clinton had found a way around America's strict anti assassination rules, and the Firm would be done out of some work. I could see that Sarah fucking about wouldn't help matters.
I waited for the part Elizabeth had forgotten to emphasize. There are three things they like to give you at a briefing, when they eventually get around to saying what they really mean. One, the aim of the task; two, the reason why the task has to happen; and three, the incentive for the operator.
I saw her eyes move fractionally up and to the left. She was lying.
'... as well as putting operators at risk in the area. Which is, of course, our most important consideration.' Not a bad incentive, I thought--even if she was talking bollocks--especially if it was me operating there.
'As to her motives, well, that's not for you to worry about.'
I was starting to feel uneasy about all this. I turned to Lynn.
'If you were worried about this back then, why didn't you just give her a bung?'
From behind me Elizabeth said, 'A bung? A bung?'
Lynn looked over my head and said, in the voice of a queen's counsel patiently explaining a blow job to a High Court judge, 'Money. No, Nick, we didn't offer her a bung. You know as well as I do that the service never bribes or pays anyone off.'
I couldn't believe he'd said that and I somehow managed to keep a straight face. Amazingly, so did he. They look after their own in the Intelligence Service. Even if the IG's been given the sack for gross misconduct, whether it's for being a pedophile and getting blackmailed for it, or for just screwing up the job, he goes into a feeder system where he gets work, and that does two things--it keeps tabs on him, but it also keeps him sweet, and, more importantly, quiet. That's what a bung is all about:
keeping the house in order.
I wished they would give me one. Only a few months earlier I'd been escorting an IG called Clive to a service apartment in London. These apartments are paid for, furnished and run by the Intelligence Service.
