‘I’m glad you see it that way,’ Vale countered. ‘Sending officers or assets into regions such as this is never without risk. And you’re talking about an area known to be under the influence of terrorist groups including al-Qaeda. Risk is only minimal if you never leave the office.’
A sharp intake of breath from a Ministry of Defence representative along the table was the only indication that Vale’s comment was seen as a personal dig. Moresby had served time as a field officer, but it had been brief and, by most standards, uneventful. As Vale was well aware, the younger man’s meteoric rise through the ranks had been seen by some as too far, too fast, with no real hands-on experience of the kind that had tested many others.
‘I think that’s pushing it, Tom,’ Wilby murmured, and Vale sensed him shrinking away as if not wanting to be associated with any dissent.
‘Really?’ Vale looked at him. ‘Are you saying A-Q aren’t involved in the region? If so, where have they gone?’
‘Easy, Tom,’ Cousins murmured softly on his other side, as Wilby flushed and stared down at his folder. ‘Nobody’s saying you haven’t got reason to be concerned. But it’s being covered, don’t you think?’
Nobody spoke, although Vale saw Scheider give a faint lift of his eyebrows. The CIA man’s weathered face showed little emotion, and he was rumoured to have been a world-class poker player in college, funding his education and his later years prior to recruitment by the intelligence agency.
‘Quite right, Bill. Thank you,’ Moresby said smoothly. ‘I’m sure the personnel involved are more than adequate to the task.’ He looked around the table, adding, ‘At least, I hope so.’
‘You hope?’ Ruth Dresden, who seemed blithely unaware of any undercurrent in the room and more concerned with statements of fact, stopped making a note and looked up sharply.
Moresby’s eyes rested on Vale with a faint smile. ‘Well, the officer concerned was recruited by one of us. By Tom Vale, in fact. Weren’t you also her mentor, Tom?’
Vale hesitated. ‘I recruited and mentored several officers. Which one are you talking about?’ He had seen no mention of the names involved so far.
Bill Cousins slipped his folder sideways and flipped it open so that Vale could read it. A name leapt off the page.
Angela Pryce.
Vale felt the blood drain from his face. Every mentor in SIS had a favourite, and Angela Pryce had been his. Highly intelligent and steady under pressure, she was incisive and wore a toughened veneer around her that occasionally dropped to reveal a genuinely likeable personality. They had got on well, and he’d envisaged her heading for greater things. But this assignment was too soon. Angela had completed the full training programme required for active field officers, and had accumulated a number of missions in tandem with other more experienced staff. But none had been as intensive or demanding — or simply as dangerous — as laid out in Moresby’s plan.
In spite of that, he doubted Angela would approve of his interference on her behalf.
‘Of course,’ Moresby murmured silkily, thrusting his point home, ‘if you believe Pryce is not up to it, then you should say so now. We can always find an alternative.’
Vale shook his head, hardly able to believe what he was hearing. Suggesting Angela Pryce wasn’t capable would put a serious dent in her career. He couldn’t do that to her. But allowing her — or any other officer he could think of — on this kind of assignment without objection would be madness. Moresby was playing with people’s lives, whether serving officers or local assets on the ground. Missions that went bad were never confined or selective; there were ripples which spread outward like a malevolent echo, picking up others in the process and bowling them over.
‘Well?’
‘No. I’m not saying that. I think we should proceed with greater caution, that’s all.’
‘Point noted.’ Moresby nodded and moved on, and Vale sat waiting for the meeting to end. Now was not the time or place to have a stand-up fight with the man; Moresby had friends and mentors of his own who would support him and his new energetic approach to field operations. Vale, by comparison, would be seen as old school and over-cautious.
He’d been out-manoeuvred. But he wasn’t done with this. Not by a long way.
Five
Some of the jobs I take on have a surreal inter-connection. After Bogotá I got home to New York to find a message requesting an escort assignment across the border from the US to Tijuana, Mexico. Just like Bogotá, among its other delights Tijuana is known as a centre for drugs activity. Some things you just can’t get away from.
I kicked my heels for a couple of days, using the down time to catch up on a few personal and business-related matters, like gun practice in a local indoor range, intensive workouts at the gym and checking out a couple of security-related websites I use. Then I packed an overnight bag and flew down to San Diego.
I was to meet with a man named James Beckwith from the Drugs Enforcement Agency. His bio included responsibility for Intelligence Research, which gave me a small insight to the job he might want me to do, but without specifics. He said he’d been given my name by a mutual contact in the Department of Justice.
Beckwith’s office was located in a large building situated along a meandering road in the sandstone- and scrub-covered hills in the north-eastern sector of the city. But he didn’t want to meet me there. Instead he’d suggested the Sheraton out near the airport, a busy but anonymous block of brick and glass where business meetings were common and therefore unnoticed.
Middle management types in the spooks business no longer meet in back alleys or smoky beer joints; they do so in smart hotels or business suites. It’s called hiding in plain sight. For the most part it works like a dream, since most of them look, walk and talk like corporate drones, complete with tablets, smartphones and briefcases.
Special Agent Beckwith was true to type. I spotted him waiting in the foyer when I arrived. He was stocky and neatly dressed in a dark-blue suit, although he had the tightly-knit build of a man who works out a lot. He had a light tan, pretty standard for anyone in southern California, and the buzz-cut of a former marine. And a smartphone which he was studying carefully.
He apologised for the subterfuge. ‘I figured the further you stayed away from the office, the better. I need a clean face for this assignment.’ He didn’t explain and looked a little tight around the eyes. I wondered if it was because I was an outsider he’d been forced to bring in. He hustled me into a sports bar where we grabbed a corner table away from the constant foot traffic of travellers, luggage carts and uniformed staff.
‘This is your brief,’ he said, placing a folder on the table in front of me. ‘I’d prefer it if you read the details right here and gave it back.’ He caught the eye of a waiter cleaning tables. ‘You want to eat?’
I shook my head. I’d eaten lunch earlier and didn’t feel like prolonging this meeting. It’s often the same with briefings, wherever they occur; there’s a lot of preliminary talk, like dogs sniffing out the opposition, none of which actually accomplishes anything. I’d rather get to the basics and get on with the task.
He looked relieved and stood up, straightening his already immaculate jacket. ‘I’m going to call the person you’ll be escorting. He should be here within thirty minutes.’ With that he turned and walked away, leaving the waiter standing there looking hopeful. I ordered coffee and opened the folder.
It was a simple enough job — on paper: escort an agent named Oscar Parillas to a hotel in Tijuana, where he had a meeting with unnamed persons. All I had to do was watch his back, then return him safely to San Diego. The folder included a map of the area, details of the route in and out, and a number to call if we needed assistance.