Fit For Purpose by Julian Parrott (scary books to read .TXT) 📗

keeping with their surroundings, their gestures are unnatural or forced, they walk differently as if they are a poor teenage actor in a school play. They’re often unsettled, agitated and nervous and they often appear to change, morphing into a variety of characters, gaits, even accents. Simple things can give them away; the way they look at their wristwatch, the way they pretend to read something on their phones, the way they smoke. At first, Gagnon thought the guy tailing him was maybe MI5, but the suit and the shoes screamed something else. They were too formal, slightly ill fitting, too out of place. Like the guy was foreign, not Canadian or American foreign, Gagnon knew, but middle European foreign. He called Tom back suggesting a change of venue for their meeting.

Gagnon continued to exercise his basic field craft as he made his way back to his hotel. He glanced at people he passed on the street suspiciously, seeing enemy agents in the faces of the uniformed schoolboys laughing at what they viewed on a phone, of the young Asian mum pushing a pram, on the face of the elderly postman done with his shift. Gagnon used shop window reflections and naturalistic backwards glances to check on his tail. He moved in and out of shops, he occasionally stopped to tie shoelaces. He was cautiously convinced that he had lost the original tail and not picked up a new one. Gagnon walked past the hotel’s service alley, stopped, looked behind him, didn’t see an obvious tail and ducked back into the alley. The access door was unlocked, and Gagnon slipped back into the hotel. He worked his way through the service corridors until he emerged in a public area.

The tall Canadian made his way to the check-in area and saw a concierge wearing a morning suit with golden keys on his lapel. Gagnon asked the concierge to order a taxi and have it pick him up discreetly. The clever concierge organised two taxis, one for Gagnon, the other to block any potential tail car. Gagnon laughed as his taxi took off and the second following taxi pulled out across the lane of traffic and stalled. Gagnon looked behind him and smiled again. With his back safe, he looked forward to meeting with Tom.

The taxi made its way through central and tourist London and out into an old, unfashionable neighbourhood. The taxi circled around the block, stopping on a quiet street in front of a small pub. A Land Rover Defender was parked on the other side of the street. Gagnon paid the taxi driver, added a large tip and entered the pub. He saw Tom leaning against the small bar, the only patron in the pub. They hugged.

“Jacques,” Tom said.

“Good to see you, brother,” Gagnon responded.

Tom ordered a beer for his Canadian ally and they moved to sit at a small, round table. They took long draughts of their beers and talked about Gagnon’s flight, the worrying experience with the tail, and what tactics to take with Zalkind/Kamenev. Gagnon ordered another round and returned to the table with two pints in his hand, “I think I told you in Afghan that if I ever came across that Russian bastard that I’d give him the bad news, that I’d kill him,” Gagnon said.

“Jacques, mate, but this is London. We can’t go around slotting anyone here even if they are low life bastards like Zalkind,” Tom implored. “I thought we could go to MI5 or MI6 and if that didn’t result in some kind of action, then maybe the press.”

“The intelligence services won’t do anything,” Gagnon tutted. “I know, because I work for one of them. I have a kitchen knife in my belt, if I see him, I’ll go for him.”

Tom looked deep into his friend’s face and then smirked, “C’mon Jacques let’s think seriously about this.”

They drank their beers. Tom got another round. They ordered some pub food. They talked about Zalkind and they eventually agreed that they would call MI5 in the morning. If there is any slotting to be done, they decided, they’d leave it up to the spooks of Thames House. The topic of conversations moved beyond the Russian. Gagnon talked enthusiastically about turning his dissertation into a book. Tom responded that his next book would still be about journeying along British waterways. Another round relaxed Tom and he mentioned Nia and his depth of feeling for her. Gagnon expressed an interest in meeting her and wondered, half seriously, whether she had a sister. At last orders, they left, both a little wobbly, by separate taxis to different hotels. Tom planned to return in the morning to pick up his vehicle, probably after they had secured an interview with MI5. Tom’s taxi dropped him off at his hotel, but Gagnon had his move past his hotel before dropping him off. Pleased with his rudimentary field craft, the Canadian doubled back around the street and entered the alley from the opposite side. He was buzzed and overconfident.

Gagnon was aware of his mistake as soon as he entered the hotel’s service alley. Two men, one he recognised as his earlier tail stepped out of the shadows next to a full skip and approached him. The first man smiled but it wasn’t genuine. Gagnon read his facial expression as a mask of deception but then it turned worse, it began to read violence. The man’s smile had turned into a sneer.

“Dr Gagnon,” the accent was Russian. “You’ll be pleased to accompany me.” He made a gesture that was clearly meant to suggest he was armed. Both Russians closed on Gagnon, crowding him, one was so close that Gagnon could smell his rather unpleasant breath.

“I’m not going anywhere with you guys,” Gagnon said and pushed the first Russian. The man immediately approached again, and Gagnon lowered his six-foot five frame and headbutted the FSB man across the bridge