"Exactly," he said.
"So what we want to do is to set up a unit of police officers who haven't been through the standard Hendon training. We need a special sort of undercover officer," said Latham.
"We need people who have enough strength of character to work virtually alone, people who have enough, how shall I describe it ... life experience ... to cope with whatever gets thrown at them, and we need them with a background that isn't manufactured. A background that will stand up to any scrutiny."
"Like a former prostitute?"
"While your background precludes you from serving as a regular officer, it's perfect for an undercover operative," said Latham.
"The very same contacts that would damage you as a regular officer will be a major advantage in your role under cover."
"Because no one would ever believe that the Met would hire a former prostitute?"
Latham nodded.
"I have to tell you, Tina, it won't be easy. Hardly anyone will know what you're doing; you won't be able to tell anyone, family or friends. So far as anyone will know, you'll be on the wrong side of the tracks."
"What if anything went wrong?"
"You'd have back-up," said Latham, 'but that's down the line. What I need now is your commitment to join the unit. Then your handler will take over."
"Handler? You make me sound like a dog." Trisha grinned.
"How much does the job pay?"
"You'll be on the same rate of pay as an ordinary entrant. There'll be regular increases based on length of service and promotion, and overtime. But again, these are details to be worked out with your handler. My role is to demonstrate that your recruitment is desired at a very high level. The highest."
"Does the Commissioner know?"
Latham frowned slightly.
"If you're asking officially, I'd have to say that you'd need to put a question of that nature to the Commissioner's office. Unofficially, I'd say that I wouldn't be here if I didn't have his approval. I'm certainly not a maverick."
Tina reached over and picked up her pack of cigarettes. She toyed with it, running her fingers down the pack, standing it on each side in turn. She took a deep breath.
"Okay," she said.
"I'm in."
Latham beamed.
"Good. That's very good, Tina."
"What happens now?" she asked.
"You go home. Someone will be in touch." He pushed back his chair and held out his hand.
"I doubt that we'll meet again, but I will be watching your progress with great interest, Tina."
Tina shook his hand. It was smooth and dry with an inner strength that suggested he could crush her if he wanted.
It was a familiar sensation, and Tina struggled to remember what it reminded her of.
It was only when she was in the lift heading back to the car park that she remembered. One of her first customers had been an obese man with horned-rimmed spectacles with thick lenses who wheezed at the slightest exertion. He'd wanted to take her home, and at first Tina had refused because all the girls on the street where she worked had told her that she was safer staying in the punter's car, but he'd offered her more money and eventually she'd given up and gone with him, only after insisting that he paid up front.
Home was a two-up, two-down house in East London with stained carpets and bare light bulbs in the light fittings. He'd shown Tina into his front room and stood at the doorway, wheezing as he watched her reaction to the dozens of glass tanks that lined the walls. In the tanks were snakes. All sorts of snakes. Big ones coiled up like lengths of hose pipe small ones that dangled from bare twigs, some asleep, others watching her intently with cold black unfeeling eyes, their tongues flicking in and out.
The man made Tina give him a blow job in the middle of the room, and he stood there wheezing as she went down on her knees in front of him, her eyes shut tight as she tried to blot out the image of the watching snakes.
Afterwards, after she'd wrapped the used condom in a tissue and tossed it under one of the tanks, he'd taken out a large python and made her stroke it. At first she'd refused, but then he promised to give her an extra twenty quid so she touched it, gingerly at first. When she realised it wasn't going to hurt her she became more confident and ran her hands down its back. She'd thought it might be wet and slimy but it was cool and dry and she could feel how strong it was, how easily it could crush the life out of her if it should ever coil itself around her. The punter had got all excited at the sight of Tina caressing the snake and had offered her money for some really weird stuff, stuff that Tina didn't like to think about, and she'd rushed out of the house without the twenty pounds he'd promised. Tina shivered at the memory and groped for her cigarettes.
Assistant Commissioner Latham paced up and down in front of the window.
"I'm still not convinced that we're doing the right thing here," he said.
Gregg Hathaway unhooked the clock from the wall and placed it on the table.
"Morally, you mean?" Hathaway was wearing a dark brown leather jacket, blue jeans and scuffed brown Timberland boots. He had a slight limp, favouring his left leg when he walked.
Latham gave Hathaway a cold look.
"I was referring to their training and handling," he said.
Hathaway shrugged carelessly.
"It's not really my place to query operational decisions," he said.
"I leave that up to my masters." He was a short man, thought Latham: even if he didn't have the limp, he wouldn't have been allowed to join the Met. He was well below the Met's height requirements, even though they'd been drastically lowered so as not to exclude Asians. The intelligence services clearly had different criteria when it came to recruiting, and there was no doubting Hathaway's intelligence.
"They applied to join the police, not MI6," said Latham.
Hathaway went back to the wall and pulled out a length of wire that had been connected to the small camera in the centre of the clock. The wire led through the wall and up into the ceiling to the video monitor on the floor above, from where Hathaway had watched all three interviews. Latham had been upstairs to check that there was no video recording equipment. Under no circumstances was there to be any record of what had gone on in the office, either on tape or on paper. Officially, the three interviews hadn't taken place. Latham's diary would show that he was in a private meeting with the Commissioner.
"I suppose you do get a different sort of applicant than we do at Six," said Hathaway, coiling up the wire and placing it on top of the clock.
"They've been trying to widen the intake, but it's still mainly Oxbridge graduates that get in. Wouldn't get the likes of Cliff Warren applying. Fullerton maybe."
"I suppose so. How do you think they'll do?"
Hathaway ran a hand through his thinning sandy hair.
"You can never tell. Not until they go undercover. Fullerton's a bit cocky, but that's no bad thing. Warren's probably the most stable of the three, but he's not been put under pressure yet. The girl's interesting."
"Interesting?"
"She worked hard to get away from the life she had. Now we're going to send her back. I'm not sure how she'll cope with that. I was surprised that she agreed."
"I'm not sure that she had much choice." Latham looked at his watch. His driver was already waiting in the car park downstairs and there was no reason for the Assistant Commissioner still to be in the office. No reason other than the fact that he still had misgivings about what he was doing.
Hathaway put the clock and the wire into an aluminum briefcase and snapped shut the lid.
"Right, that's me, then." He swung the briefcase off the table.
"Take care of them," said Latham.
"I haven't lost an agent yet," said Hathaway.
"I mean it," said Latham.
"I know they're not my responsibility, but that doesn't mean I'm washing my hands of them."