When the Agency told him his next posting would be to Barcelona, Brian was all smiles. He was ecstatic. Yippee! They were finally sending him to a European city, a city with a more than decent climate and nightlife. Not that he could complain – unlike most of his colleagues, he’d only taken nine years to secure a desirable operating base. His tour of duty in far-flung, exotic spots had started to drag.

First there’d been the four years he’d languished in Singapore, dripping with sweat in the humid heat of its streets and freezing his balls off in its bars and restaurants, not to mention the dire boredom he’d endured while rubbing shoulders with cohorts of business executives, doctors bingeing at lavish congresses and swarms of students of English. As he spoke French they’d then sent him to Dakar, and after that to Marrakesh where he’d been holed up three interminable years, suffering from the stifling heat in a dingy flat where the air conditioning broke down every other week. Nonetheless, his time in Marrakesh had been a big improvement, particularly after he’d got to know Charlotte, who had a smattering of Arabic and knew the bars and dives in the city where you could drink alcohol. However, that bitch had it taped and didn’t live there the whole year; come June, when the city turned into an oven unfit for tourists, she headed back to California and said goodbye until October. Now he’d probably never see her again, not that it really bothered him. The news of his move to Barcelona had exceeded all expectations and amply compensated the need to bid a final farewell to Charlotte and their drunken nights of wild sex. Anyway, she’d made it clear from the start that she wasn’t making any commitments and he’d done the same.

When he got to Barcelona, he was surprised to discover that most people spoke in a language that vaguely reminded him of Italian. Sure, everybody spoke Spanish as well, and most people were considerate and addressed him in that language when they detected his foreign accent, but a few insisted on using that other language he didn’t understand and scolded him for not learning it. After making the effort to learn Spanish at the Cervantes Institute in Marrakesh, Brian had neither the time nor the inclination to start studying Catalan. Even so, within a few months he’d started to grasp enough of the local lingo not to have to ask them to repeat everything in Spanish, and in fact everyone spoke English in the circles in which he moved: he didn’t need either Spanish or Catalan.

With its streets teeming with tourists, its beaches and endless bars, Barcelona was a different world, where he felt at home; and that was odd, because he hailed from Philadelphia. Obviously he was forced to pull his finger out in Barcelona: unlike Singapore, Dakar or Marrakesh, the city was a hive of activity, and his boss wasn’t happy with second-hand information. In that sense, it was very different from his other postings, where secret agents knew each other and had everything well under control. Barcelona saw a constant turnover of personnel and it was difficult to tell the people you could trust from those who would try to get one past you at the first opportunity. Not that he was complaining. For the first time ever, life was beginning to look like what he’d imagined when, at the age of twenty-eight and armed with a degree in sociology, he’d decided to catch a flight to Langley and knock on the Agency’s door. He’d finally made it to Europe, every secret agent’s dream destination. All he needed now was the Aston Martin and a white tuxedo.

John’s phone call both surprised and delighted Brian. He had no idea John was in Barcelona. When John said he’d come on routine business and suggested going for a beer or two – meaning a night on the tiles – Brian said yes straight away. John had offered to drive by and pick him up, and he’d readily agreed. He arrived punctually, and Brian reflected how highly unusual that was for him. He said he was dying of thirst, and Brian, though famed for his meanness, could be hospitable when he wanted and offered him a beer. He was in the kitchen opening the fridge and touching the bottles to find an ice-cold one when he heard John say, “I’m sorry, lad. Nothing personal.”

Before he could turn round, he knew what was coming, not that he had a clue as to why. What the fuck had he done wrong? It would be futile to try to reason with John: orders are orders and John was a true professional.

“Did they tell you why?” he asked.

“You know they never do. It’s easier this way. I’m very sorry.”

The first shot hit its target between his eyes. The others to his chest were simply to finish the job off properly: it wouldn’t have been the first time someone had survived a shot to the head and lived like a vegetable for the rest of their days. That had never been the case with John’s assignments, but he would have regretted fouling up with his mate Brian. They may not have been the closest of friends, but they’d enjoyed their moments in Singapore.

What a pity, thought John as he left the flat, Brian couldn’t show him Barcelona now and he’d have to put himself into the hands of city cab drivers if he wanted a drink and a quick romp between the sheets before heading off to the airport.