yet.
âI called by,â he began casually, as if they were old friends, âbecause I might not be in for a bit. It looks as if Iâm being drawn into something I canât get out of.â
No reaction. She wasnât even looking at him. Her breathing was low and measured.
âI know how much you value these scintillating chats of ours,â he continued, âand I wouldnât want you to think I was ignoring you if I donât pop by for a while.â
âDonât let me keep you, then,â she whispered, the sound raw, like sandpaper.
âGreat,â he said cheerfully. âSo we are talking. Thatâs nice. Shall I tell you about this new job? Well, itâs not really a job yet, but Iâve got a feeling itâs about to be.â No reaction, so he ploughed on. âYou know you get an instinct about some things? Of course you do â youâre ex-Six: you get injected with instincts when you join, donât you? Well, Iâve got a feeling this oneâs going to be nasty.â He was rambling deliberately, hoping for a response. Anything was better than none, even insults. She didnât disappoint.
She moved her head slowly and looked at him. Her eyes were cold, dark, empty. âFuck off, Tate.â
TWELVE
T he Swedish Embassy was on the Avenue Louise, a main artery into Brussels constantly full of speeding traffic. On either side of the route were exotic and attractively lit shops, nudging shoulders with elegant houses and faceless office blocks, many behind ornate iron gates and security systems.
A notice on the embassy wall said the building was closed. Kassim saw a policeman standing just inside the doors, and a camera peering down at him. He walked another two hundred paces, then turned back, unfolding the street map in the manner of a bemused tourist. The play-acting took him no more than two minutes, by which time he had seen no sign of visitors and absorbed all there was to see of the building.
He turned into a side street and consulted the binder. Arne Broms was a big man, pasty and rounded, eyes dull and uninterested. He would have little problem in recognizing him. Soldiers attached to the embassy, the binder told him, were billeted in a section house nearby. He checked the address. It was no more than three streets away.
He followed the map and found that the section house was just that â a house. He couldnât tell how secure it was, but a camera over the front door made a direct entry too risky. He walked on, stuffing the map in his pocket, formulating a plan. He could not spend too much time here; it was too open. He had to move before he got noticed. As he turned the next corner, which was a deserted building site behind boards of marine ply, he found himself face to face with a man coming the other way. Kassim almost gasped with the shock of recognition.
It was his target: Broms.
The Swede was wearing a nylon windcheater and carrying a plastic shopping bag. He looked bored and unprepared, ripe for what Kassim had to do.
Kassim reached for the knife, every instinct telling him
do it â now!
But then the moment had passed, the opportunity for surprise lost. He continued down the street, the muscles in his back twitching, and a feeling of failure eating at him. If only he had been more alert! He could have been away before the Swede had stopped breathing.
Except that would not have been the right way to do it.
The man had to know.
Later that afternoon, Kassim returned to the street and ducked into the building site. After two hours, he saw the Swede emerge from the section house. He was now in uniform, shoulders back and head up, a man transformed by duty.
Kassim was feeling the strain. It had to be now. There was a flight the following morning, if luck favoured him. But that depended on completing what he had come here for, and in this city environment, opportunities in broad daylight were rare.
Then he saw his chance.
âI called by,â he began casually, as if they were old friends, âbecause I might not be in for a bit. It looks as if Iâm being drawn into something I canât get out of.â
No reaction. She wasnât even looking at him. Her breathing was low and measured.
âI know how much you value these scintillating chats of ours,â he continued, âand I wouldnât want you to think I was ignoring you if I donât pop by for a while.â
âDonât let me keep you, then,â she whispered, the sound raw, like sandpaper.
âGreat,â he said cheerfully. âSo we are talking. Thatâs nice. Shall I tell you about this new job? Well, itâs not really a job yet, but Iâve got a feeling itâs about to be.â No reaction, so he ploughed on. âYou know you get an instinct about some things? Of course you do â youâre ex-Six: you get injected with instincts when you join, donât you? Well, Iâve got a feeling this oneâs going to be nasty.â He was rambling deliberately, hoping for a response. Anything was better than none, even insults. She didnât disappoint.
She moved her head slowly and looked at him. Her eyes were cold, dark, empty. âFuck off, Tate.â
TWELVE
T he Swedish Embassy was on the Avenue Louise, a main artery into Brussels constantly full of speeding traffic. On either side of the route were exotic and attractively lit shops, nudging shoulders with elegant houses and faceless office blocks, many behind ornate iron gates and security systems.
A notice on the embassy wall said the building was closed. Kassim saw a policeman standing just inside the doors, and a camera peering down at him. He walked another two hundred paces, then turned back, unfolding the street map in the manner of a bemused tourist. The play-acting took him no more than two minutes, by which time he had seen no sign of visitors and absorbed all there was to see of the building.
He turned into a side street and consulted the binder. Arne Broms was a big man, pasty and rounded, eyes dull and uninterested. He would have little problem in recognizing him. Soldiers attached to the embassy, the binder told him, were billeted in a section house nearby. He checked the address. It was no more than three streets away.
He followed the map and found that the section house was just that â a house. He couldnât tell how secure it was, but a camera over the front door made a direct entry too risky. He walked on, stuffing the map in his pocket, formulating a plan. He could not spend too much time here; it was too open. He had to move before he got noticed. As he turned the next corner, which was a deserted building site behind boards of marine ply, he found himself face to face with a man coming the other way. Kassim almost gasped with the shock of recognition.
It was his target: Broms.
The Swede was wearing a nylon windcheater and carrying a plastic shopping bag. He looked bored and unprepared, ripe for what Kassim had to do.
Kassim reached for the knife, every instinct telling him
do it â now!
But then the moment had passed, the opportunity for surprise lost. He continued down the street, the muscles in his back twitching, and a feeling of failure eating at him. If only he had been more alert! He could have been away before the Swede had stopped breathing.
Except that would not have been the right way to do it.
The man had to know.
Later that afternoon, Kassim returned to the street and ducked into the building site. After two hours, he saw the Swede emerge from the section house. He was now in uniform, shoulders back and head up, a man transformed by duty.
Kassim was feeling the strain. It had to be now. There was a flight the following morning, if luck favoured him. But that depended on completing what he had come here for, and in this city environment, opportunities in broad daylight were rare.
Then he saw his chance.
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