The Becket Approval by Falconer Duncan (best big ereader .TXT) 📗

truck came to a stop he had no problem slipping away. He found some much needed water and made his way to a vantage point from where he could get a look at the place. He had no idea if he was still in Syria or not until he saw a police station with an Iraqi flag hanging outside. There were no border checkpoints in this area.

Being weathered and unwashed helped disguise his western features. Not that they’d stand out as unusual in Western Iraq where the British Army had been in occupation for long enough in the 1920s to contribute to the gene pool. He walked through the town to find something to eat. A man preparing falafels saw him staring hungrily and scraped up a pile of offcuts, wrapped them in a sheet of unleavened bread and gave it to him. He ate hungrily. The next objective was to find a ride to Baghdad. He repeated the name of the city to the driver of every truck making ready to leave the market and eventually one allowed him to sit in the back. Before dawn he was on his way.

The most challenging part of his journey was getting through the Iraqi checkpoint into the Baghdad Green Zone. It was crowded with people coming in and out, mostly labourers, domestic and government staff and shopkeepers. It was a struggle to get the guards to even acknowledge him the way he looked. After some barracking, the guard commander was eventually called and as luck would have it the man spoke some English. Gunnymede gave a false name and explained he was a British businessman who’d been visiting an oil facility when he had a car accident after which criminals robbed him of everything including his identification.

Gunnymede was driven to an army office where he spent more time waiting around and being questioned. Eventually, a tall white man arrived and introduced himself as a member of the British embassy. Not long after, Gunnymede was taken to the embassy where he revealed his true identity. After his debriefing he was given a room where he could clean up and rest while his documentation was prepared and transport organised. While in the shower, his rags were removed and replaced with the cheap civilian garb.

Gunnymede’s only possessions were a new passport and change from a few quid given to him to buy a cup of coffee and a sandwich while waiting in Amman airport for his connecting flight to London. The only sign of his ordeal was some weathered flaking around his face and a nasty rope burn across his throat from one ear to the other.

After getting to the end of the line of greeting cards he decided the rendezvous system had failed until he saw a familiar figure standing back beyond the main body. Aristotle. The tall, grey man set off towards the exit and Gunnymede followed on an interception course. Aristotle spoke into a phone as Gunnymede joined him and by the time they reached the road outside the terminal a car had arrived and they climbed in.

The car pulled away. Gunnymede waited for Aristotle to say something but after several minutes of silence he couldn’t help himself. ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he said.

‘Don’t be so attention seeking.’

‘It was a comment on your lack of social graces.’

‘I read your report,’ Aristotle said. ‘I know you’re fine.’

Gunnymede sighed and sat back in silence. He looked at his cheap sandals and white socks, looking forward to getting out of them. ‘So, where do I live? Hopefully not with you.’

‘You have one of the firm’s apartments in Docklands.’

That sounded nice.

Aristotle held out a package to him. ‘Your new phone. Don’t lose this one or you’ll be charged. There’s a credit card with a five thousand pound limit, for operational use only.’

‘What about money? Cash? Wages? I assume I’m being paid.’

‘There’s two hundred pounds in cash in the bag.’

‘That’s my wages?’

‘An advance. You’ll have a bank account in a few days and a cash card.’

‘I need to buy some things today.’

‘What things?’

‘Living things. Things that make life comfortable. Clothes for instance.’

‘I bought you some clothes.’

‘You bought me clothes? Why did you buy me clothes?’

‘Because you don’t have time to buy them for yourself.’

‘Why don’t I have time to buy some clothes?’

‘You’re going to Albania.’

Gunnymede turned in his seat to look at Aristotle. ‘Why am I going to Albania?’

‘You’re helping the police.’

‘The police?!’

‘Scotland Yard.’

Gunnymede processed the revelation. ‘And this has to do with Spangle.’

‘Everything you do has to do with Spangle.’

‘What has Albania got to do with Spangle?’

‘That’s your job to find out.’

Gunnymede shook his head in disbelief. ‘This is ridiculous.’

‘It’s the business you’re in or have you forgotten?’

‘I seemed to remember getting time off between operations.’

‘Harlow told you things have changed. We’re now getting our money’s worth out of the field spy department.’

Gunnymede shook his head. ‘You have to be kidding me. I can’t go – I’m wounded.’

‘The task does not require anything physical. You should be back tomorrow.’

‘Can’t you put it off for twenty-four hours? I’m knackered.’

‘You’re pathetic.’

Gunnymede looked at him angrily. ‘And what if I tell you to shove this job up your arse?’ Gunnymede spat.

‘You’d rather go to jail for five years than a day trip to Albania? I don’t think so.’

‘I think you need me and I don’t like the way you’re pushing me around.’

‘You’re going to Albania today or you’re going to prison. Make up your mind.’

Gunnymede frowned as he sunk back into his seat. This was bullshit.

 

 

Chapter 9

Saleem sat in his sterile room, the bare plaster walls severely cracked, the glass long since blown out of the windows that looked down onto the Daesh vehicle compound. His simple