Joe Country полностью

He had assumed that the analyst, whose name Hannah had wheedled from Pynne over cocktails, had been sufficiently spiked; exiled to MI5’s equivalent of Robben Island, where he’d spend the rest of his career wondering what just happened. Now, it seemed more was required. If Lech Wicinski continued to fuss, and Pynne looked beyond his own infatuation with Hannah, the operation would fall apart, and with it, Martin’s career. It wouldn’t just be his loss of a promising agent, and the glimpses into life at Regent’s Park her handler leaked. It would be the favours Martin had called in to compromise Wicinski: persuading a colleague to corrupt the analyst’s laptop had been well outside his remit. But it had been for Hannah’s sake, he reminded himself. Hannah was his joe. And a handler protected his joe.

Maybe, too, he should curb his own natural excesses. This wasn’t, after all, just fun and games. Time to bring Hannah into the adult world: no more roses, no more outings.

As for Wicinski, his days of roses were also over. Because let’s face it: Martin Kreutzmer had already crossed one boundary. Be foolish not to cross another if that was what it took.

It was a pity, really. Lech Wicinski had only been doing his job. Still: that was life in joe country. Martin patted his pockets, remembered he didn’t smoke, and waded into the tourist pack, swiftly becoming invisible.

The key safe was a small plastic box, the size of a cigarette packet, fastened to the outside wall at ankle height. To remove the key, you brushed it clean of snow, then clicked open the lid and keyed a code on a rackety plastic numberboard. Or, if you didn’t have the code, you raised your booted foot and brought it down hard, removing safe and contents in one ugly crunch. Then scrabbled about in the snow before finding the key half a yard away. Picked it up with trembling fingers. Slotted it into the cottage door on the third attempt.

That’s if you were Lucas Harper.

Downstairs was kitchen and living room combined, with a wood-burning stove; upstairs was a bathroom and two bedrooms. It was as familiar to him as his own home; he’d been staying here with his family since a toddler, year in, year out. The family was smaller now, of course. Last night, after the handover had gone wrong—what should have been a straightforward swap: their money, his promise of silence—after the flurry of violence that ensued, and the hours spent hiding in darkness, this was the sanctuary that came to mind. Not in use this week, thank god . . . The world was a scarier place than he’d known. He could be lying dead, face down in the snow.

Late afternoon. Friday? He’d barely slept, hadn’t turned a light on. When a car rolled past he’d dropped to the floor, made himself tiny in the darkness. Like the toddler he’d once been, in this same holiday cottage.

The car had struggled round the inclined corner and faded. But Lucas had stayed hidden for five minutes before climbing back onto the sofa.

Your money’s right here. But you’re going to have to come closer.

He’d been clear on the phone. The money was to be left at the crossroads, chosen because it was just a mark on a map, a few trees and a signpost. There’d be no contact of any kind. He wasn’t an idiot. His dad had been a spy.

I need to hear you say the words. That you’ll never tell anyone what you saw that night.

What he’d seen had been a chance to secure a future. To make some cash.

The man had been short, but bulky; dark-skinned. European-looking and -sounding, though Lucas couldn’t put a country to it. His hair had a corkscrew curl, his chin was thickly stubbled, and when he’d stepped from the trees it was as if he’d just appeared, fully formed; a wood-sprite out of Lord of the Rings. Lucas had been watching the copse for an hour, and had seen no movement. Not until the man had wanted to be seen. That knowledge seemed to form in his gut; a knot of fear that sprang as suddenly into being as the man himself.

Who wasn’t, Lucas noted, carrying a rucksack. Lucas had specified a rucksack—what easier way to carry fifty grand?

Come on, Lucas. Don’t make this harder than it has to be, hey?

That was when he’d known he was in trouble.

Lucas drew his knees up and rested his forehead. The temperature was dropping by the minute, but he didn’t dare turn the heating on. The boiler made a whooshing sound on ignition, then rumbled steadily. The neighbours might notice, and come to investigate . . .