By snodlander
Sue sat outside the restaurant nursing a tonic water. Despite being early October the sun was still strong, and she shuffled her chair under the parasol a couple of inches.
“So, are you going to tell me why we’re in Porto?” she asked.
The waiter stepped out from the awning.
“Senhora?”
Sue pointed to her earphones and mouthed ‘Phone’ at him. He nodded and stepped back. It was too early for lunch and the holiday season was all but ended. The poor guy must have been bored out of his skull, she thought.
“I’m meeting a friend,” answered Mark.
“A friend, eh? Wet or tin?”
“How politically incorrect of you. You know those terms are offensive.”
“Well, excuse me. So which?”
“Tin.”
Sue grinned at the obscenity. “In Porto? Who the hell has tin here? Not a bank? You know I get nervous in banks, especially after the last time.”
“Not a bank.”
“Well?”
The restaurant sat on the touristy road that ran along the south bank of the Douro, between the port lodges and the river. A tourist boat crept by, the tinny voice of the guide parroting facts about the bridge in five languages. A handful of tourists strolled down the wide footpath, snapping pictures of houses crowding the opposite slope and converted port barges with the main lodges’ logos all over the hulls.
“The university.”
“What the frig is a university doing with an A.I.?”
“Most do. Not level sevens, apart from a few ivy leagues.”
“And Porto does?”
“No. A level four.”
Across the road and upstream twenty metres a middle-aged man studied a flyer about port caves. He wore suit trousers and a tie. His skin was almost as white as his shirt. He couldn’t have advertised his nationality more if he’d been carrying a union flag and screaming God Save The Queen.
“A level four? You lose a bet? What are you doing chatting to level fours? He’s not exactly going to enthral you with intellectual debate.”
“He’s mathematical. He’s come up with some interesting algorithms.”
“God, what a wild life you live. At least we’ll not have to blag our way in.”
Mark remained silent.
Across the road the Englishman turned the flyer over. He must have been a slow reader.
“I said, we won’t have to blag our way in.”
“We’ll have passes.”
“Oh God.” She angled her head so her sunglasses pointed directly at the Englishman. “You won’t like it in jail, you know. No wifi. See that guy there?”
“The one that has been checking you out for five minutes?”
“Yeah. Thanks for letting me know about that, by the way. Nice to know you’re keeping me informed. Have you got a mate who can ID him from his face?”
“Wait one… He’s busy, but he can slice it in. It’ll be about an hour, though. Two, tops.”
“Never mind. I’ll do it.”
She tipped her glasses forward and looked over the top of them. When the man glanced in her direction she shoved the chair opposite with the sole of her foot and swept her arm open in invitation. The man looked away sharply, then, deciding the game was up, looked back at her. He folded the flyer and slid it into his pocket, then made his way over.
“Susan Thompson?” He couched it as a question, but it wasn’t really.
“And you are?” Sue pulled the earphones out.
He held out a hand. Sue ignored it. After a moment he let it drop and sat down in the chair Sue had kicked out for him. “Nigel Townsend.” His voice had the clipped precision that comes with a private education.
“Searching,” said Mark, the voice flattened through her temporal bone.
“Is that Captain? Major?”
He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Major. Was. The Paras. What gave it away?”
“The cherry beret.”
Townsend unconsciously glanced up at his own head.
Sue shrugged. “You stand to attention, even when you’re not, like you’re on parade but you put your civvies on by mistake. You talk posh, so you’re not a grunt. You don’t swagger, so you weren’t an NCO.”
The waiter materialised. “Senhor?”
“Oh, a coffee, thanks. And, um –“ He pointed to Sue’s glass, his eyebrows raised.
“Um tonico, se faz favour,” Sue told the waiter.
Townsend watched the waiter retreat before turning back to her.
“They said you were good. Did you do all that, or – “ Townsend’s eyes dropped to her collar bone, then snapped up again.
“That was me. I never went to Harrow, but I’m not stupid.”
Townsend smiled. “Winchester, but point taken. Is it here, by the way? I mean, listening?”
“Who?”
He glanced at her collar bone again.
“You know.” He dropped his voice. “Your A.I.”
“Sorry. No idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play games. You know.”
“Games? Me? Not me. I take this very seriously. Signed the Official Secrets Act when I left. You, I don’t know from Adam. You could be working for anybody. I’m not the one playing games, am I.”
Mark threw up a slew of information on her lens. Townsend was ex para, right enough. Police in Civvie street, then something in Whitehall, all very vague and generic. Divorced, two kids. Mark highlighted the relevant bits.
Across from her Townsend sighed. He reached into his pocket and produced a wallet. He flipped it open to show her his ID.
“MoD? Really? You have to be the worst spook in the country,” said Sue. She barely glanced at the ID. Mark would let her know if it wasn’t genuine.
“Excuse me?”
“You stand out a mile off, and every thought you have is written all over your face. No,” she said, as his eyes dipped to her collar again. “He doesn’t have to tell me. A child could read you.” She took off the shades and placed them on the table, facing the Major so that Mark could still see him. She leant forward.
“Let me tell you a couple of secrets then, seeing as you’re pukkah.”
Townsend leant closer to match her.
She counted out on her fingers.
“One, my days of saluting officers are long gone. I’m a civilian and loving it, thank you very much. So don’t think you can come here and get me square bashing at your command.
“Two, this is bleeding Portugal. You don’t have any authority here, so you can piss off if you don’t like rule number one.
“Three, I don’t like old men staring at me from across the street. It’s pervy. So you want to talk to me, just come out and say it. Don’t stalk me because the filth around here are not averse to helping pervs fall down stairs.
“And four.” She leant even closer and dropped her voice. “You ever refer to Mark as ‘it’ again and I will kick your fucking teeth so far down your throat you’ll fart with a Harrow accent.”
She sat up and smiled as the waiter arrived. “Excuse me. I mean Winchester accent. Obrigada.” The waiter placed the tonic water in front of her and the tiny cup in front of the Major. She tried not to smirk at the Major’s expression – a brave smile over disappointment as he looked down at the coffee. The English were always surprised that coffee here meant an espresso, unless you specifically said so. The waiters know, but if you’re not even going to attempt please and thank you in Portuguese, what did you expect?
They waited for the waiter to take up his station under the awning. The Major’s bonhomie had disappeared.
“I apologise. I realise you and – you and he are close. I didn’t mean to offend. But we have a job for you.”
“No.”
“Hear me out.”
“No. Not interested. I told you, I hung my boots up. End of.”
Sue rose and put on her shades. “Cheers for the drink,” she said, nodding at the untouched glass of tonic water.
“Who’s Rose Masters?”
“Who?”
“The passport you used when you entered the country. Who is she?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That was three months ago? I’m sure you have other ID by now, but I think the local police would be interested in having a chat with you. And then there’s the money you won in the Gibraltar casinos. I’m not sure using an A.I. is legal. Did you declare your income on that? And as Gib is a British territory, that’s extraditable.” He shrugged. “That’s how they got Al Capone in the end. It doesn’t matter. Once we’ve got you on a plane, you’re ours. So’s your tin. Ask your friend if I’m lying.”
“You can outrun him,” said Mark. “But he’s too comfortable. He doesn’t think you’ll get far. He might have some people about. I’ve not seen anyone. The hotel’s burnt. We could try a train or bus, but then there’s no escape if they join us on board. Besides, he’s been tracking us. We don’t know how. It’ll take some time to call in favours for new documents.”
Sue pulled her chair out and dropped into it with bad grace. She picked up the drink.
“I swear to God I will glass you if you call Mark that again,” she said.
| Author Notes |
Paras - The Parachute Regiment
Cherry Berets - Nickname for paras, bsed on their red berets Harrow and Winchester - exclusive English private schools Pukkah - genuine This has been rattling around in my head for a while. Not sure if this is a long short story or a novel. We'll see |
By snodlander
Townsend frowned at his bica coffee, half turned and waved the waiter over.
“Another?” asked the waiter.
“Yes. No. A coffee, only bigger. Comprende? Bigger.” He mimed bigger, in case the waiter hadn’t dealt with British tourists all year. “Bigg – er.”
“Sim.” The waiter took the cup.
“With some milk.”
Sue shook her head in resignation. “Um galao,” she explained. “Por favor.” Entertaining as it was to see the Major drown in a culture outside the office tea lady, it was too painful to see the waiter struggle to keep his smile in place.
Townsend watched as the waiter disappeared into the darkness of the restaurant, then he turned back to her.
“It’s a simple job.” He pushed a thumb drive across the table and hit the transmit button. “It’s all on there.”
“Why?” said Sue, ignoring the drive. Mark would be downloading it anyway.
“Sorry?”
“You have your own pairs. Why us?”
“They’re not available.”
“Lie,” said Mark.
Sue sighed. “Do we have to do this? You know we can tell when you’re lying. Why bother? Seriously.”
Townsend shrugged. “I believe the phrase is, ‘need to know’.”
“You want it off the books. So it’s illegal or fatal. Maybe both.”
“It’s not dangerous. Or illegal.” He shrugged again. “Not any more than a normal op, anyway.”
“Mostly true,” said Mark. “He’s holding back, though.”
“So why do you want it off the books?”
Townsend glanced at her collarbone again. He had a wedding ring, Sue noted. That explained the divorce, then, because a child could read his body language. Any infidelity would be screamed aloud to anyone who knew him.
“Can you switch off his interface for a moment?”
“Can do,” said Sue. “Not going to.”
He sat back in his chair and stared at her. The waiter appeared with the drinks, then took up his station again.
“You’re unique, you know that?” he said at last.
“Yeah, I’m special. My mum said so.”
“Before the Sentient Act, we simply wiped them and started again when someone left.”
“Wiped. That’s a nice euphemism.”
Townsend had the grace to look awkward. “Well, that was how it was back then. Now, they’re imprinted on something else. The regiment, the country, even a building. Not their partner. Plus the terms of service make it harder to walk. Your terms of service fell right between the two. A few weeks earlier or later…”
“Woulda, shoulda, coulda. Boo-hoo. You going to answer the question?”
“Are you going to read the drive?”
“Already done,” said Mark, in her ear.
“Done. Put it away.”
Townsend reached across, switched off the drive and replaced it in his pocket.
“So why us?” pressed Sue.
Townsend sighed. “Regardless of your status, you’re bound by the Official Secrets Act.”
“I am a bloody official secret. You call my loyalty into question and I’ll put you in hospital here and now.”
“The target. We have our doubts about him. There’s certain… anyway, we need to ascertain his loyalty, whether he’s going to betray his country in any way.”
“Still not answering the question. Why does this have to be off the books? Why not one of your other pairs?” Sue watched him as he took a sip of his coffee, a delaying tactic as he tried to decide what he was going to do. “I can get the answer out of you. That’s what we were trained in. You must know that. Jesus!”
“What?” asked Townsend and Mark in tandem.
“You don’t even work for the department!”
Townsend attempted a poker face.
“Bullseye,” said Mark in her ear. “Nicely deduced. Internal politics?”
“So that’s why you want us. You don’t have assets yourself. So what? You want his office?”
“The target,” said Townsend. He pushed the handle of his galao, turning the glass in the saucer. “He’s in your old unit.”
“And?”
“Well, when I say in, he’s more in charge. Of the assets, I mean. We can’t use any of them, even if they have higher loyalties, because he knows them. We need you, because you’re invisible.”
“True,” said Mark. “And he really didn’t want to admit that.”
“What do you suspect he’s going to do?” asked Sue.
“We think he may have had overtures from the Spanish. We need to know if he has, and what he’s going to do about it.”
“The Spanish?”
“It’s on the drive.”
“I’m a slow reader. Humour me.”
Townsend looked around, looking at the sparse trickle of tourists on the road. “Inside,” he said.
They rose and picked up their glasses.
“Muito sol. Dentro?” Sue told the waiter. He stepped aside and swept his arm in invitation to the dark interior of the restaurant.
They sat at a table under a wall display of empty wine bottles.
“Okay,” said Townsend, once they had sat and arranged the glasses, and he was assured they weren’t overheard. “Catalonia. Complete cockup. Totally mishandled on both sides, and now, being politicians, neither side can give an inch. Never mind the blood on the street, if you can blame the other side for it. But it can’t go on, obviously, because both are going to lose. Money’s leaving faster than a drunk at a casino. They need to sort it out, but Spain won’t talk to Catalonia, and vice versa. Spain holds the presidency of the EU so Europe can do sod all about it.”
“And?” asked Sue.
“And so they need a neutral intermediary, a neutral location, someone who can act as a go between both sides trust.” Townsend sat back and threw his arms wide. “Hello, the UK and Portugal.”
“Excuse me?”
Townsend leant forward again. “Okay, so we’ve got experience. Scotland, Wales, the whole devolution thing. For decades we’ve squared the circle, not denied them, not given in to them. Both Catalonia and Spain recognise our expertise in that. But we need neutral ground. The UK/Portugal alliance is the oldest in the world. Treaty of Windsor. Fourteenth century. So we’re refereeing the whole thing. They won’t sit in the same room, but we play Chinese whispers between them. Now, we can’t afford to fail. Never mind this is all secret squirrel and no one knows it’s going on. We have to be seen to broker an agreement. And one that’s fair and acceptable on both sides. That’s where your people come in.”
“My people?”
“Pairs. They suss out how honest people are being, how final a final offer is, how far we’ve got to manoeuvre.”
“And the target?”
Townsend took another gulp and grimaced. “We suspect Spain might have approached our man. If the flow of intelligence tilted towards one side, well, we could end up with shit on our face, and that’s not something His Majesty’s Government is amenable to. So get your shit together and get your arse down to Lisbon. There’s a train this evening at 18:00.”
“No,” said Mark.
“This evening?” said Sue, aloud.
“I said, we’re seeing the university A.I. tomorrow. We have to delay until then.”
“Tempus fugit,” said Townsend.
“I mean it,” said Mark. “It’s important.”
Sue shook her head. “We need to study the files, and suss out the city remotely before we knock on the front door. Twenty-four hours at least.”
“You can’t run, you know,” said Townsend.
Sue looked up at the ceiling in exasperation. “God save me from amateurs. We don’t just jump in with both feet. We have to prep. You want this to go tits up in the first five minutes?”
Townsend stared at her. “Twenty-four hours,” he said at last.
“We go when we’re ready.”
“Twenty-four hours, or I go to the Portuguese authorities.”
Sue turned and waved to the waiter. “A conta, por favour. You’re picking up the tab, right?” She downed the tonic water and rose. “One more thing. We’ll know the minute you try and screw us, and I swear to God I will kill you in that moment.”
She turned and strode out of the restaurant.
By snodlander
The Grande Hotel de Paris was not that grand, nor was it in Paris. It lay hidden in a steep narrow road off of the Avenida dos Aliados in the centre of old Porto. Sue rather liked the quirky décor and the labyrinthine layout. And like all buildings of a certain age, the creaking floorboards made it impossible to creep up unannounced. She climbed the stairs leading to the reception.
“Senhora,” greeted the porter, short even by Portuguese standards, dapper in a three-piece suit despite the warmth of the day. “Room four, yes?”
“Quatro, sim.”
The porter turned to the pigeonholes behind him and picked up a key.
“You have been to the port lodges?”
“No. I don’t drink.”
He froze, the key in his hand. “You don’t drink?”
“No.”
“Not even vinho do porto?”
“No.” Sue held out her hand. The porter gave her the key, his face picture of confusion.
“Not even – “ He searched for a more innocent drink.
“Not even,” confirmed Sue.
“Then why are you in Porto?”
The fado.” She winked at him. “And the men. Obrigada.”
“De nada,” he stuttered, grinning. “Oh, um minuto.” He hurried over to a side table, grabbed a card and proffered it. “This place, it’s good.”
“Good for men?”
“Não, não..” Sue wondered if he could go redder. “Fado. The other places are for tourists. This place is good. Muito bem.”
Sue laughed and took the card. “Obrigada.”
“Why do you do that?” asked Mark. “The poor guy.”
“Receptionists, waiters and security guards make the world run smoothly, if they like you,” she muttered. She walked past the tiny bar, up four steps and turned at the restaurant towards her room.
“Wait up,” said Mark. Sue stopped dead and scanned the corridor. Nothing looked out of place.
“Go back to your boyfriend.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Tell them we’re going to be checking out early.”
Sue turned, the familiar sick feeling in her stomach as the adrenalin hit her. “Really would appreciate a heads up here, Mark.”
“Trust me.”
“Always.”
She retraced her steps to the reception.
“You saw the guy in the bar, not reading the tourist brochure he had open in front of him?” said Mark.
“Yes,” said Sue, “Hi.” She smiled at the porter behind the desk.
“Senhora?”
“He was still not reading it when we came back. He wasn’t making eye contact with you either.”
“Okay. Um, I’m going to be leaving early, I’m afraid. I’ll need to check out tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry. The hotel is okay, yes?” asked the porter, worried.
“Oh, sure. Nothing to do with you. Quite the opposite, I’d like to stay longer. No, I’ve just got an email. I have to be somewhere else. So you can have my bill ready tomorrow? A conta amanha?”
“Yes, of course.”
She turned towards the exit and contemplated whether to make a run for it, or pretend she didn’t know and see what happened next.
“Stuff it,” she said, and turned towards the bar.
The watcher sat on a two-seater couch. He’d changed brochure and appeared, unconvincingly, to be interested in a tour of mountain monasteries. He was in his late twenties, fit without being musclebound and as credible as a pork butcher at a Bar Mitzvah.
Sue dropped onto the couch next to him and treated him to a big smile.
“Hi,” she said.
“What are you doing?” asked Mark.
“Trust me.”
“Sorry?” The watcher had a good poker face, but there was panic behind his eyes.
“What’s your name?” asked Sue.
“Um, John?”
“Lie,” said Mark, in her ear.
“No, I mean your real name,” said Sue. “I’m Sue, but you know that. So who do you work for?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“Major Townsend?”
“Bingo,” said Mark.
“Okay, the Major has you on babysitting duty, keeping an eye on me, making sure I don’t have it away on my toes. No back door to this place. My room has a window that has a two storey drop to the shop next door’s courtyard. Not much chance of me taking that route, not with my knees. I could maybe vault the fence around the restaurant garden, but you’d see me going that way from here. So maybe you’re the only one watching me. Maybe you’re not.”
“Only one,” said Mark.
She patted his knee and was rewarded by him squirming uncomfortably at the contact. He was already uncomfortable with her sitting so close, invading his space.
“I’ll tell you what, not-John. The major has given me a shit load of data to wade through, plus all the intel I have to gather. This place’s wi-fi is adequate at best. I’m going to spend the rest of the day in my room. I’m going to get a pizza delivered to my room for lunch. If you want you can knock on my door now and then to make sure I’m still here. Then I’m going out for dinner, maybe about eight. Not here, somewhere genuine. Now you can tail me, you and a couple of your mates, and I’ll pretend I don’t know you, and you can stand out in the street and watch me feeding my face while your stomach rumbles, or you can join me. That way you can keep much closer tabs on me, you get to eat decent food and the Major can pick up the tab.”
She rose and stood over him.
“You’ll need to clear it with the Major, obviously. Remind him of our talents. I’ll spot any tails he puts on me, so it makes sense for us to stop pretending. I eat on my own too much. It’s a win-win. Don’t feel bad. Reading people is what I do.” She started towards the corridor, then stopped and turned. “And make sure he knows he’s picking up the tab for dinner.”
“Well, that wasn’t in the play book,” said Mark as she walked down the corridor.
“I got a free dinner, didn’t I?”
“Is this a sexual thing? Are you and he going to get nasty?”
“He’s ten years younger than me.”
“And?”
Sue grinned as she put the key in the lock.
“And I don’t say anything about where you stick your data port.”
“My interactions are meetings of the mind. Seriously, though, was that a wise move?”
She shrugged as she entered the room.
“I’m just tired of all the bullshit, that’s all. If I’m going to be spied on I want to look in their eyes while they do it. Good spot, by the way.”
“It’s what we do.”
Sue dropped her shoulder bag onto the bed.
“Read ‘em and lead ‘em.” Sue pulled the drive from her bag and placed it on the small desk. “How you feeling?”
“I could do with some juice.”
“No problem.”
Sue pulled the charger from her bag, plugged it in and placed the induction pad on her shoulder.
“Have you read the files he gave us?” Sue switched on the TV and linked it to her phone.
“Yes. Standard stuff. Too light on details though.”
“There’s a surprise. Give me the short version.”
“The target’s Nigel Stroman. English, Sandurst, fast-tracked straight into the department. No blots on his copy-book. Straight bat mostly, but prepared to be inventive when he needs to. In Lisbon for the conference to personally oversee the pairs. Four of them, by the way. Not a pair himself. No hint as to why they suspect him. They’ve given us a cover that is total crap. We can’t use it. Stroman’s taken over a couple of serviced apartments near Lisbon airport. The talks are taking place in a couple of government buildings near the docks. We’re going to have to come up with a workable cover, an approach to reading him cold and a way to avoid any of the other pairs.”
Sue sighed. “Piece of piss, then. We’ll just come up with a perfect plan before dinner.”
“There’s more.”
“Of course there is. Okay, hit me.”
“One of the pairs is Stephen.”
Sue stared at the screen, blind to the display.
“Shit,” she whispered.
| Author Notes | Sandhurst - uk officer training college |
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