tells me you need some persuading. What are your doubts? If I can, I'll try to allay them.'
'My doubts?' Matt laughed. 'I don't like being bullied and threatened.'
'Nature of the work, I'm afraid,' answered Luttrell. 'It's a bit like the press-gangs they used to have in Nelson's day. You'd be walking back from the pub a bit squiffy, you'd get a knock on the head, and you woke up to find yourself doing five years in His Majesty's Navy.' Luttrell chuckled. 'People think the world has changed, but the one lesson everyone in the military or intelligence trade learns pretty early on is that nothing really changes. They are still studying Alexander the Great's battles at Sandhurst because they are just as relevant as they have ever been. What worked for them, will work for us. And, the kind of work we do, if we sat around waiting for volunteers . . . well, you know what I mean.'
There was a feline subtlety to Luttrell's voice, Matt noticed. Nothing to suggest he was being deceitful or dishonest, but a playful, teasing quality that suggested he didn't mind stretching an idea when he needed to. From what Matt knew of his record, he'd served the intelligence services with distinction for thirty years, and he'd made his name as the Firm's senior officer in Belfast through the late eighties and early nineties. By reputation, he was a pretty straight guy, but nobody remained that straight while tiptoeing their way through the minefields of Belfast.
Luttrell leant forward, taking a sip on his mineral water. 'If you think you're being press-ganged, Mr Browning,' he said, 'I'm sorry.'
'You blocked my accounts.'
Luttrell laughed. 'Take it up with the Consumers' Association.'
'You're threatening me with murder charges.'
'You're guilty. Not that it makes any difference.' He sat back in his chair. 'Try to picture a series of rocks, all piled up on top of each other, with cement between them. A brick wall. That's what you're banging your head against.' He stood up, walking towards the window. A fierce midday sun was starting to beat down through the window. Luttrell pulled down the blind. 'Abbott wants you for this job. The Firm wants you for this job. I haven't agreed to see you to haggle. I'm not a negotiating man. I'm just here to confirm what Abbott has already told you.' He turned to face Matt directly, his eyes locking on to him. 'We're making you a fair offer. Take this job, the slate gets wiped clean. All debts are paid on both sides. You have my word on that.' He shrugged, walking back towards his desk. 'It's up to you, but if I were unlucky enough to find myself in your boots, I'd make that deal.'
'There's something I don't understand,' said Matt. 'What's the relationship with Tocah? What do they have that gets this kind of treatment?'
Luttrell smiled. 'Look up the trade statistics sometime,' he said. 'Pharmaceuticals and oil, our two biggest exports. The British economy depends on companies like these.'
The lamb dopiaza tasted good. It was just after nine, and Matt had hardly eaten all day. He shovelled the food on to his plate, mixed it up with some rice, dipped the edge of his nan bread into the sauce, and started eating.
Never try to make a decision on an empty stomach. The hunger stops you from thinking.
After the meeting with Luttrell, he'd taken the tube back to the flat he still owned near Holborn. Abbott had given him a grand in cash to cover him for day-today expenses. With his bank accounts frozen, it was impossible for him even to get fifty quid from the cashpoint, although he at least had transport – his Porsche Boxter was still safe in the underground garage.
The flat felt dingy. It had been three months since he'd last been back, and without anyone to clean it a thin layer of dust had started to spread itself across the few items of furniture. The post had piled up, but Matt didn't feel like opening any of it. What's the point? he asked himself. It will just be bills, and I don't have any money to pay them.
He checked
'My doubts?' Matt laughed. 'I don't like being bullied and threatened.'
'Nature of the work, I'm afraid,' answered Luttrell. 'It's a bit like the press-gangs they used to have in Nelson's day. You'd be walking back from the pub a bit squiffy, you'd get a knock on the head, and you woke up to find yourself doing five years in His Majesty's Navy.' Luttrell chuckled. 'People think the world has changed, but the one lesson everyone in the military or intelligence trade learns pretty early on is that nothing really changes. They are still studying Alexander the Great's battles at Sandhurst because they are just as relevant as they have ever been. What worked for them, will work for us. And, the kind of work we do, if we sat around waiting for volunteers . . . well, you know what I mean.'
There was a feline subtlety to Luttrell's voice, Matt noticed. Nothing to suggest he was being deceitful or dishonest, but a playful, teasing quality that suggested he didn't mind stretching an idea when he needed to. From what Matt knew of his record, he'd served the intelligence services with distinction for thirty years, and he'd made his name as the Firm's senior officer in Belfast through the late eighties and early nineties. By reputation, he was a pretty straight guy, but nobody remained that straight while tiptoeing their way through the minefields of Belfast.
Luttrell leant forward, taking a sip on his mineral water. 'If you think you're being press-ganged, Mr Browning,' he said, 'I'm sorry.'
'You blocked my accounts.'
Luttrell laughed. 'Take it up with the Consumers' Association.'
'You're threatening me with murder charges.'
'You're guilty. Not that it makes any difference.' He sat back in his chair. 'Try to picture a series of rocks, all piled up on top of each other, with cement between them. A brick wall. That's what you're banging your head against.' He stood up, walking towards the window. A fierce midday sun was starting to beat down through the window. Luttrell pulled down the blind. 'Abbott wants you for this job. The Firm wants you for this job. I haven't agreed to see you to haggle. I'm not a negotiating man. I'm just here to confirm what Abbott has already told you.' He turned to face Matt directly, his eyes locking on to him. 'We're making you a fair offer. Take this job, the slate gets wiped clean. All debts are paid on both sides. You have my word on that.' He shrugged, walking back towards his desk. 'It's up to you, but if I were unlucky enough to find myself in your boots, I'd make that deal.'
'There's something I don't understand,' said Matt. 'What's the relationship with Tocah? What do they have that gets this kind of treatment?'
Luttrell smiled. 'Look up the trade statistics sometime,' he said. 'Pharmaceuticals and oil, our two biggest exports. The British economy depends on companies like these.'
The lamb dopiaza tasted good. It was just after nine, and Matt had hardly eaten all day. He shovelled the food on to his plate, mixed it up with some rice, dipped the edge of his nan bread into the sauce, and started eating.
Never try to make a decision on an empty stomach. The hunger stops you from thinking.
After the meeting with Luttrell, he'd taken the tube back to the flat he still owned near Holborn. Abbott had given him a grand in cash to cover him for day-today expenses. With his bank accounts frozen, it was impossible for him even to get fifty quid from the cashpoint, although he at least had transport – his Porsche Boxter was still safe in the underground garage.
The flat felt dingy. It had been three months since he'd last been back, and without anyone to clean it a thin layer of dust had started to spread itself across the few items of furniture. The post had piled up, but Matt didn't feel like opening any of it. What's the point? he asked himself. It will just be bills, and I don't have any money to pay them.
He checked
Similar Books
