The Alex King Series, A BATEMAN [good books for high schoolers .TXT] 📗

and King asked for a Finnish lager to go with Stewart’s second whisky.

“Poncing out on me?” Stewart asked.

“I want a clear head,” he replied.

“Despite what has gone on, you’re quite safe here. Nobody will risk anything in this hotel,” he said. “Besides, the police are on the way.”

“You know that for sure?”

“Yes.”

“Who made the call?”

“Five called the office,” he said. “They have spoken to the Finnish police, and units are being dispatched. They’ve been briefed with what you told your line manager. A few coppers at first to secure the medical centre and the police station, then the investigators will arrive in the morning.”

“I’ll be gone by then,” King said.

“We both will.”

“What are your orders?”

Stewart laughed. “I’ve got to nursemaid some young punk,” he paused. “Probably have to clean up his mess. Like old times.”

King stared at him dubiously. “You’re assisting me?”

Stewart shrugged. He dipped his toast into the pâté and took a bite. “Fuck, that’s strong,” he said. He pulled a face like he’d been stung by a wasp as he chewed. “Well, now I know what reindeer liver tastes like after it’s been in a blender with juniper berries.” He took a forkful of diced pickles and ate quickly, washing down the flavour. “Yes,” he said. “The vehicle and everything else was on me.”

“I thought the map and acetate sheet seemed familiar.”

“Never put a mark on a map, my lad.”

“Quite.”

King tried some of the pâté but didn’t think it too bad. In fact, he smeared the velvety paste onto his sourdough toast eagerly. There wasn’t much of either and he finished the dish quickly. The drinks came, and Stewart indicated that he was done, the waiter frowning as he took away the relatively untouched plate.

Stewart looked at him quizzically. “I’ve got to ask…” he said. “How in god’s name did you end up working for Box?”

MI5’s address used to be PO Box 500. Within the intelligence community, the Security Service had not yet shaken off the shortening to Box. It wouldn’t either, because it was their wartime address because of the German bombing. If it wasn’t going to lose the name for close to eighty years, it probably never would.

“Somebody found me, needed me.”

“Charles Forrester,” Stewart said. “The former deputy director. A good man. God rest his soul.”

“Did you know him?”

“I know everybody worth knowing in this community,” he quipped. “And you stuck around? I’m surprised. Not as much freedom on the other side of the river.”

“I don’t do badly.”

“I gather that,” he said. “Went a bit rogue though, got yourself and MI5 in a bit of a tight spot last summer. Or so I hear…”

King looked up as the waiter bought the drinks. His glass was tall and frosted. He’d seen enough ice for one day. Stewart savoured his Scotch, kept it in his hand long after he’d taken a sip.

“…Went on a merry little dance all over Europe,” Stewart added.

“You do what needs doing,” King said.

A waitress arrived with two plates. King had the reindeer steak while Stewart had the Norwegian crab claws. The Arctic Ocean was close, and the Alaskan red king crabs had been bought from America and released by Stalin to feed Russia, which was close to famine. Only now, they had over-bred and Norway paid fishermen a tax-free bounty to fish as many of the invasive creatures as could fill their boats. The waitress set down the plates and said she’d be back.

“That’s the problem with getting involved with someone in the same line of work.”

King’s neck hairs bristled. His relationship wasn’t on the table. “There’s no problem,” he said in a tone that would have shut most men down.

“Just an opinion,” Stewart said coldly.

“Well, that’s just it, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Opinions. They’re just like arseholes. Everybody has one, but you don’t always want one in your face…”

Stewart moved his elbow as the waitress set down a plate of assorted breads and a finger bowl. As she left, he said, “Did you think you could just walk away, take up with MI5 and have MI6 forget all about you?”

“It snowballed.”

“I get it. You helped Charles Forrester out, served your country again. But then you went and fell for the golden girl of MI5. And then you couldn’t just walk away. You were in too deep. Your arsehole must have been twitching every time MI6 was mentioned. Must have puckered up a bit when you found out you’d be working with somebody from the Firm…”

King bristled. He leaned back with his beer and took a large mouthful. He could see that his old mentor was enjoying himself.

“I should have shot you,” King said. “While you were pissing your pants.”

“No doubt.”

King sliced off a piece of steak. He dipped it in the pepper sauce and snapped it off the fork, his teeth scraping the metal. He knew it had been a risky move back then, but he had taken it nonetheless. Now he felt forces closing in.

Stewart broke open the long crab claw with the silver crackers and smothered the meat in spicy mayonnaise. He chewed and dipped his fingers in the finger bowl. He swallowed his mouthful, glanced around the dining room.

“Nervous?”

Stewart smiled. “It’s a strange one, this,” he said. “Hostile forces unknown. A defector coming in like it’s Checkpoint Charlie in nineteen-seventy-eight or something. I’m in a John Le Carré or Frederick Forsyth novel.” He laughed. “But, I gather the defector is an alternate. A spare. Somebody with something we want, but no way of getting out of the country. Not legitimately, at least. And they want a new life, with protection.”

“They’re on a tight leash, then.”

“The tightest,” Stewart said. He ate more crab, chewed as he spoke. “Your fiancée mucked things up for you in South