The Outsiders by Gerald Seymour Page A

given his life to save hers.
    She rang Xavier, who now did liaison between Thames House and the Metropolitan Police; he was also a link to the Anti-terrorist Command. He was a thorough and exact investigator but had let it be known that the winding up and dispersal of the talent had been a crime. He sent flowers to his former Boss each year on her birthday.
    They were the key building bricks. She might need others later, but it was a start. She reckoned she had already breathed new life into her Graveyard Team. What pleased her most was that Dottie, Kenny and Xavier had let her know they would be walking out of the door of whatever office they now occupied and demanding reassignment. Winnie Monks reflected that it was many months since she had last preached her creed: that the threat to her country of international terrorism was minimal compared to the dangers posed by organised crime. The first might splash blood and summon the headlines of outrage, but the other moved in darkness, evil and secrecy, contaminating all who came within its reach. She’d said it often enough. Terrorism scratched spectacular but superficial wounds; organised crime caused terminal and irreversible sickness. It was ever harder to find disciples.
    She thought of where Caro Watson was. And of how much lay on the girl’s spare shoulders. Already parts of the operation had slipped from her grip – always had and always would. She sat at her desk, the phone beside her, and waited.
     
    The muscle flying with Caro Watson had identified themselves as Barry and David, which might have been their correct names and might have been badges of convenience. David was beside her, fidgeting and nervy; he gave the impression of a man who felt undressed because he wasn’t carrying a 9mm Browning in his belt. Barry had been twice round the block, first left to right, then right to left. He’d done the usual crap in the greengrocery and the hardware store, looking and not buying. She would have expected the pair to identify a watcher. Their expertise was to find the trap, if one had been laid, or the meet-point compromised, and evaluate it.
    She was late going to him.
    It was a tactic. They taught on the training seminars that an agent should understand that meetings were at the convenience of the officer, and that officers did not come running. Officers were never grateful to agents.
    He seemed fragile, sitting in the window of the café-bar. A TV was playing behind him, and games machines, and most of the tables near to the counter were taken. A wide-hipped woman moved around them with plates of food and refilled glasses. The photographs from Baku were a good enough likeness for her to recognise him and have no doubt. He had no weight to him, no strength, and gazed into the window. She thought she had allowed him to stew long enough. David said they were clear. If he had enough time to kick his heels, he’d be glad of the officer’s arrival. That was what the instructors said. He would spill more readily what he had to give.
    She stared from a doorway at the sparse little sod in his second-day T-shirt with stubble on his cheeks, and said, ‘About time to get the show on the road.’
    The head was in her mind, the bruises, contusions and wounds, as she had looked down at the figure on the trolley and put a name to it. Not many days went by when she did not see the face that had belonged to Damian Fenby.
    She stepped out of the shadow.
    A car slowed as she crossed the street and a cyclist swerved. The boy was looking at his watch.
    She pushed open the door, felt the warmth and heard the music from the TV programme. She must dominate, and it must be on her terms.
    She went from the door to the table. She sensed that all eyes were on her back. She smelt cigarette smoke, beer and strong coffee, and seemed to taste the sweat of the place. She saw the scrapes on his arm – they’d said in the signal from Baku that he had superficial injuries. One leg was stuck out