He thought of his narrow escape from the pen in Somalia. It was the second time he’d been abducted within the space of a year. Was he getting careless? Had his capture each time been his own fault? It was hard to say. He still loved his work, but without the youthful passion he had brought to it during his early years in the Service. Now, there were times when he’d encounter a situation and feel an almost weary sensation of déjà vu, a feeling that he’d seen the same thing many times before. There were only so many variations to an intelligence operation, only so many different kinds of terrorist to pursue or agent to run. Maybe he was just getting stale. Maybe it was time to look for another job.
He was paid to risk his life if necessary, but that hadn’t made it any less frightening when he was faced with the imminent prospect of death. If Taban hadn’t got away, who knows how long it would have taken the SAS to find the compound. And by then he might well have been tortured, or murdered, or both, by the fanatics who’d taken him captive.
He owed a lot to the African boy, whom he’d seen again on the French corvette. He had even been able to help him after explaining to the French crew that he owed his life to Taban. The Captain – was it Thibault? Some name like that – had understood at once, and when Martin Seurat had come aboard, the two of them had talked about Taban and promised Dave that they would do their best to help him stay in France, where he could get an education. Dave was glad he had done something for the boy, and he had promised to keep in touch with him through Martin Seurat.
As they sailed smoothly on down the coast of Italy he pushed the buzzer on the table in front of him. When the waiter came, he ordered a gin and tonic – a large one.
The days wore gently on. The ship called at Naples and Dave stirred himself enough to join the organised trip to Pompeii, where he listened to the guide’s account of the eruption of Vesuvius, and bought some postcards in the gift shop, which he didn’t send.
A few days later, as he was sitting on deck at his favourite table, he looked up and saw Mount Etna silhouetted against a deep blue sky, snow-capped and majestic, with a trail of smoke wafting from one of its volcanic cones. The waiter brought his drink, and when he’d gone Dave raised his glass. This volcano was alive; so, by the skin of his teeth, was Dave.
Berger went to meet Hal Stimkin at what the CIA man now referred to as their ‘watering hole’. Fortunately this would be the last time Berger would have to drink with him in the bar of the Venus de Milo; the last time he’d have to come running when Hal Stimkin called. Goodbye, Athens, he thought cheerfully, and good riddance to his former employer, the CIA.
Stimkin was already there on his usual bar stool. Berger sat down next to him, ordered a beer, and came right to the point.
‘I’ve got news for you,’ he said.
‘Good or bad?’
‘Good for me.’ He took a long swallow of his beer. ‘My boss back in London’s resigned.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah, and the thing is, they’ve offered me the post and I’ve accepted.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Stimkin matter-of-factly. Berger was slightly taken aback that he didn’t seem more surprised.
‘So you see, Hal, this is our valedictory session. I’ll be leaving Athens next week. And it’s going to be my farewell to Langley too. In my new job it just wouldn’t be right for me to moonlight for you guys. I’m sure Langley will understand.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ Stimkin said disconcertingly. ‘You see, news of your appointment has already reached Langley and they’ve passed it on to Grosvenor Square. I had a call from the Head of Station there just this afternoon. Guy called Andy Bokus… he can’t wait to meet you. Andy isn’t everybody’s cup of tea, but I’m sure you two will get along like a house on fire.’
Berger put his head in his hands and groaned. Stimkin patted him on the back. ‘Cheer up, Mitchell. Remember what they say, don’t you? You can take the boy out of Langley, but you can’t take Langley out of the boy.’
That evening, Liz and Martin had supper in his flat in Paris. Neither of them wanted any more excitement after the stress and frantic activity of recent weeks.
They had spent several hours that afternoon at the Santé prison, talking to Amir Khan. Martin had already told him about events in Birmingham – how Malik, his old friend and comrade at the mosque, had tried to blow himself up at a pop concert. Amir had remained silent, clearly shocked. It was as though, for the first time, he’d realised what the extremist views that both he and Malik had held, actually meant. How the logical end of them was the death of people, casually chosen, when they were doing no more than enjoying themselves.
Then Seurat added something else – that at the end, Malik had done his best to kill Tahira too – and Amir’s shock had turned to outrage.
