A Hostile State by Adrian Magson (reading eggs books txt) 📗

the Poule au Pot restaurant near the Palais Royal in Paris was where it all went to pieces.

I mean it was more than pleasant and I could have done it a lot more, soaking in the atmosphere and enjoying her company, satisfied that the events of the last few days were finally over. But somehow, even in this romantic city, facing her with a table set for two between us just seemed to gum up the works, conversation-wise.

There’s a no-go area in my business, a line marked in the sand. That line says you don’t mix it with colleagues. Not that everyone observes it to the letter; some do and it rarely ends well. But working alone the way I do, I’d never had to worry about it. My closest colleague was usually a voice thousands of miles away, on the end of a comms channel or watching my back from an eye in the sky.

Except now that colleague was right here sitting across the table, not just a remote voice but a living, breathing and attractive being. And the mixer was we’d been through a lot together and that had given us a special bond. Now we were out the other side of the mission and I didn’t want to make any stupid mistakes.

‘You have to go back to Washington,’ I said, as we walked through the Tuileries Gardens afterwards. The sun was warm and the atmosphere a million miles away from what we’d both experienced recently. People around us were laughing and chatting, a typical summer’s day in one of my favourite cities in the world. Gone were any thoughts of guns and killers, of being followed and targeted for execution by unidentifiable hit teams; gone, too was a host of work-life habits, of the need-to-do-next thinking that had occupied me for many years. And although I was keeping a weather eye on our backs out of instinct and habit, the trade craft too ingrained to lose completely, my instincts told me we were safe.

My future now, from this minute, was going to be utterly different and unpredictable. An open book to be tested and explored, new pages opened and old ones nailed shut. Even my travel patterns up to now were no longer safe and they would have to change radically, no matter what Callahan had been told.

And that was another odd situation: though Callahan hadn’t said so, I figured our conversation yesterday had been our last.

She looked across at me. ‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’

The glint in her eye told me she was teasing. It was something else I wasn’t accustomed to. Colleagues in my line of business make jokes, usually of the darker kind to alleviate the tension surrounding some of the things we witness. But teasing, not so much.

‘No. I’m not. You have a job to do and I know Callahan won’t be able to cover for you for ever.’

We were walking a little apart as if by silent agreement that getting too close was not a good idea – that line in the sand thing. Since catching up with Lindsay after the events near Beauvais, we’d been circling around the idea that this was probably going to be the last time we’d see each other. I had no idea what Lindsay thought about that but even with all my instincts about not forming close relationships because of my work, I was finding it tough to contemplate.

I’d taken another room at the same hotel as Lindsay and used the excuse of tiredness and the need for some quiet time to shower, to wash off the tensions and smells that always come with you after a collection of actions and near-misses.

The bit about quiet time was real enough; going through the kind of events I’d seen in the last few days is not something I’ve ever been able to brush off casually, as if none of it mattered. The adrenalin rush and energy, followed by the inevitable sharp deceleration, even if you survive with a slight leg scratch, can leave you hanging with no easy way of dealing with it. Some would call it a form of withdrawal release, and maybe it is. My usual way of coping was to get away from everyone for a while until I was sure I could string a few words together without sounding as if I might be about to rip someone’s head off for being nice. At least, that was the way I felt.

With Lindsay there was no way I could leave her alone any longer than I already had. She had questions I could answer and a lot more I couldn’t, and part of her getting over what she’d seen was sharing it. I’d made her come to Paris for her own safety, but now I needed to make her aware that she was safe and secure and not just push her to one side. So, I rested up briefly, followed by some civilized conversation and a walk.

How did that kind of normal human activity suddenly get so tough?

‘You’re trying to think of a way of leaving.’ Her voice was calm, reflective. ‘It’s all right – I understand.’

I stopped suddenly right in the middle of the path because walking and trying to explain something I could not was multi-tasking. Put a gun in my hand and have me execute a game-plan while entering a building full of danger and watching my back at the same time and I’d be away, no problem. But this was different.

‘Yes.’ When in doubt, say little.

She tilted her head. I couldn’t read her expression but if I could have taken a photograph of it I would have gladly done so. Missed opportunities.

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked finally.

‘Do?’

‘You’re getting out of the business, aren’t you? Now your cover’s blown.’

Good question. ‘I haven’t decided yet. I’ll find something.’

She ducked a hand into her purse and showed me the edge of an envelope.

‘My tickets back to DC,’ she