‘We will be withdrawing from Iraq in the next few months, and the President’s rhetoric with regard to Afghanistan has not gone unnoticed.’
‘Your point, Peter?’
‘My point, Mason, is that the fewer people we have in the region, the more difficult
‘We confiscated several hard drives—’
‘Oh, come
A pause. Delaney removed his glasses, scrutinized the lenses from a distance, then replaced them.
‘I do not disagree.’
‘Then why… ’
Delaney held up one chubby finger.
‘I do not disagree, but this agency does not dictate American policy, no matter what some people would like to believe. We are a tool of the federal government, nothing more. In many ways, you British have more influence in this matter than the entire agency.’
Schlessinger looked confused.
‘Let me explain, Peter. Some presidents establish their popularity by sending their soldiers to war. Others establish it by bringing them back home. Both approaches have their supporters among the little people.’
‘The little people?’
‘The public, Peter. The naive, uninformed public. If their opinion sways, then mark my words: the President’s opinion will sway in a similar direction. Does the CIA have the ability to sway public opinion? Alas, no.’
There was a knock on the door. It opened immediately. Delaney looked up with sudden annoyance that fell away when he saw Scott Stroman. His assistant’s handsome young face was serious, yet not without a gleam of triumph.
He turned back to Schlessinger. ‘I do enjoy our little chats, Peter.’
Schlessinger looked confused. ‘Mason, we have a lot to discuss. I’ve flown in especially to—’
‘We’ll do it again soon, no?’
The British man blinked, clearly angry, but then stood up. Delaney smiled blandly at him, but remain seated. ‘So long, Peter,’ he said in a sing-song voice, and his eyes followed his guest to the door.
Neither Delaney nor Stroman spoke until it was shut.
‘Tell me, Scott,’ Delaney demanded in a bored tone. ‘What do the British put in their tea that makes them all such
The triumph in Stroman’s face grew more pronounced. He stepped over to where Delaney was sitting and handed him a single sheet of paper. Delaney’s eyes scanned it: a list of ten alphanumeric strings.
Flight numbers.
‘How?’ he asked quietly.
‘Shampoo,’ Stroman replied. ‘They have people working in a factory in Delaware that supplies pretty much every drugstore in the country. Including outlets past security at JFK, LAX, you name it.’
Delaney smiled. ‘Would you be so good, Scott, as to tell Herb Sagan that I would like a word in his exquisitely crafted ear?’
Stroman nodded. ‘Anything else sir?’
‘Yes. I’d like to speak to Ashkani. I want to thank him personally.’
Stroman nodded, but instead of turning and leaving the room, he lingered awkwardly.
‘Come, Scott, we’ll have time to play when this is over.’ Delaney approached his assistant and brushed one finger against his perfectly formed right cheekbone. ‘He is a greater patriot than you know,’ he breathed.
Scott gave him one of those nervous, handsome smiles he so adored.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, then left the room quietly.
Three thousand miles away, in a solitary house by the sea, an old lady was frowning. ‘What in heaven’s name
It had started at about ten o’clock – two hours ago – the monotonous, regular knocking. It was coming from upstairs. She was used to the pipes banging in this old house – her Gethin had been able to fix it when he was alive, but there was no way she could tackle the plumbing at her time of life. She supposed she
She wondered where he was and why he hadn’t come in to say hello. She had heard him return in the early hours. She knew it had to be him, because Dandelion would have yowled and mewed and stuck her claws into the blankets of Bethan’s bed if a stranger had entered the house before dawn, or indeed at any time. Besides, she had heard him moving around upstairs as she lay there dozing. He had been noisier than usual, but she couldn’t complain: he was normally so quiet that you wouldn’t know he was there. Such a nice man. So
The sound was suddenly louder than before, and the old lady grew agitated. It didn’t, on reflection, really
She heaved herself up from the sofa. Dandelion jumped off her lap and gave her a reproachful miaow as she hit the floor. Bethan was too preoccupied with the stiffness in her joints to notice. Once she was on her feet, she fumbled for her stick and, leaning heavily on it, struggled to the door.
It was even louder now. Did it sound like it was coming from Mr Ashe’s room? Her hearing really wasn’t what it once was…
Bethan didn’t like using her stairlift. Oh, it was better than the alternative, but it made her rather giddy and at her age it could take the best part of a day to recover. With her frail, trembling hands, she strapped herself in securely, brought down the arms so that she had something solid to hold on to, and pressed the button that would take her upstairs. The motor hummed noisily as the chair started its slow ascent.
It was definitely coming from the room at the top of the stairs. ‘Mr Ashe?’ she called weakly. ‘Mr Ashe, is everything all right?’
What on earth could it be?
The stairlift stopped. It was only halfway up. Bethan pressed the button again, but there was no movement. ‘Oh dear…’ She was getting agitated again. ‘Oh…’
‘Good morning, Mrs Jones,’ said a quiet voice from the bottom of the stairs.
Bethan started, and looked down to her left.
‘Oh, Mr Ashe,’ she said, patting her chest lightly to demonstrate her relief that it was him. ‘I didn’t hear you. My hearing’s not what it…’ She looked from the bedroom door back down to her lodger.
Mr Ashe smiled, and continued to gaze up at her from the bottom of the stairs.
