the woman. “The kid’s missing and that’s that. It’s not our complication.”
“We won’t allow it to become one,” said Monsford, decisive at last. “We don’t tell Smith or Ambersom. Tell Jacobson to take any cable traffic referring to it off the general file.”
“There’s no cable traffic about Radtsic—or Muffin or Natalia’s inclusion in his extraction—on the general file,” scored Straughan, pleased at the small victory. “You ordered it a dedicated, Eyes Only file restricted to us three, remember? I haven’t even told Jacobson why we’re maintaining surveillance on Natalia Fedova.”
“Of course I remember what I ordered,” snapped Monsford, testily. “And don’t wait another three days before briefing me on anything relevant to what we’re doing.”
“I’ll instruct the cipher room and the duty officer to alert me at once, irrespective of time: you’ll know within minutes of my knowing,” assured Straughan, fantasizing himself interrupting Monsford in the final seconds of his nightly pony ride with Rebecca.
“That fucking man is insufferable!” declared the woman, minutes after Straughan left, knowing that was what Monsford wanted her to say.
“His card’s marked: he’s just too stupid to suspect he’s going to fall upon what Shelley called the thorns of life,” said Monsford, furious at the lack of respect from both Straughan and the woman.
She smiled, despite the implication that she’d overstepped the familiarity, gesturing toward the window and the sluggishly meandering Thames. “Another transfer across the river?”
“Maybe.” Monsford smiled back, emptily. He feared that Straughan had a meticulously kept graveyard map of where far too many skeletons—literally and figuratively—were buried for any serious move against the man.
* * *
Aubrey Smith had never intended he and his deputy would be the first at the hunting lodge, but neither to be in the psychologically disadvantaged position of having to apologize for their lateness caused by a road-closing accident on their way. Having to do so relegated them to the secondary role in which Smith had hoped to place the MI6 duo, the initial setback furthered, despite briefing her in advance, by Jane Ambersom’s below-zero frigidity at Rebecca Street’s inclusion in the top executive group. The debacle was very intentionally exacerbated by the warmness of Rebecca’s near-suffocating response to their apologies, assuring them the two-hour postponement had not been at all inconvenient (“the duck confit at lunch was wonderful and the 1962 burgundy exceptional”) and the tour of the lodge magnificent, prompting Gerald—pointedly not Director Monsford—and her to wish they had such safe houses at their disposal.
“But these are particularly unusual circumstances, aren’t they?” Rebecca concluded. For once the Chanel business suit was severely practical, although the inherent sexual frisson still sharply contrasted with its absence from the trouser-suited Jane.
“Have you spoken with Charlie?” Smith hurried on, anxious to get beyond the late-arrival discomfort.
“You’re in charge…” Monsford continued to patronize. He gestured toward a small conference table, with a five-chair setting replacing the earlier tribunal formality. “We’ve waited for your seating arrangements.”
Without replying, Smith put Jane beside him, nodding to the others to choose their places.
“What about Charlie Muffin?” asked the MI6 deputy.
“Not until we’ve talked things through,” refused Smith, recovering slightly. “I want us to be absolutely clear about what we’re going to do and how we’re going to do it, without the slightest possibility of misunderstandings.”
“It’s surely all remarkably simple,” Monsford bustled in, impatient to assume the other Director’s authority. “We’ve got the photographs my people took of Natalia and Sasha. We can put prints into genuine British
“We won’t allow it to become one,” said Monsford, decisive at last. “We don’t tell Smith or Ambersom. Tell Jacobson to take any cable traffic referring to it off the general file.”
“There’s no cable traffic about Radtsic—or Muffin or Natalia’s inclusion in his extraction—on the general file,” scored Straughan, pleased at the small victory. “You ordered it a dedicated, Eyes Only file restricted to us three, remember? I haven’t even told Jacobson why we’re maintaining surveillance on Natalia Fedova.”
“Of course I remember what I ordered,” snapped Monsford, testily. “And don’t wait another three days before briefing me on anything relevant to what we’re doing.”
“I’ll instruct the cipher room and the duty officer to alert me at once, irrespective of time: you’ll know within minutes of my knowing,” assured Straughan, fantasizing himself interrupting Monsford in the final seconds of his nightly pony ride with Rebecca.
“That fucking man is insufferable!” declared the woman, minutes after Straughan left, knowing that was what Monsford wanted her to say.
“His card’s marked: he’s just too stupid to suspect he’s going to fall upon what Shelley called the thorns of life,” said Monsford, furious at the lack of respect from both Straughan and the woman.
She smiled, despite the implication that she’d overstepped the familiarity, gesturing toward the window and the sluggishly meandering Thames. “Another transfer across the river?”
“Maybe.” Monsford smiled back, emptily. He feared that Straughan had a meticulously kept graveyard map of where far too many skeletons—literally and figuratively—were buried for any serious move against the man.
* * *
Aubrey Smith had never intended he and his deputy would be the first at the hunting lodge, but neither to be in the psychologically disadvantaged position of having to apologize for their lateness caused by a road-closing accident on their way. Having to do so relegated them to the secondary role in which Smith had hoped to place the MI6 duo, the initial setback furthered, despite briefing her in advance, by Jane Ambersom’s below-zero frigidity at Rebecca Street’s inclusion in the top executive group. The debacle was very intentionally exacerbated by the warmness of Rebecca’s near-suffocating response to their apologies, assuring them the two-hour postponement had not been at all inconvenient (“the duck confit at lunch was wonderful and the 1962 burgundy exceptional”) and the tour of the lodge magnificent, prompting Gerald—pointedly not Director Monsford—and her to wish they had such safe houses at their disposal.
“But these are particularly unusual circumstances, aren’t they?” Rebecca concluded. For once the Chanel business suit was severely practical, although the inherent sexual frisson still sharply contrasted with its absence from the trouser-suited Jane.
“Have you spoken with Charlie?” Smith hurried on, anxious to get beyond the late-arrival discomfort.
“You’re in charge…” Monsford continued to patronize. He gestured toward a small conference table, with a five-chair setting replacing the earlier tribunal formality. “We’ve waited for your seating arrangements.”
Without replying, Smith put Jane beside him, nodding to the others to choose their places.
“What about Charlie Muffin?” asked the MI6 deputy.
“Not until we’ve talked things through,” refused Smith, recovering slightly. “I want us to be absolutely clear about what we’re going to do and how we’re going to do it, without the slightest possibility of misunderstandings.”
“It’s surely all remarkably simple,” Monsford bustled in, impatient to assume the other Director’s authority. “We’ve got the photographs my people took of Natalia and Sasha. We can put prints into genuine British
Similar Books
