Firewall by Andy McNab Page B

meeting, an interview without coffee, otherwise the Asian guy would have asked me if I took milk or cream before I'd gone in.
    I hadn't seen Lynn since the debrief after Washington in '98. Like his furniture, he hadn't changed. Nor had his clothes: the same mustard-colored corduroy trousers, sports jacket with well worn leather elbows, and flannel shirt. With his shiny dome still facing me, I could see that he hadn't lost any more hair, which I was sure Mrs. Lynn was very happy about. He really didn't have the ears to be a complete baldilocks.
    He finished writing and put aside what I could now see was a typed page of legal paper that looked as if a teacher had marked it. Looking up with a half-amused smile at my outfit, he brought his hands together, thumbs touching as he rested them on top of the desk. Since Washington, he'd treated me as if he was a bank manager and I was asking for a bigger overdraft, trying hard to be nice, but at the same time looking down on me with disdain. That, I didn't mind, as long as he didn't expect me to look up to him with reverence.
    "Wot can I do fer yer, Nick?" He was ribbing my accent, but in a sarcastic, not jovial way. He really didn't like me. My Washington fuckup had put the seal on that.
    I bit my lip. I had to be nice to him. He was the ticket to the money Kelly needed, and even though I had the sinking feeling that my be-nice routine wasn't going to work, I had to give it my best shot.
    "I really would like to know if I am ever going to get PC," I said.
    He settled back into his leather swivel chair and produced the other half of his smile. "You know, you are very lucky still to be at liberty, Nick. You already have a lot to be thankful for, and do bear in mind, your freedom is still not guaranteed."
    He was right, of course. I owed the Firm for the fact that I wasn't in some U.S. state penitentiary with a cellmate called Big Bubba who wanted to be my special friend. Even if it was more to do with saving themselves even more embarrassment than protecting me.
    "I do understand that, and I'm really grateful for all that you've done for me, Mr. Lynn. But I really need to know."
    Leaning forward, he studied the expression on my face. It must have been the "Mr. Lynn" bit that made him suspicious. He could smell my desperation.
    "After your total lack of judgment, do you really think you'd ever be considered for permanent cadre?" His face flushed. He was angry.
    "Think yourself lucky you're still on a retainer. Do you really think that you would be considered for work after you" his right index finger started to endorse the facts as he poked it at me, his voice getting louder "one, disobey my direct order to kill that damned woman; two, actually believe her preposterous story and assist her assassination attempt in the White House. God, man, your judgment was no better than a love struck schoolboy's. Do you really think a woman like that would be interested in you?" He couldn't contain himself. It was as if I'd touched a raw nerve. "And to cap it all, you used a member of the American Secret Service to get you in there… who then gets shot! Do you realize the havoc you've caused, not only in the U.S. but here?
    Careers have been ruined because of you. The answer is no. Not now, not ever."
    Then I realized. This wasn't just about me, and it wasn't early retirement at the end of his tour next year to spend more time with his mushrooms; he had been canned. He'd been running the Ks at the time of the Sarah debacle, and someone had had to pay. People like Lynn could be replaced; people like me were more difficult to blow out, if only for financial reasons. The government had invested several million in my training as a Special Air Service soldier. They wanted to get their money's worth out of me. It must have killed him to know that I was the one who'd fucked up, but he was the one to carry the blame probably as part of the deal to appease the Americans. He sat back into his chair, realizing he