‘We brought the Palestinian back here where he co-operated in a detailed debrief of the tanker operation. Because of that, and the assistance he gave you in locating Zhilev, he was placed in a protection programme. He’s currently living in Glasgow under a new name and working as a bartender with class-one restrictions.’
A class-one restriction meant Abed could not change accommodation or employment without permission, or travel more than twenty-five miles from his address. Reading between the lines, Stratton assumed they were not finished with Abed yet and that he was still employable. Stratton got the feeling, during their short time together, that Abed wanted to be free from it all. The young man had a long way to go before that would be the case, if he ever made it at all. But it was out of Stratton’s hands. He could do nothing more for the man and he put him out of his thoughts.
‘Good . . . Well,’ Stratton said, bringing his visit to a close as he stepped from the window to the door. ‘I’m gonna head out. I lost most of the cash advance. Don’t know if it was in the blast, the hospital, or the hotel.’
‘Under the circumstances I’m sure it will be overlooked, ’ Sumners said. He was being deliberately charitable in case Stratton should make the leap he hoped was coming.
Stratton nodded and opened the door. ‘See ya,’ he said as he started to head out, but it was not enough for Sumners. He wanted to know what Stratton wanted to do about his MI career.
‘Stratton?’
Stratton stopped in the open doorway and looked back at Sumners.
Sumners decided to push it. He did not have the patience, nor did he want to spend any time wondering. One way or the other. ‘What about your ID?’ he asked, jutting his chin at the MI6 badge on his desk, Stratton’s picture looking up at him.
It was obvious to Stratton Sumners wanted him to quit the game. It was oozing from the man. The truth was Stratton still did not know. He could not make his mind up, or, more to the truth, find the strength to walk away from something he knew deep down was not the ideal life for him. For the past year or so, it had all been about him waiting for the phone to ring, wondering if they wanted him back, if he was still good enough. Now it was the reverse. Sumners could no longer ignore him. Stratton was, for the time being at least, top of the pile. He had saved Jerusalem, and, perhaps more importantly, averted what could have been a catastrophic conflict between East and West. Sumners no longer had the power to remove him from the agent list.
Stratton stared at the ID. Quitting at this level was permanent. No one walked in and out of MI6 of their own volition. If you volunteered to say goodbye it was pretty much written in stone. Stratton could feel Sumners willing him to close the door and walk away without a word, which, finally, was perhaps why he did not.
Stratton walked over to the desk, picked up the ID and put it in his pocket. ‘Thanks,’ he said, rubbing salt into Sumners’ anxiety, the thanks a suggestion that Sumners had invited Stratton to pick it up. Sumners could only stare at him.
Stratton walked out the door, closed it behind him and headed down the corridor towards the elevators. He could quit next week, but for now he was staying in the game.