lost the bulk of your family's assets in a series of badly advised stock market investments and your mother is confined to a mental hospital outside Edinburgh.”
Fullerton swallowed but his throat had gone so dry that his tongue felt twice its normal size and he started to cough.
“Is that enough, or shall I go on?”
Fullerton nodded.
“You don't look like you're in the job.”
“Neither do you. That's the point. Black with two sugars.”
Fullerton frowned.
“Sorry?”
“You were going to offer me a coffee, right? Black with two sugars.”
“Right. Okay,” said Fullerton. It was only when he was in the kitchen filling the kettle that he realised how quickly Hathaway had taken control of the situation. The man was physically smaller than Fullerton, maybe a decade older, but with none of the bearing or presence that Latham had shown. Underneath the softer exterior, however, there was a toughness that suggested he was used to being obeyed.
By the time he returned to the sitting room with two mugs of coffee on a tray, Hathaway had powered up his laptop and was sitting on the sofa, tapping on the keyboard. He'd extended his right leg under the coffee table, as if it troubled him less when it was straight. He'd run a phone line from the back of the computer to the phone socket by the window.
“You computer literate, Jamie?” said Hathaway, slipping off his leather jacket and draping it over the back of the sofa.
“I guess so,” said Fullerton. He held the tray out, and Hathaway helped himself to the black coffee.
“You're the handler, right?”
“Handler suggests physical contact,” said Hathaway.
“Ideally we won't ever meet again after today.” He gestured at the laptop.
“This is a safer way of keeping in touch.”
Fullerton sat down in an easy chair and put his coffee on the table by the laptop.
“And you'll be handling the others?”
“The others?” said Hathaway, frowning.
“The other members of the team.”
Hathaway's frown deepened.
“Team? What team?”
“I just thought .. .” Fullerton left the sentence hanging.
Hathaway pushed the computer away and sat back, looking at Fullerton through slightly narrowed eyes.
“You do understand what's being asked of you, Jamie?”
“Undercover work,” said Fullerton.
“Deep undercover. Longterm penetration of criminal gangs.”
Hathaway nodded slowly.
“That's right, but not as part of a team. You'll be working alone. You'll have on line access to me, and an emergency number to call if you're in trouble. If necessary we'll send a shed load of people to pull you out, but while you're undercover you're on your own.”
“Okay. Got it.” Fullerton ran his hand through his fringe, brushing his hair out of his eyes.
“But what I don't get is Latham's insistence that we don't get any training. What about firearms? Anti-surveillance techniques? Things like that?”
“You watch gangster movies, Jamie?”
Fullerton was nonplussed by the apparent change of subject, but he nodded.
“See how the bad guys hold their guns? One handed, waving them around, grips parallel to the ground? Half the gang-bangers in Brixton hold them that way now. Couldn't hit a barn door, but they see it in the movies so that's what they do. Okay, so I put you through a police firearms course. We'd teach you to shoot with both hands, feet shoulder width apart, sighting with your stronger eye, exhaling before pulling the trigger, blah, blah, blah. You'd hit the target every time at twenty-five yards, but first time you ever use a weapon in anger you might as well have a flashing neon sign over your head saying ”COP“. Any techniques we give you will identify you as a. police officer.”
“Okay, but what about anti-surveillance? What's the harm in teaching me how to shake a tail?”
Hathaway grinned.
“You've been reading too many cheap spy novels, Jamie.”
Fullerton felt his cheeks flush red and he sat back in his chair, crossing his arms
Fullerton swallowed but his throat had gone so dry that his tongue felt twice its normal size and he started to cough.
“Is that enough, or shall I go on?”
Fullerton nodded.
“You don't look like you're in the job.”
“Neither do you. That's the point. Black with two sugars.”
Fullerton frowned.
“Sorry?”
“You were going to offer me a coffee, right? Black with two sugars.”
“Right. Okay,” said Fullerton. It was only when he was in the kitchen filling the kettle that he realised how quickly Hathaway had taken control of the situation. The man was physically smaller than Fullerton, maybe a decade older, but with none of the bearing or presence that Latham had shown. Underneath the softer exterior, however, there was a toughness that suggested he was used to being obeyed.
By the time he returned to the sitting room with two mugs of coffee on a tray, Hathaway had powered up his laptop and was sitting on the sofa, tapping on the keyboard. He'd extended his right leg under the coffee table, as if it troubled him less when it was straight. He'd run a phone line from the back of the computer to the phone socket by the window.
“You computer literate, Jamie?” said Hathaway, slipping off his leather jacket and draping it over the back of the sofa.
“I guess so,” said Fullerton. He held the tray out, and Hathaway helped himself to the black coffee.
“You're the handler, right?”
“Handler suggests physical contact,” said Hathaway.
“Ideally we won't ever meet again after today.” He gestured at the laptop.
“This is a safer way of keeping in touch.”
Fullerton sat down in an easy chair and put his coffee on the table by the laptop.
“And you'll be handling the others?”
“The others?” said Hathaway, frowning.
“The other members of the team.”
Hathaway's frown deepened.
“Team? What team?”
“I just thought .. .” Fullerton left the sentence hanging.
Hathaway pushed the computer away and sat back, looking at Fullerton through slightly narrowed eyes.
“You do understand what's being asked of you, Jamie?”
“Undercover work,” said Fullerton.
“Deep undercover. Longterm penetration of criminal gangs.”
Hathaway nodded slowly.
“That's right, but not as part of a team. You'll be working alone. You'll have on line access to me, and an emergency number to call if you're in trouble. If necessary we'll send a shed load of people to pull you out, but while you're undercover you're on your own.”
“Okay. Got it.” Fullerton ran his hand through his fringe, brushing his hair out of his eyes.
“But what I don't get is Latham's insistence that we don't get any training. What about firearms? Anti-surveillance techniques? Things like that?”
“You watch gangster movies, Jamie?”
Fullerton was nonplussed by the apparent change of subject, but he nodded.
“See how the bad guys hold their guns? One handed, waving them around, grips parallel to the ground? Half the gang-bangers in Brixton hold them that way now. Couldn't hit a barn door, but they see it in the movies so that's what they do. Okay, so I put you through a police firearms course. We'd teach you to shoot with both hands, feet shoulder width apart, sighting with your stronger eye, exhaling before pulling the trigger, blah, blah, blah. You'd hit the target every time at twenty-five yards, but first time you ever use a weapon in anger you might as well have a flashing neon sign over your head saying ”COP“. Any techniques we give you will identify you as a. police officer.”
“Okay, but what about anti-surveillance? What's the harm in teaching me how to shake a tail?”
Hathaway grinned.
“You've been reading too many cheap spy novels, Jamie.”
Fullerton felt his cheeks flush red and he sat back in his chair, crossing his arms
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