park, pulling her coat tight against the pounding rain. She reached the hotel with her head and upper body soaked, rain oozing coldly down her collar. Jesus, she thought, and all those bloody disabled spaces standing empty.
It was Liam she was thinking of really, of course. Liam who would be perfectly entitled to park in those spaces. Liam and his condition, and the unknown, unknowable prognosis. She had a superstitious half-belief, barely acknowledged even to herself, that if she didnât tempt fate, everything might be all right. Whatever all right might turn out to mean.
She stood in the reception, dripping rainwater gently on to the thick pile carpet. It was the usual sort of place; an anonymous, soulless business hotel, suitably mid range, conveniently positioned minutes from the M60. There were a dozen or more such venues, scattered around the city centre and the suburbs, catering to sales executives, visiting middle managers, off-site business meetings. Comfortable enough, with all the right facilities, but nothing too flash. They rotated the meetings around the various hotels, trying to ensure that they didnât become too familiar to the reception staff. It wasnât difficult. Most were transient youngsters, generally from Eastern Europe, here to make a few bucks before moving on or returning home. If she came back to the same venue six months later, the faces would all have changed. No one would remember who she was, or why sheâd been there before.
âMs Donovan,â she said to the bored-looking receptionist. âSmall meeting room.â She gave the company name. The receptionist smiled momentarily in a manner that suggested that she had, at least, received some instruction in how to greet customers, and began to thumb listlessly through a card index. Finally, as if in testament to her own considerable efforts, she triumphantly held up Marieâs reservation. âMeeting room for three,â she confirmed. âCoffee at nine thirty and eleven. No lunch.â Her tone on the last words suggested disapproval of Marieâs parsimony.
She collected the card key and made her way to the first floor. A small meeting room in this kind of place meant, in effect, a semi-converted bedroom â a fold-up bed disguised as a wardrobe, an imported table and office chairs. Coffee with a plateful of overpriced biscuits. Branded writing pads and pens. A bottle of water refilled from the tap.
She walked to the window. A view of the rear car park, a retail park, a cluster of trees half-concealing the M60 busy with the morning traffic. Anytown, UK.
As far as Joe and Darren were concerned, she was out seeing a client. Sheâd cultivated a routine of visiting the major clients at their offices. It was good business â they appreciated the personal touch. And it gave her the freedom she needed to pursue this double life.
She supposed she was being accorded some kind of privilege here. Normal practice was that she maintained contact only with Salter. Salter was her liaison officer. Her buddy or minder, as he would say. They had a regular schedule of meetings, once a month in venues like this â to touch base, share inform ation, chew the fat, make sure she wasnât losing her marbles.
Salter was her sole conduit back to the Agency. When operations were compromised, it wasnât usually because of smart counter-intelligence. It was generally because someone had screwed up or, even more likely, had been accidentally exposed â recognized as a face from way back, spotted somewhere they shouldnât be. Sheâd already had the experience herself, eyeballed by the sister of some small-time villain sheâd put away years ago. Sheâd seen the woman staring at her, trying to work out if it really was Marie, gearing herself up for an altercation. Marie had passed swiftly on, eyes fixed on some window display, disappearing into the crowd before the woman could collar her.
So
It was Liam she was thinking of really, of course. Liam who would be perfectly entitled to park in those spaces. Liam and his condition, and the unknown, unknowable prognosis. She had a superstitious half-belief, barely acknowledged even to herself, that if she didnât tempt fate, everything might be all right. Whatever all right might turn out to mean.
She stood in the reception, dripping rainwater gently on to the thick pile carpet. It was the usual sort of place; an anonymous, soulless business hotel, suitably mid range, conveniently positioned minutes from the M60. There were a dozen or more such venues, scattered around the city centre and the suburbs, catering to sales executives, visiting middle managers, off-site business meetings. Comfortable enough, with all the right facilities, but nothing too flash. They rotated the meetings around the various hotels, trying to ensure that they didnât become too familiar to the reception staff. It wasnât difficult. Most were transient youngsters, generally from Eastern Europe, here to make a few bucks before moving on or returning home. If she came back to the same venue six months later, the faces would all have changed. No one would remember who she was, or why sheâd been there before.
âMs Donovan,â she said to the bored-looking receptionist. âSmall meeting room.â She gave the company name. The receptionist smiled momentarily in a manner that suggested that she had, at least, received some instruction in how to greet customers, and began to thumb listlessly through a card index. Finally, as if in testament to her own considerable efforts, she triumphantly held up Marieâs reservation. âMeeting room for three,â she confirmed. âCoffee at nine thirty and eleven. No lunch.â Her tone on the last words suggested disapproval of Marieâs parsimony.
She collected the card key and made her way to the first floor. A small meeting room in this kind of place meant, in effect, a semi-converted bedroom â a fold-up bed disguised as a wardrobe, an imported table and office chairs. Coffee with a plateful of overpriced biscuits. Branded writing pads and pens. A bottle of water refilled from the tap.
She walked to the window. A view of the rear car park, a retail park, a cluster of trees half-concealing the M60 busy with the morning traffic. Anytown, UK.
As far as Joe and Darren were concerned, she was out seeing a client. Sheâd cultivated a routine of visiting the major clients at their offices. It was good business â they appreciated the personal touch. And it gave her the freedom she needed to pursue this double life.
She supposed she was being accorded some kind of privilege here. Normal practice was that she maintained contact only with Salter. Salter was her liaison officer. Her buddy or minder, as he would say. They had a regular schedule of meetings, once a month in venues like this â to touch base, share inform ation, chew the fat, make sure she wasnât losing her marbles.
Salter was her sole conduit back to the Agency. When operations were compromised, it wasnât usually because of smart counter-intelligence. It was generally because someone had screwed up or, even more likely, had been accidentally exposed â recognized as a face from way back, spotted somewhere they shouldnât be. Sheâd already had the experience herself, eyeballed by the sister of some small-time villain sheâd put away years ago. Sheâd seen the woman staring at her, trying to work out if it really was Marie, gearing herself up for an altercation. Marie had passed swiftly on, eyes fixed on some window display, disappearing into the crowd before the woman could collar her.
So
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