“You’re the best woman for the job, no doubt.”
“I told you I don’t want to go OIT again. I turned down the Zurich post.”
Giles counted off on his fingers as he spoke. “One, you’ve already been back in the field. Last night you bluffed your way past two policemen, stole an item from under their nose, followed the lead, and located an asset. All of your own volition, I might add.”
Bridge threw up her hands. “That wasn’t ‘the field’, it was Catford.”
“Don’t interrupt. Two, as I said, you are unquestionably the best woman for this job. You have the required technical knowledge, the people skills to ferret the mole out — as you so ably demonstrated with Robert Carter — and the advantage of native-language proficiency both to conduct these interviews and investigate locally. Perhaps most important of all, you’ve effectively been watching this mole longer than anyone else here. You just didn’t know it before today.”
“But it was Ten who figured out the code, not me. And look what happened to him. We were just contemplating that ISIS might be behind this, for heaven’s sake. These people are serious.”
“So am I when I tell you not to interrupt, but that doesn’t seem to stop you,” said Giles. She opened her mouth to reply, then thought better of it. “Even if ISIS is pulling the strings, there’s no indication they’re on the ground. They’ll be directing remotely from very far away.” He paused, and frowned. “But most importantly of all, and now I really am serious — you’ve thrown a big old nasty cat among the pigeons, and it’s your job to wrestle it back into the bag so we can chuck it in the river. Either do as you’re told and conduct this hunt, or pack up your desk and leave.”
Bridge stopped pacing and stared at Giles, speechless.
“I’d be sorry to lose you. You’re a superb analyst and, I maintain, potentially a great hard asset as well. But this is crunch time, Bridge. You consistently ignore my advice, and your doctor’s, you’re reluctant to put your full capabilities at the Service’s disposal, and now you’re threatening to disobey orders.” He gave her a lopsided, sympathetic smile. “For God’s sake, you’re half-French, not half-American.”
She dropped into a chair at the far end of the briefing table, and stared down at the polished wood grain. SIS was the only job she’d had since university. They’d made their approach during her second year at Cambridge, she’d been vetted and examined before her degree was confirmed, and within weeks she was cleared to begin work at Vauxhall. But that wasn’t what really bothered her. Bridge was naturally self-effacing, but even she knew her skills would allow her to find a new job with ease. She and Ciaran often joked that if they had any sense, they’d be writing algorithms for City trading firms and earning five times what SIS paid them. And did she really imagine herself still here in thirty years, managing her own team of analysts? Probably not.
No, the real problem was the debt and guilt she felt over Ten’s death. Dr Nayar would tell her she wasn’t responsible, that it wasn’t her fault, that guilt was an irrational response to an emotional situation. But that didn’t make it any less real, and this could be Bridge’s only chance to find out who was responsible.
As if reading her mind, Giles said, “I’ll make sure Five liaise with the Met on Mr O’Riordan’s murder here at home, and give it priority. If it’s truly connected, that elevates his case to national-security status in any case. And it’s entirely possible the killer is still here in London. After all, nobody’s been killed in Agenbeux.”
“Yet.”
“It’s France, not Fallujah. You’re in more danger crossing Oxford Street than you will be over there.”
But if that was true, why had someone in a midnight-blue Audi begun following her after she collected her car at the airport?
She’d flown in to Paris Charles de Gaulle and, instead of connecting to a local flight to Champagne, had used her cover ID to hire a car and drive out to the region instead. For the purposes of her time here in France she was an HR inspector for the civil service, supposedly assessing workplace morale on behalf of Whitehall to compile a report. Her passport was issued to ‘Bridget Short’, ostensibly to minimise the time needed to acclimatise herself to the false name, though when she’d collected it from OpPrep she suspected someone was also enjoying their little joke.
Bridge could have arranged the car before leaving London, but that risked the possibility that the mole might somehow get wind of it, discover which car was destined to be hers for the next couple of weeks, and bug it. She could have had Henri Mourad arrange a clean car for her, and meet her with it at the airport. But if anyone knew Henri was SIS, and saw him not only meeting with her but handing over a car, that would only raise more suspicion.
All this was completely paranoid, she knew. But that was the job.
So she’d picked out a small blue Fiat and driven straight down to Agenbeux. She’d been to this region of France only once before, as a child, on holiday with her parents. She and Izzy had been bored senseless, especially by the landscape, so flat and empty compared to the Alpine-heavy lands around Lyon. That was a long time ago, but not much had changed; although, as she drove into the region, Bridge was happy to realise she’d forgotten how forested it was in places around the river.
It was while taking in the scenery that she noticed the Audi following her. She couldn’t recall exactly where it had joined the road — if it had fallen in behind her somewhere between here and the airport, or joined the N4 when she did. Regardless, the driver was staying
