‘It is quite common,’ he’d continued gravely, his dark eyes serious, ‘especially during the mating season. The wise thing to do is stay away from them and leave them to the tourists.’ His gaze was steady. ‘You, however, are not a tourist, I think.’ The almost-question was one she’d heard before; it could be interpreted as anything from suspicion to plain curiosity.
She was careful about her answer. Most doctors were keen to tread the middle line in political and religious matters, but she was aware that some leaned more towards the ruling groups than others, if only to avoid being dragged into anything that might threaten their livelihoods.
‘No,’ she’d agreed, and left it at that. ‘I’m not.’
She was, in fact an employee of Her Majesty’s Foreign, Commonwealth & Development Office in London, although she didn’t tell him that. Beneath that overriding official umbrella, she worked for MI6 as a field operative, using the cover of a worker for various aid agencies in the region. The position allowed her to move around gathering information on local politicians, police, military and tribal factions, while also offering logistical support for colleagues whenever needed. Any information she picked up was passed back to her employers in London, but thus far there had been no demand for logistical support.
But evidently all that had changed a few minutes ago with the receipt of a text message couched in innocuous terms about her Uncle William’s need for an urgent visit. Decoded into plain language it was direct and unmistakable.
Get out. Now.
She made a brief phone call, then took a last look around the small office which had been her base for the past six months. She wondered what lucky soul would be the next occupant. It contained a desk, a bookcase, a little-used filing cabinet and a desktop computer holding a raft of harmless information and emails about aid budgets, storage depots, refugee numbers and various proposals and requests for food, medical supplies and emergency facilities. The factual information was real, but most of the communications were fictitious, composed and regularly updated by Isobel and her handlers back in London just on the off-chance the office might one day be raided.
Placing a brown paper bag in her rucksack, she locked the door, hoping that whoever came to clear out the few personal effects she’d left behind would send them on quickly, if they bothered at all. She brushed a hand over the plastic sign on the outside wall. It indicated to the casual gaze that the building housed the regional representative for Accor, short for Action Coordination International, a non-governmental agency working on behalf of numerous charitable and non-governmental organizations through the continent.
In reality Isobel was the sole employee and anyone contacting the listed telephone or email address would find themselves communicating with a cheerfully helpful operator whose job it was to promise help while offering nothing immediately save a call from their local representative. It was a useful circular kiss-chase system but was usually enough to put them off taking their enquiries any further.
Combined with the orders to leave with all haste, she had received an immediate follow-up instruction to scoop up an asset in difficulty – AID in insider-speak – and get them both to a safe-house ready for onward extraction. The fact that the asset was an American called Watchman was beside the point. These days nationality was no barrier to working for MI6, and her duty was to obey. In any case, after the camel incident she had become disenchanted with this posting so she wasn’t about to argue.
She knew nothing about Watchman nor what he was doing here, and it wasn’t her place to ask. That he’d probably got what his countrymen referred to as his ass in a sling was a risk they all took. All she had to do was meet him – she guessed the code name denoted his gender although these days that point was fairly moot – and get them both on the fast road out of town.
Not for the first time she reminded herself that she should have been more careful about what she wished for. Meeting up with clandestine operators, which she guessed Watchman must be, was always akin to playing with fire. She could hardly blame anyone but herself, as she had known full well what she was signing up for when she took this posting.
Three years ago she had been swept up in a personnel cull deemed ‘surplus to requirements’ and forced to leave her research and support role in MI6, where the most dangerous task each day was replacing the paper and toner cartridges in the office printers.
With no family, pets or interest in growing old gracefully, she had soon become bored to death and in need of some outside stimulus. Having said as much to a former Service colleague in a catch-up lunch, she had been surprised to be called in for an interview, then accepted and sent on a number of short but intensive training courses. Her age and appearance, it seemed, had suddenly been seen as an advantage by controllers in the Service.
‘It has to be said, you don’t fit the usual profile of a clandestine operative,’ one of the field controllers who’d interviewed her had said, lifting a hand to count off points on his fingers. He had the lined, leathered face of someone who had spent too much time in the tropics or had worked in too many stressful situations over the years. But he had a nice voice and sounded kind. ‘You’re of mature years, you look like someone’s favourite granny and you don’t look as if you’ve ever seen a weapon or a covert camera, let along handled one.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ She’d taken it as a compliment while wondering when the signal to end the interview would come. Suddenly,
