The Farriers was buzzing, the after work commuter crowd twisting each other’s arms to have one more for the road. Nobody needed much persuading. Aston pushed between two stockbrokers – the bright red braces and loud ties were a dead giveaway – and waved a tenner to catch the barmaid’s eye. She was a pretty little thing in her early twenties, wearing a black thong that peeked out from the top of her hipster jeans, and a Little Miss Mischief T-shirt that stuck to her body like a second skin. She finished dealing with a businessman who had the shiny skin of one facelift too many, and an indecent amount of gold dripping from his hands and wrists. Aston waved frantically and she made her way over.
‘What can I get you?’ The accent was East European. Hungarian or Slovakian. Another ‘language’ student over here looking for her golden ticket. Aston didn’t blame her. The collapse of the Soviet Union had created a clusterfuck that would take decades to sort out … if it ever got sorted out. He ordered two JDs and coke and squeezed out from the bar.
Two neatly dressed middle-aged women at a table near one of the windows were finishing their drinks. Aston sidled up, ready to pounce. Their clothes were designer, and it wouldn’t have surprised him if each outfit was worth more than his entire wardrobe. Laura had tried to educate him on the difference between Prada and Gucci, but he didn’t get it (and had no particular desire to, either; you’d have to be out of your mind to spend a couple of grand on a dress just because it had a fancy name on the label). Still, these two obviously knew the difference. The women placed their wine glasses back on the table, stuffed their Marlboro Lights into tiny handbags that were no doubt worth their weight in platinum. As soon as they got up Aston was in there, just ahead of the stockbrokers. He raised his glass, flashed them a better-luck-next-time smile. The stockbrokers shrugged and went off to lean against the jukebox.
His mobile vibrated. Two sharp buzzes. Probably George replying to his whr th fck RU? text. He pulled it out, flipped it open:
soz hon gotta wrk L8:(
CU in abt an hr
lol george xx
No surprises there; they were both working stupid hours at the moment. It had been touch and go whether he’d get away, but Mac had left early tonight and he’d made the most of the opportunity. Aston settled into his chair and took a long pull on his drink. He could think of worse places to waste an hour. The Farriers was just off Soho, one of their favourite haunts. There was something elegantly shabby about the place. Wonky floors and squiffy right angles; the worn wood surfaces preserved with a couple of centuries’ worth of beer, tobacco and dirt that mingled into an aroma that was warm and comforting. George had once described The Farriers as ‘well matured’, and Aston thought that pretty much covered it.
Thursday night was their night, a tradition dating back to their training days. A couple of drinks followed by a curry, then a few more drinks to wash the curry down. During the IONEC they’d always gone for the diviest bars they could find, the divier the better. The first prize had gone to a nightclub called Bubbles. Even by Portsmouth’s standards Bubbles was in a league of its own. The carpets were so sticky it was like wading through treacle, the clientele ninety-nine percent male … all Navy. No mistaking what profession the three women at the bar belonged to. They’d had to step over the bodies in the stairwell and dodge between the ambulances and police cars to escape.
Alcohol was indeed the oil that kept MI6’s wheels running smoothly. If you wanted to find out what was really going on at Vauxhall Cross then the best place to head was the in-house bar. Another plus was that, unlike civilian boozers, the opening hours were somewhat more flexible. They’d been sent to The Fort to learn about spycraft, but boozing was an important part of the curriculum, too. Funnily enough, this was the subject the training officers seemed most keen to teach. Aston and George had passed this part of the course without trying.
Aston drained his drink and picked up George’s. He raised the glass in a toast to absent friends, took a sip. Waste not, want not …
‘Mind if I sit here?’
Aston looked up with the intention of politely telling whoever it was to piss off, and almost choked on his drink.
The man smiling down at him was in his early fifties and had the immaculate grooming of a politician: the Savile Row bespoke suit, Italian leather shoes, manicured nails. His hair was dyed black, the smile filled with perfect white teeth. He was average height, average weight, and the clever grey eyes didn’t miss a thing. Legend had it that Grant Kinclave lived in a gilded cage on the top floor of MI6’s HQ, a penthouse suite with sweeping views of the Thames. His private bathroom had gold fittings, marble floors, and a throne fit for a king. Every day he bathed in champagne and was scrubbed down by a dozen virgins. Or something along those lines.
‘Be my guest,’ Aston managed to say. He indicated the empty seat opposite, his heart frozen in freefall.
Kinclave sat down, slid a beer mat closer, made sure the writing was the right way round, that the edge of the mat was parallel with the edge of the table, then placed his G&T slap bang in the centre. Satisfied everything was just so, he turned his attention to Aston, studying him with those clever grey eyes.
‘So, Paul, how are things going?’
‘Can’t complain,’ Aston replied non-committally. Here they were, two old friends meeting up for a drink at the end of another long day. Nothing unusual about that … except one of them was MI6’s Chief, one of the most powerful men in the country, someone who was accountable to no one, not even God. There had been moves in the Nineties to change this. The Cold War was over and this was a new era, which meant a new way of doing business. It was a nice line to feed to the media, but the truth of the matter was that MI6’s doors were closed as tightly as ever. Aside from a few token nods towards accountability, gestures that were light on substance, it was business as usual.
Aston had only seen The Chief up this close once before. During orientation on his first day, the door of the conference room had swung open and a man strode in, moving as though he was the centre of the universe. Aston had shared a look with George: it was obvious she didn’t have a clue who this was, either. However, from the grand entrance, and the way the two training officers jumped to attention, it was apparent he was someone important. Unsure what to do next, the six trainees had followed suit, rising uncertainly, bewildered expressions passing between them. The man smiled thinly and indicated they should sit. When everyone had settled, Kinclave introduced himself and welcomed them to MI6. He spoke for the next ten minutes in the stirring tones of a Baptist preacher, stressing time and again how important the work they did here was, how secrecy was paramount. While he spoke his eyes moved constantly, scanning the room, scanning faces. More than once, Kinclave’s gaze settled on Aston, and it was an effort not to look away. Afterwards The Chief went around the table shaking hands and wishing the candidates well. Aston wasn’t sure – and he’d replayed the scene in his mind a thousand times since – but Kinclave seemed to take more interest in him than the others. Holding his hand longer, picking him apart with those eyes. Maybe it had been the same for everyone. After all, it was one of those life moments where every single detail, no matter how trivial, takes on extra significance.
Pokerfaced, Aston sipped his drink and said nothing, curiosity eating away at him. Now he’d got over his initial shock, he wanted to know what was going on. Your drinking partner suddenly has to work late and the head of MI6 happens to wander in, plonks himself down at your table and wants to chat about the weather. The whole thing smacked of a set-up. Aston took another sip, eyes surreptitiously wandering around the pub. No way would Kinclave be on his own. And he wasn’t. Aston counted three of them. The man by the door wearing a long leather Matrix coat was a definite; too conspicuous, wanting to be seen. He had the air of someone who knew how to take care of himself. Probably carrying. The man was trying to look bored but he kept glancing over at Kinclave, like Daddy Bear protecting its cub. The other two shadows were at the table near one of the windows. They’d been there when he arrived. From their body language, the uncomfortable way they touched hands, he’d assumed they were having an affair, out in public and worried about