1
Marriott Hotel, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. 1920 hours.
The shadow wore a suit, and the suit had a name.
‘Leo Land,’ the shadow said in an accent so posh it deserved a night at the opera. ‘And you must be Joe Gardner. Don’t forget my name, there’s a good chap. I might be the last friend you ever have.’
Gardner squinted, shaken that the guy in the all-white linen suit knew his name. Land offered his hand. He looked younger than his accent. Land was classical posh: blond hair pushed back in a wave, right-angled jaw. He had a way about him, as if he owned the world and everyone in it, and his face stared out at Gardner from a thousand colonial photos.
Land helped Gardner to his feet and evidently caught a whiff of eau de sewer.
‘I’ve told you my name,’ he said. ‘But perhaps you can guess my paymasters.’
‘Foreign Office?’
‘Not quite,’ Land replied, shaking his head.
‘You’re definitely government.’
‘Secret Intelligence Service. MI6 to the layman. Counter-Proliferation Section… Good God, that smell
is
rather strong.’
‘Took the scenic route.’
‘Well, it’s been quite a day for you, hasn’t it? Walk with me.’
‘Buy a fucking dog.’
Land’s face tightened. ‘You’re in hot water, Mr Gardner, and I’m the only person who can help you. So why don’t you park that great big chip of yours by the door and come with me.’ He smiled at Gardner. ‘I hear the promenade’s very pleasant at dusk.’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘Of course,’ Land said. But Gardner knew that if he blanked Land now, they’d find another way of cornering him. That was the Firm’s style. Pretend to give you a choice, when you didn’t really have any fucking choice at all.
They strolled up to the promenade. Wave patterns were carved into the black-and-white limestone. A dozen girls breezed past, scent of factor fifty and sex in their wake. Lamps lit up the Atlantic Ocean like a floodlit football pitch.
‘Do you believe in second chances, Mr Gardner?’
‘I believe in first chances. After that, it’s in the lap of the gods.’
‘Interesting… Personally, I think we all deserve a second bite at the cherry. But I’m getting ahead of myself.’
Land plucked a cigarette from a pack of red Pall Malls. Gardner clocked the Cartier watch on his wrist. The Firm must’ve given their boys a pay rise, he thought.
‘Your little adventure in the favela is all over the news. Twenty-six killed, a further forty wounded. Bloodiest day in recent history, they’re saying. No thanks to you.’
‘In my defence, the other guys started it.’
‘We need to talk in private,’ Land said. He sucked greedily on his tab and the fumes wafted across Gardner’s face.
‘I’d love to, mate, but I got a plane to catch.’
Gardner paced away from the promenade.
‘I’m afraid you won’t get very far,’ Land called after him. ‘Dead men aren’t usually allowed on planes.’
Gardner froze. His eyes rested on the bustling pavement in front of him. Cars drew tracer rounds in the gloom. People went about their evenings, giggling and holding hands while he reeked of seawater and shit, and an MI6 agent played mind games.
‘You’ll be curious to know,’ Land went on, ‘that one of the bodies BOPE recovered from Barbosa matches the photo on your passport. According to the paperwork, his name is Joe Gardner. In fact a surgeon is operating on the body even as we speak. He’s attaching a prosthetic hand to the corpse, identical to the one you have.’
Land crushed the Pall Mall stub under his suede Oxford.
‘You’re officially dead.’
Gardner flipped like a burger. Felt a rush of steam in his veins. Suddenly he was in Land’s face, so close he could taste the nicotine on his skin. Land tilted his head back.
‘If you weren’t in the Firm,’ Gardner said, ‘I wouldn’t be the only dead guy on this promenade.’
‘I’m staying at the Marriott. Come and have a drink and we’ll talk
Marriott Hotel, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. 1920 hours.
The shadow wore a suit, and the suit had a name.
‘Leo Land,’ the shadow said in an accent so posh it deserved a night at the opera. ‘And you must be Joe Gardner. Don’t forget my name, there’s a good chap. I might be the last friend you ever have.’
Gardner squinted, shaken that the guy in the all-white linen suit knew his name. Land offered his hand. He looked younger than his accent. Land was classical posh: blond hair pushed back in a wave, right-angled jaw. He had a way about him, as if he owned the world and everyone in it, and his face stared out at Gardner from a thousand colonial photos.
Land helped Gardner to his feet and evidently caught a whiff of eau de sewer.
‘I’ve told you my name,’ he said. ‘But perhaps you can guess my paymasters.’
‘Foreign Office?’
‘Not quite,’ Land replied, shaking his head.
‘You’re definitely government.’
‘Secret Intelligence Service. MI6 to the layman. Counter-Proliferation Section… Good God, that smell
is
rather strong.’
‘Took the scenic route.’
‘Well, it’s been quite a day for you, hasn’t it? Walk with me.’
‘Buy a fucking dog.’
Land’s face tightened. ‘You’re in hot water, Mr Gardner, and I’m the only person who can help you. So why don’t you park that great big chip of yours by the door and come with me.’ He smiled at Gardner. ‘I hear the promenade’s very pleasant at dusk.’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘Of course,’ Land said. But Gardner knew that if he blanked Land now, they’d find another way of cornering him. That was the Firm’s style. Pretend to give you a choice, when you didn’t really have any fucking choice at all.
They strolled up to the promenade. Wave patterns were carved into the black-and-white limestone. A dozen girls breezed past, scent of factor fifty and sex in their wake. Lamps lit up the Atlantic Ocean like a floodlit football pitch.
‘Do you believe in second chances, Mr Gardner?’
‘I believe in first chances. After that, it’s in the lap of the gods.’
‘Interesting… Personally, I think we all deserve a second bite at the cherry. But I’m getting ahead of myself.’
Land plucked a cigarette from a pack of red Pall Malls. Gardner clocked the Cartier watch on his wrist. The Firm must’ve given their boys a pay rise, he thought.
‘Your little adventure in the favela is all over the news. Twenty-six killed, a further forty wounded. Bloodiest day in recent history, they’re saying. No thanks to you.’
‘In my defence, the other guys started it.’
‘We need to talk in private,’ Land said. He sucked greedily on his tab and the fumes wafted across Gardner’s face.
‘I’d love to, mate, but I got a plane to catch.’
Gardner paced away from the promenade.
‘I’m afraid you won’t get very far,’ Land called after him. ‘Dead men aren’t usually allowed on planes.’
Gardner froze. His eyes rested on the bustling pavement in front of him. Cars drew tracer rounds in the gloom. People went about their evenings, giggling and holding hands while he reeked of seawater and shit, and an MI6 agent played mind games.
‘You’ll be curious to know,’ Land went on, ‘that one of the bodies BOPE recovered from Barbosa matches the photo on your passport. According to the paperwork, his name is Joe Gardner. In fact a surgeon is operating on the body even as we speak. He’s attaching a prosthetic hand to the corpse, identical to the one you have.’
Land crushed the Pall Mall stub under his suede Oxford.
‘You’re officially dead.’
Gardner flipped like a burger. Felt a rush of steam in his veins. Suddenly he was in Land’s face, so close he could taste the nicotine on his skin. Land tilted his head back.
‘If you weren’t in the Firm,’ Gardner said, ‘I wouldn’t be the only dead guy on this promenade.’
‘I’m staying at the Marriott. Come and have a drink and we’ll talk
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