The Corporal's Wife (2013) by Gerald Seymour
Authors: Gerald Seymour
Tags: Espionage/Thriller
Ads: Link
missing, last noticed on the shoreline. The Coast Guard had been tipped off by an on-line newspaper that a body had been located in the water near to the beach. The source of the messages, and disinformation, could not be identified.
A conclusion? In Brigadier Reza Joyberi’s office it was already understood that a combination of circumstances had allowed his driver, the corporal, to disappear and that a security investigation was now to begin – almost forty-eight hours after the last sighting. Two bank employees had sworn that the courier who had brought a communication to the bank and taken from them an answer had left them on the street, and they had gone home. They could help no further.
Who was responsible? What would be the consequences? The brigadier didn’t know. His life, he realised, had turned a half-circle, from confidence to hesitation, from sureness to uncertainty.
‘At the entry to the Isfahan secure area, which is Zone 3C? What authorisation is needed, and whose signature is required? Go through the procedure, Mehrak.’
Sidney had just come into the room and heard the question. He wore sneakers and moved soundlessly; they seemed hardly to notice him. The corporal was still at the table, but Petroc Kenning circled the room slowly. Sidney had known of Mr Hector’s nephew since the kid had first been packed off to boarding-school: the old man had displayed a photo of him, framed, as captain of a junior rugby team. He thought Petroc Kenning was losing his man. Not stupid, Sidney had been there , done that , seen it .
He wouldn’t have survived in Vienna, a man whose services were in demand, unless he’d had the nose, the eye and the ear. He wouldn’t have had the contacts book that listed the industrialist – on hard times and facing a tax inquiry – who’d take anything, cash in hand, for the rental of the villa on the hill outside Spitz. PK had complimented him on finding the place. He’d answered: ‘The owner thinks it’s for a porn-movie shoot over the next couple of weeks. Just a joke, my sense of humour.’
And, just a little thing but a trademark, he and Anneliese had looked up Iranian recipes on the web, and she’d do the man proud that evening when a break was called.
He had been retired by the Service on his fifth-fifth birthday but hadn’t considered going back to London and grafting for a living there. He had all the contacts in the old espionage capital that anyone needed. He had been mentioned in despatches for fighting off an ambush in Aden, with the REME, and awarded a Military Medal: a hotel had been evacuated in Lisnaskea, Northern Ireland, a primed bomb at the reception desk, and a disabled guest had been left behind; an officer had bellowed that Sidney was not to go back inside but he’d told him to go fuck himself and had brought the guy out.
From slipping in to empty the ashtray and replace the tea glasses Sidney had learned that the Joe was wising up. He didn’t answer straight off as he had in the morning and through the early afternoon, but took his time. Tired? Sidney didn’t think so. He reckoned the Joe was back-sliding on the good stuff and needed to think about what he was saying. He himself didn’t say anything – it wasn’t his place.
‘At 3C we did not have a pass or a signature. The major who commanded the guard detachment took us through and our ID cards were given to the gate, noted, then handed back to us. I don’t know what would have happened if I had not been with the brigadier.’
‘Zach?’
‘Yes, Dad.’
His father had come onto the site as the daylight was failing, had joshed with the guys, then stood on the track Zach used for getting concrete, slopping in a wheelbarrow, into the ground floor.
‘Is it a good time?’
‘You’re the boss. Of course it’s a good time.’
‘Let’s walk a bit.’
His father seemed distracted and ill at ease.
‘Problems, Dad?’
‘Something I’d rather not be doing.’
‘Spit it
A conclusion? In Brigadier Reza Joyberi’s office it was already understood that a combination of circumstances had allowed his driver, the corporal, to disappear and that a security investigation was now to begin – almost forty-eight hours after the last sighting. Two bank employees had sworn that the courier who had brought a communication to the bank and taken from them an answer had left them on the street, and they had gone home. They could help no further.
Who was responsible? What would be the consequences? The brigadier didn’t know. His life, he realised, had turned a half-circle, from confidence to hesitation, from sureness to uncertainty.
‘At the entry to the Isfahan secure area, which is Zone 3C? What authorisation is needed, and whose signature is required? Go through the procedure, Mehrak.’
Sidney had just come into the room and heard the question. He wore sneakers and moved soundlessly; they seemed hardly to notice him. The corporal was still at the table, but Petroc Kenning circled the room slowly. Sidney had known of Mr Hector’s nephew since the kid had first been packed off to boarding-school: the old man had displayed a photo of him, framed, as captain of a junior rugby team. He thought Petroc Kenning was losing his man. Not stupid, Sidney had been there , done that , seen it .
He wouldn’t have survived in Vienna, a man whose services were in demand, unless he’d had the nose, the eye and the ear. He wouldn’t have had the contacts book that listed the industrialist – on hard times and facing a tax inquiry – who’d take anything, cash in hand, for the rental of the villa on the hill outside Spitz. PK had complimented him on finding the place. He’d answered: ‘The owner thinks it’s for a porn-movie shoot over the next couple of weeks. Just a joke, my sense of humour.’
And, just a little thing but a trademark, he and Anneliese had looked up Iranian recipes on the web, and she’d do the man proud that evening when a break was called.
He had been retired by the Service on his fifth-fifth birthday but hadn’t considered going back to London and grafting for a living there. He had all the contacts in the old espionage capital that anyone needed. He had been mentioned in despatches for fighting off an ambush in Aden, with the REME, and awarded a Military Medal: a hotel had been evacuated in Lisnaskea, Northern Ireland, a primed bomb at the reception desk, and a disabled guest had been left behind; an officer had bellowed that Sidney was not to go back inside but he’d told him to go fuck himself and had brought the guy out.
From slipping in to empty the ashtray and replace the tea glasses Sidney had learned that the Joe was wising up. He didn’t answer straight off as he had in the morning and through the early afternoon, but took his time. Tired? Sidney didn’t think so. He reckoned the Joe was back-sliding on the good stuff and needed to think about what he was saying. He himself didn’t say anything – it wasn’t his place.
‘At 3C we did not have a pass or a signature. The major who commanded the guard detachment took us through and our ID cards were given to the gate, noted, then handed back to us. I don’t know what would have happened if I had not been with the brigadier.’
‘Zach?’
‘Yes, Dad.’
His father had come onto the site as the daylight was failing, had joshed with the guys, then stood on the track Zach used for getting concrete, slopping in a wheelbarrow, into the ground floor.
‘Is it a good time?’
‘You’re the boss. Of course it’s a good time.’
‘Let’s walk a bit.’
His father seemed distracted and ill at ease.
‘Problems, Dad?’
‘Something I’d rather not be doing.’
‘Spit it
Similar Books
