was walking distance from the hotel he worked at and far enough away from her apartment so he couldn’t suggest anything untoward.
“Perfect. I will see you there in twenty minutes.”
“See you!” she replied cheerfully before hanging up.
“Do I want to know?” Sebastian asked as he took his empty coffee cup to the kitchen. She knew he was being supportive, but she also knew that he really didn’t want to know what her operation was about. Sharing operational information, other than in their report files, was frowned upon. At The Farm, they’d explained that it was an important security measure: If things went south and an officer was captured or interrogated—or worse—then he would only know about his own op and no one else’s.
“Not yet. It’s early days,” she replied. “Probably nothing.”
“Be careful out there, darling,” he said from inside the kitchen.
Chapter Nine
S imon’s finance minister had actually been working that day, instead of skipping around town meeting girlfriends and socialites. He was a good-looking man, one who stuck out like a sore thumb in the Russian cabinet. All the other members were gray haired and old, and he was in his late thirties and had a thick head of dark hair.
Minister Stamov was the only one young enough to not remember the “old days” of Mother Russia. Usually the younger generation in Russia came out against the president’s reign…but given that any intel from Russia was hard to come by these days, he couldn’t be sure about anything.
It wasn’t CAG’s job to think about the politics behind a mission. Once you tried to overthink it or believed you had information that someone else didn’t, you were usually fucked.
Anyway, as far as Simon could tell, Stamov seemed to have enjoyed the day of banking meetings that he’d been attending. He was in the lobby, watching the minister rotate around groups of suited men and women, all clutching cocktails that few seemed to be enjoying.
A man sat down in an armchair opposite Simon. He was tall, Western, early thirties or maybe in his twenties with some miles on his face. The battered cowboy boots didn’t tell him much, and his shirt…
“Hey, mate. Dog can’t fly without umbrella,” the man said in a British accent, grinning widely.
Simon bristled. What the fuck was he talking about? He sat up and looked around to see if anyone was watching.
“Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist; I was sent by…” He looked to the ceiling and wrinkled his nose as if he was trying to recall. “Ringling? No, Barnum. Is that right? What a name, right? I wonder if his boss ever says, ‘Are you running a circus here, Goddamnit?’” He’d assumed a pretty good American accent for the last bit. But Simon only barely noticed it.
This guy was insane, and he had to get away from him before his cover was blown. He folded his newspaper, but as he put it down and made to leave, the man grinned. “Sit down, mate. Don’t be a twat. I’m just messing with you.” Simon hesitated but watched, intrigued, as the man held up his hand and asked a waiter to bring them both scotch and sodas, affecting a really impressive French accent.
“I wanted some kind of ridiculous password to give you, like they do in the movies, but they didn’t give me one.” He shrugged. “Your people are no fun, mate.”
“You can stop calling me ‘mate,’ for a start.”
“See? No fun.” He turned to receive his drinks from the waiter, tossed a twenty-euro note on his silver tray, and said, “ Merci beaucoup, mon ami. ”
Simon wanted to hit him. He wasn’t sure why; he just really wanted to hit him. “So who are you, and keep your fucking voice down this time.”
“Mal Garrett. My friends call me Mal; you can call me Garrett.” He paused to give Simon an insincere smile. “I work private. But my boss used to serve with yours and blah, blah, blah. Long story short, he sent me to pick up your slack. There’s been a problem
“Perfect. I will see you there in twenty minutes.”
“See you!” she replied cheerfully before hanging up.
“Do I want to know?” Sebastian asked as he took his empty coffee cup to the kitchen. She knew he was being supportive, but she also knew that he really didn’t want to know what her operation was about. Sharing operational information, other than in their report files, was frowned upon. At The Farm, they’d explained that it was an important security measure: If things went south and an officer was captured or interrogated—or worse—then he would only know about his own op and no one else’s.
“Not yet. It’s early days,” she replied. “Probably nothing.”
“Be careful out there, darling,” he said from inside the kitchen.
Chapter Nine
S imon’s finance minister had actually been working that day, instead of skipping around town meeting girlfriends and socialites. He was a good-looking man, one who stuck out like a sore thumb in the Russian cabinet. All the other members were gray haired and old, and he was in his late thirties and had a thick head of dark hair.
Minister Stamov was the only one young enough to not remember the “old days” of Mother Russia. Usually the younger generation in Russia came out against the president’s reign…but given that any intel from Russia was hard to come by these days, he couldn’t be sure about anything.
It wasn’t CAG’s job to think about the politics behind a mission. Once you tried to overthink it or believed you had information that someone else didn’t, you were usually fucked.
Anyway, as far as Simon could tell, Stamov seemed to have enjoyed the day of banking meetings that he’d been attending. He was in the lobby, watching the minister rotate around groups of suited men and women, all clutching cocktails that few seemed to be enjoying.
A man sat down in an armchair opposite Simon. He was tall, Western, early thirties or maybe in his twenties with some miles on his face. The battered cowboy boots didn’t tell him much, and his shirt…
“Hey, mate. Dog can’t fly without umbrella,” the man said in a British accent, grinning widely.
Simon bristled. What the fuck was he talking about? He sat up and looked around to see if anyone was watching.
“Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist; I was sent by…” He looked to the ceiling and wrinkled his nose as if he was trying to recall. “Ringling? No, Barnum. Is that right? What a name, right? I wonder if his boss ever says, ‘Are you running a circus here, Goddamnit?’” He’d assumed a pretty good American accent for the last bit. But Simon only barely noticed it.
This guy was insane, and he had to get away from him before his cover was blown. He folded his newspaper, but as he put it down and made to leave, the man grinned. “Sit down, mate. Don’t be a twat. I’m just messing with you.” Simon hesitated but watched, intrigued, as the man held up his hand and asked a waiter to bring them both scotch and sodas, affecting a really impressive French accent.
“I wanted some kind of ridiculous password to give you, like they do in the movies, but they didn’t give me one.” He shrugged. “Your people are no fun, mate.”
“You can stop calling me ‘mate,’ for a start.”
“See? No fun.” He turned to receive his drinks from the waiter, tossed a twenty-euro note on his silver tray, and said, “ Merci beaucoup, mon ami. ”
Simon wanted to hit him. He wasn’t sure why; he just really wanted to hit him. “So who are you, and keep your fucking voice down this time.”
“Mal Garrett. My friends call me Mal; you can call me Garrett.” He paused to give Simon an insincere smile. “I work private. But my boss used to serve with yours and blah, blah, blah. Long story short, he sent me to pick up your slack. There’s been a problem
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