The Network - Jason Elliot [108]
‘Keep your hands by your sides,’ I tell him, ‘and keep walking.’ I’m pointing the antenna of the mobile at him through the pocket of my jacket.
‘Alright,’ he says quietly and very slowly, in the manner of a surgeon on the point of extracting a bullet. Then he realises that it’s me.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. You’re supposed to be in Khartoum.’
‘Keep walking, please.’
‘Fuck is going on, Ant?’
‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘Just don’t do anything bloody stupid.’ After a few yards he regains his habitual composure. ‘You’ve got a bit of a suntan, Ant. And you’re limping. Are you sure you’re alright?’
I know he’ll try to work the conversation around so that he’s in charge of it. I’m almost curious to see how he does it. He’s throwing out lines now, to see which one I’ll bite at. We turn into Sydney Street and move south.
‘Who helped you out, Ant? Cheltenham says you made a call to an unlisted number in America.’
‘You were running Hibiscus without telling me,’ I say.
There’s a pause before he replies.
‘Yes.’ He purses his lips like someone who’s deciding from the look of the sky whether it’s going to rain. ‘Course we were.’
‘I need to know why.’
‘Perfectly normal precaution, and none of your business. How’d you find out anyway?’
‘I found out,’ I tell him, ‘because two armed Mokhabarat officers came to take my source away, and that wasn’t in the plan.’
‘Well.’ He muses again. ‘They are very much more efficient than they used to be. Get picked up at her place, did you?’
He’s already figured out the scenario.
‘It wasn’t very nice. One of them tried to stab me too.’
‘Is that why you’re limping? Have you had it looked at? Christ, we would have brought you home.’
‘You were running Hibiscus before I ever got to Khartoum. You set me up.’
‘Rubbish,’ he says dismissively. ‘Don’t be so melodramatic. Keeping an eye on her was just a safety net. Imagine it hadn’t been us. Imagine someone else had got her on their payroll. Ever occur to you? Rate you were going, you might have compromised the entire op. Anyway it’s not unusual. Makes the source feel special, like they’re doing something important. Secondly we get to compare what she says with what you tell us. Like matching up a couple of fingerprints. If there are any discrepancies we know something funny’s going on.’
‘Were there any discrepancies?’
‘As yet, no. I wasn’t expecting any, but that’s how we do things.’ His tone softens, and I recognise the gentle introduction of charm. ‘We also get to see how you handle your first cultivation. I, personally, was impressed with the way you handled Rome. Your meeting there is already bringing us some half-decent CX. I thought you should be given a chance with Hibiscus, but not everybody agreed with me. You haven’t exactly come through the right channels, but you could have a future with the Service, Ant.’
‘I don’t believe a word of what you’re saying.’
‘Excellent.’ He stops and turns to me. There’s a disarming grin on his face. ‘You’re showing the first signs of a competent Intelligence Branch officer. Wouldn’t it be better if I put that on your appraisal form rather than mention that you assaulted me with a weapon while I was on my way home?’
‘It’s not a weapon.’ I pull out the mobile from my pocket. ‘And I didn’t assault you.’
He sighs.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘You’re upset. Let’s go to the Phat Phuk. Good Vietnamese scoff. It’s just up here.’ He searches my face for a signal of assent and, as he knows he eventually will, finds it.
True to his apparent concern, Seethrough does have my leg looked at. He arranges for a car to take me the next day to a surgeon in Wimpole Street, who’s unimpressed by my do-it-yourself repairs. A sour look comes over his face as he peers at my attempt at stitches through an illuminated magnifying glass. Then he deadens the leg with an injection and a stout serious-looking Polish girl fastens a surgical mask to his face. My ragged black stitches are pulled gently free from the enclosing skin and replaced with neat loops of biodegradable suture that