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Authors: Jeremy Rumfitt
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narco-trafficking the FARC could buy anything or anyone they wanted. Once they mastered the techniques of urban warfare, they could surely surpass Al Qaeda, America was on their very doorstep. Washington demanded the immediate extradition of the three men but their appeal failed at the first hurdle. The three Irishmen had not yet been found guilty of a crime.
***
12
At seven twenty five on a bitterly cold February evening the train pulled into Guildford station. It was only fifteen minutes late. Bowman stood at the head of the platform and spotted Melanie heading towards him from thirty yards away. She moved like a young girl, a dancer. She wore jeans and a long flowing Nicole Farhi overcoat. Her large green eyes were framed in wire-rimmed glasses. Her auburn hair was tied back in an unfashionable bun and her nose and cheeks were pink. If she was wearing make-up it didn't show. She looked as fresh as if she’d just stepped out of the shower.
Melanie put down her case and held out her hand. Bowman leaned forward, held her by the shoulders, kissed her on both cheeks and stepped back to look her over. She was thinner than he remembered. More delicate. More fragile. But then Melanie Drake had suffered more traumas in the last eighteen months than most people went through in a lifetime.
“Hi, Alex,” Melanie grinned. “How’s the wound?” She tapped him gently on the shoulder.
“Pretty much healed,” Bowman beamed. “The specialist says I’ll be swimming again by April.”
He picked up her case with his good hand and headed for the car park. Melanie took hold of his free arm and wondered if she was right to come. Seeing Alex again brought back too many painful memories. But there were good ones too. Comforting ones.
Back at the cottage Melanie disappeared upstairs to bathe and change while Bowman stoked the fire and prepared a simple supper of Gazpacho, which he made himself, cold ham, chorizo and an aged manchego he’d bought from the deli in the village, washed down with an outstanding Tempranillo from the north bank of the Duero, he’d found at the local off-license. When Melanie came downstairs she had changed into a simple white shift dress, no make-up or jewellery, no other adornment was needed. They ate in the sitting room picnic style, enjoying the warmth of the log fire. Melanie felt truly contented. The shitty part of her life was over. This was a new beginning. She hoped it was the same for him.
“So when do you plan on going back to Spain, Alex?”
“In a couple of months. The specialist still wants to tweak my shoulder, but the security business will go down the tube if I don’t get back there soon, I still have to make a living and right now I’ve no idea where the next job is coming from.”
“Don’t you miss it?”
“Spain? Sure. I miss the farmhouse in San Roque. And I miss being busy.” Bowman poured the last of the Tempranillo. “How about you, Mel? Happy to be back at the Echo?”
“Very.” Melanie savoured the wine. “I need some stability back in my life. The Echo’s been really good to me, Alex, taking me back on the payroll. I have my old job back. Chief Investigative Reporter. They even gave me a raise.”
“You don’t find it dull? After going freelance?”
“Dull is great, Alex. Dull is what I need. Besides, it’s not that dull. Guess who I interviewed last week?”
“After the President of the United States, nothing would surprise me.”
“Just the new head of MI6,” Melanie beamed. “She told me some amazing stuff.”
“What sort of stuff?”
“The sort of stuff I can’t repeat, but let’s say some very useful background.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Matter of fact she asked after you.”
“Merlyn Stanbridge asked after me?”
Bowman was genuinely surprised.
“How come she knows about me?”
“Come on, Alex,” Melanie laughed. “She is the head of MI6. And don’t you be so modest. She knows what you did in Morocco. She
***
12
At seven twenty five on a bitterly cold February evening the train pulled into Guildford station. It was only fifteen minutes late. Bowman stood at the head of the platform and spotted Melanie heading towards him from thirty yards away. She moved like a young girl, a dancer. She wore jeans and a long flowing Nicole Farhi overcoat. Her large green eyes were framed in wire-rimmed glasses. Her auburn hair was tied back in an unfashionable bun and her nose and cheeks were pink. If she was wearing make-up it didn't show. She looked as fresh as if she’d just stepped out of the shower.
Melanie put down her case and held out her hand. Bowman leaned forward, held her by the shoulders, kissed her on both cheeks and stepped back to look her over. She was thinner than he remembered. More delicate. More fragile. But then Melanie Drake had suffered more traumas in the last eighteen months than most people went through in a lifetime.
“Hi, Alex,” Melanie grinned. “How’s the wound?” She tapped him gently on the shoulder.
“Pretty much healed,” Bowman beamed. “The specialist says I’ll be swimming again by April.”
He picked up her case with his good hand and headed for the car park. Melanie took hold of his free arm and wondered if she was right to come. Seeing Alex again brought back too many painful memories. But there were good ones too. Comforting ones.
Back at the cottage Melanie disappeared upstairs to bathe and change while Bowman stoked the fire and prepared a simple supper of Gazpacho, which he made himself, cold ham, chorizo and an aged manchego he’d bought from the deli in the village, washed down with an outstanding Tempranillo from the north bank of the Duero, he’d found at the local off-license. When Melanie came downstairs she had changed into a simple white shift dress, no make-up or jewellery, no other adornment was needed. They ate in the sitting room picnic style, enjoying the warmth of the log fire. Melanie felt truly contented. The shitty part of her life was over. This was a new beginning. She hoped it was the same for him.
“So when do you plan on going back to Spain, Alex?”
“In a couple of months. The specialist still wants to tweak my shoulder, but the security business will go down the tube if I don’t get back there soon, I still have to make a living and right now I’ve no idea where the next job is coming from.”
“Don’t you miss it?”
“Spain? Sure. I miss the farmhouse in San Roque. And I miss being busy.” Bowman poured the last of the Tempranillo. “How about you, Mel? Happy to be back at the Echo?”
“Very.” Melanie savoured the wine. “I need some stability back in my life. The Echo’s been really good to me, Alex, taking me back on the payroll. I have my old job back. Chief Investigative Reporter. They even gave me a raise.”
“You don’t find it dull? After going freelance?”
“Dull is great, Alex. Dull is what I need. Besides, it’s not that dull. Guess who I interviewed last week?”
“After the President of the United States, nothing would surprise me.”
“Just the new head of MI6,” Melanie beamed. “She told me some amazing stuff.”
“What sort of stuff?”
“The sort of stuff I can’t repeat, but let’s say some very useful background.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Matter of fact she asked after you.”
“Merlyn Stanbridge asked after me?”
Bowman was genuinely surprised.
“How come she knows about me?”
“Come on, Alex,” Melanie laughed. “She is the head of MI6. And don’t you be so modest. She knows what you did in Morocco. She
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