They were a mile out of town, and a little more than a mile from the coast. It was mostly cliff edge, but he wasn’t expecting a sea exfiltration. It would be one of those jobs where you leave a body in a ditch and drive back to the city. By the time the locals found it Anton would be back in Cologne, doing what he did best, which was resting between jobs.
“Yo, Anton? You jerking off up there or what?”
“Yeah. I was thinking about those sheep we saw.”
“Ones with the little horns?”
“No, the other kind. The little sexy ones.”
“You’re a fuckin’ pervert,” said Lars. “They were underage.”
Anton sat up, stretched. Checked his watch. Two, a little after. It was already dark: nothing but the cloud-covered sky offering light. The sun would probably show up in three or four months. Until then, the locals lit torches, or stayed indoors. Anton didn’t understand that shit. He’d grown up bleak, and how he’d fixed that situation was, he’d started walking soon as he was able, and never glanced back.
And look at him now, he thought. Just look at him now.
The job was straightforward. Two colleagues, both of whom he’d worked with before, and a boss—Frank Harkness—who was something of a legend: ex-CIA, and then a long career nobody knew much about, which was exactly the sort of reference employers approved of. The man himself had showed up an hour before and done a walk-around, checking the barn, checking the terrain: that was who he was. Always assuming, even in Wales, miles from anywhere, that this was joe country. What Anton thought was, this was sheep country, but being careful was the difference between a long career and a bootless corpse.
Recce done, Frank gave them a heads-up.
“There’s been a complication, but nothing you can’t handle. The target now has professional help.”
“Yowser,” said Cyril.
“So you might actually have to earn your wages. I hope that’s not too alarming a prospect.”
Anton scratched his ankle. He was starting to think all this hay, or its ancient remnants, was having an allergic effect. He was itching like a bastard. “This help. They in the game?”
“It’s nobody you’ll have bunked down with, if that’s what you’re worrying about.”
It wasn’t, but it was good to set the picture straight. This job, sometimes you ended up going toe to toe with a former colleague, which caused problems for your sentimental types. The way Anton approached this, he didn’t make friends much. This saved heartache down the road.
Frank said, “It seems the kid’s father was a spook, and his mother reached out to a colleague. The colleague’s a lady spook, and doesn’t represent a huge threat. There’s a department where Five keep their screw-ups, and that’s where she’s from. Slough House. The operatives get called slow horses, and there’s a reason for that. But still. She’s Five, however low on the food chain, and that means she’s in the game. So if she turns up, take her out. We’ll worry about the right and wrong ways to treat a lady afterwards.”
“I know how to treat a lady,” Cyril said. “We should invite her back here, get her to pull a train. Would warm this shithole up.”
Frank ignored that. “I’ve got art,” he said. “Gate-crashed a gathering.” He produced his phone, called up a photo, passed it around, Cyril first.
Cyril made an
And Cyril, thought Anton, really should get in touch with himself. Always first to brag about getting some action; always last out of the showers when bunking with a crew. It was the twenty-first century, for Christ’s sake. Nobody gave a damn which way he swung, so long as he could lay down supporting fire in a landing zone. Anton, personally, would carry a rifle for gay rights, so long as he got paid. Didn’t matter to him. Generally turned out, of course, that those writing the cheques were sticklers for traditional values. But what could you do?
Meanwhile,
The phone reached him, and the woman was a looker, sure, especially after a couple of days in a barn. Brunette but with blonde highlights; nice figure in a formal looking outfit. Dark eyes. But there were several things you couldn’t tell about a woman just by looking, and one was how she’d handle herself in a firefight. This chick was spook-trained. Damaged goods, but you always had to factor in dumb luck. So if she showed up in any of the wrong places, Anton wouldn’t hesitate to mess up her highlights.
Frank said, “Three hours till boots up. I want you in place ninety minutes before the kid shows, and I don’t want any complaints about the weather. Make it clean, make it tidy, and leave the body in a nice deep drift. Any luck, it’ll be June before anyone finds him. Questions?”
“This lady spook,” Cyril said. “She be armed?”
“Doubtful.”
“Because—”
“No guns. It’s got to look accidental. I’ll say it again. Questions?”
Nobody had questions.
