It was an unprepossessing kind of place – just a small room with a little kitchen and a lavatory on the first floor above a minimarket in the old city. But it was safe. The minimarket was owned and run by the father of a longstanding and trusted CIA contact who lived in Virginia. Access to the upstairs was through the shop and under the watchful eye of its owner.
Miles and Bruno Mackay sat on a scruffy sofa gloomily contemplating a bottle of scotch and three glasses lined up on a low table in front of them. They’d read the instructions that had come in from Bokus earlier in the day.
‘God knows how they expect us to get the story out of him when we’ve got nothing to offer in return,’ Miles had said angrily.
‘I know. I sometimes wonder if our lords and masters have forgotten what it’s like at the sharp end, dealing with real people. String him along, they say, cheerfully, till he’s told you all he knows, then we’ll think about whether it’s good enough and if not we’ll throw him back to whoever’s hunting him.’
They’d made their plan: who was to start the conversation, who was to say what and when, and now they sat in silence waiting for the concealed buzzer that would indicate that their visitor was in the shop. Silence; just the sound of shopping going on downstairs and the ring of the till as purchases were made.
Time passed. Miles looked at his watch for the third time. The Yemeni was now half an hour late. They both knew not to expect punctuality in this part of the world, but how long should they wait?
‘I’m having a drink,’ said Bruno suddenly. He unscrewed the cap on the whisky bottle and poured out two generous slugs, slopping in some water from a jug.
Miles was brooding over the fact that Marilyn had sent him an email, asking if he would be her guest at a small chamber concert hosted by the Ambassador’s wife that evening. Though he wasn’t especially interested in classical music, he was still interested in Marilyn, but he’d had to decline the invitation because of this meeting. Not being able to tell her the truth about his evening plans, he’d had to give her a vague excuse, and from her reaction he’d sensed that that had been his last chance. If Baakrime wasn’t going to turn up it would be all the more galling.
‘He’s not coming,’ said Bruno, another half-hour and another drink later. ‘Let’s pack up and go and get some dinner.’
‘OK but we’d better let London know first.’
‘Yes. Liz Carlyle is going to be pretty fed up that we haven’t got any information about these British jihadis.’
Miles slept badly, dreaming of a sailing expedition from his childhood when they had run aground off Nantucket. In real life no one had been hurt; in his dream, inexplicably someone had drowned, lost in the shoals after the boat overturned in the incoming tide. He woke in a sweat at three in the morning, then turned on the BBC World Service, which eventually lulled him back to sleep shortly before dawn.
At the Embassy he found a message from the Ambassador’s secretary, summoning him to see Rodgers. He went along anxiously, thinking he must have been spotted meeting Baakrime two days before, and wondering how to explain this violation of the Ambassador’s orders to stay well away from the Minister. But he found the Ambassador unaccountably good-humoured, honouring Miles with a beneficent smile as he entered his office. ‘Miles, Miles, how good to see you. All going well?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Miles said cautiously, wondering what was coming next.
‘I’ve got some news. You remember our conversation about Minister Baakrime?’
‘Yes,’ said Miles.
‘Well, you don’t have to worry about him any more.’
‘Oh. What’s happened?’ He felt a sense of dread. Had Baakrime been right to fear for his safety? He should have done more to protect him.
The Ambassador didn’t answer him directly. ‘Yes, you won’t have to avoid that gentleman any more.’
Miles stared at Rodgers, unable to pretend he was anything but horrified. ‘Is he—’
Rodgers nodded. ‘Yep. The Yemeni government has informed me this morning that Mr Baakrime is currently a resident of Moscow, courtesy of an Aeroflot flight he caught yesterday in Istanbul. Fine by me, I have to say, though the Yemenis are not at all amused. They reckon he took twenty-five million bucks of government money with him. I bet the Russians won’t let him keep a dime of it. What do you know about that?’
Far more than you, thought Miles, wondering what Bokus was going to say when he learned that Baakrime had not needed any of the US government’s money – he was perfectly capable of paying his own way.