elevators.
'We're going to the fifth floor.'
I nodded and let the silence hang as we rode the elevator, not wanting to let him know that I knew. It saved on small talk.
Once on the fifth I followed him. There was little noise coming from any of the offices along the hallway, just the hum of air conditioning and the creak of my feathers.
At the far end we turned left, passing Lynn's old office. Someone called Turnbull had it now. Two doors down I saw Lynn's name on the door plate. My escort knocked and was met by the characteristically crisp and immediate call of 'Come!' He ushered me past and I heard the door close gently behind me. Lynn's bald crown faced me as he wrote at his desk.
He might have a new office, but it was quite clear he was a creature of habit. The interior was exactly the same as his last; exactly the same furniture and plain, functional, impersonal ambience. The only thing that showed he wasn't a mannequin planted here for decoration was the framed photograph of a group, which I presumed were his much younger wife and two children, sitting on a stretch of grass with the family Labrador. Two rolls of Christmas wrapping paper leaning against the wall behind him showed that he did have a life.
Mounted on a wall bracket above me to the right was a TV, the screen showing CNN world news headlines. The only thing I couldn't see was the obligatory officer's squash racket and winter coat on a stand. They were probably behind me.
I stood and waited for him to finish. Normally I would just have sat down and made myself at home, but today was different. There was what people like him tend to call an atmosphere, and I didn't want to annoy him any more than I needed to. We'd parted on less than good terms the last time we'd met.
His fountain pen sounded unnaturally loud on the paper. My eyes moved to the window behind him, and I gazed over the Thames at the new apartment building being finished off on the north side of the bridge.
'Take a seat. I'll be with you very soon.'
I did, on the same wooden chair I'd sat on three years ago, my leathers drowning the scratch of his writing as I bent down and placed my backpack on the floor. It was becoming increasingly obvious that this was going to be a short meeting, an interview without coffee, otherwise the Asian guy would have asked me if I took milk or cream before I'd gone in.
I hadn't seen Lynn since the debrief after Washington in '98. Like his furniture, he hadn't changed. Nor had his clothes: the same mustard-colored corduroy trousers, sports jacket with well worn leather elbows, and flannel shirt. With his shiny dome still facing me, I could see that he hadn't lost any more hair, which I was sure Mrs. Lynn was very happy about. He really didn't have the ears to be a complete baldilocks.
He finished writing and put aside what I could now see was a typed page of legal paper that looked as if a teacher had marked it. Looking up with a half-amused smile at my outfit, he brought his hands together, thumbs touching as he rested them on top of the desk. Since Washington, he'd treated me as if he was a bank manager and I was asking for a bigger overdraft, trying hard to be nice, but at the same time looking down on me with disdain. That, I didn't mind, as long as he didn't expect me to look up to him with reverence.
'Wot can I do fer yer, Nick?' He was ribbing my accent, but in a sarcastic, not jovial way. He really didn't like me. My Washington fuckup had put the seal on that.
I bit my lip. I had to be nice to him. He was the ticket to the money Kelly needed, and even though I had the sinking feeling that my be-nice routine wasn't going to work, I had to give it my best shot.
'I really would like to know if I am ever going to get PC,' I said.
He settled back into his leather swivel chair and produced the other half of his smile. 'You know, you are very lucky still to be at liberty, Nick. You already have a lot to be thankful for, and do bear in mind, your freedom is still not guaranteed.'
He was right, of course. I owed the Firm for the fact that I wasn't in some U.S. state penitentiary with a cellmate called Big Bubba who wanted to be my special friend. Even if it was more to do with saving themselves even more embarrassment than protecting me.
'I do understand that, and I'm really grateful for all that you've done for me, Mr. Lynn. But I really need to know.'
Leaning forward, he studied the expression on my face. It must have been the 'Mr. Lynn' bit that made him suspicious. He could smell my desperation.
'After your total lack of judgment, do you really think you'd ever be considered for permanent cadre?' His face flushed. He was angry.
'Think yourself lucky you're still on a retainer. Do you really think that you would be considered for work after you' his right index finger started to endorse the facts as he poked it at me, his voice getting louder 'one, disobey my direct order to kill that damned woman; two, actually believe her preposterous story and assist her assassination attempt in the White House. God, man, your judgment was no better than a love struck schoolboy's. Do you really think a woman like that would be interested in you?' He couldn't contain himself. It was as if I'd touched a raw nerve. 'And to cap it all, you used a member of the American Secret Service to get you in there? who then gets shot! Do you realize the havoc you've caused, not only in the U.S. but here?
Careers have been ruined because of you. The answer is no. Not now, not ever.'
Then I realized. This wasn't just about me, and it wasn't early retirement at the end of his tour next year to spend more time with his mushrooms; he had been canned. He'd been running the Ks at the time of the Sarah debacle, and someone had had to pay. People like Lynn could be replaced; people like me were more difficult to blow out, if only for financial reasons. The government had invested several million in my training as a Special Air Service soldier. They wanted to get their money's worth out of me. It must have killed him to know that I was the one who'd fucked up, but he was the one to carry the blame probably as part of the deal to appease the Americans. He sat back into his chair, realizing he had lost his usual control.
'If not PC, when will I work?'
He had gained a little more composure. 'Nothing is going to happen until the new department head takes over. He will decide what to do with you.'
It was time for me to lose all pride. 'Look, Mr. Lynn, I really need the money. Any shit job will do. Send me anywhere. Anything you've got.'
'That child you look after. Is she still in care?'
Shit, I hated it when they knew these things. It was pointless lying; he probably even knew down to the last penny how much money I needed.
I nodded. 'It's the clinic costs. She'll be there for a long time.'
I looked at his family portrait, then back at him. He had kids; he'd understand.
He didn't even pause. 'No. Now go. Remember, you are still being paid and you will conduct yourself accordingly.'
He pressed his buzzer and the Asian guy came to collect me so fast he must have been listening through the keyhole. At least I got to see the squash racket on the way out. It was leaning against the wall by the door.
Taking a breath, I nearly turned back to tell him to ram his patronizing, hate-filled words up his ass. I had nothing to lose; what could he do to me now? Then I thought better of letting my mouth react to what I was thinking. This would be the last time I ever saw him, and I was sure it was the last time he ever wanted to see me. Once he'd gone it would be a new department head and maybe a new chance.
Why burn my bridges? I'd get my own back later. I'd jump all over his mushrooms.
I was still feeling philosophical about the meeting at 3A. If Val had been feeding me a crock of shit, well, there you go, at least I was on my turf rather than his. That was the way I wanted it to stay, so I'd tucked my Universal Self-Loading Pistol into my leathers before I left the bike shop, just in case.
All the same, I knew I'd be really pissed if no one was at the flat with a little something for me, as long as it was wrapped in a big envelope and not a full metal jacket. I'd soon be finding out.
The traffic in Kensington was at a standstill. At one set of lights the bike got wedged between a black cab and a woman in a Mere with very dyed, long blond hair, held off her face by Chanel sunglasses, even though it was the middle of winter. She tried to look casual as she chatted on her cell phone. The cabbie looked over at me and couldn't help himself from laughing.
Palace Gardens stretches the whole length of Hyde Park's west side, from Kensington in the south to Netting Hill Gate in the north. I rode up to the iron gates and the wooden gatehouse positioned between them.
