The Network by Jason Elliot Page A

all mobiles will be GPS-enabled and we’ll be able to know which pocket they’re in.’ He grins smugly and takes another sip of beer.
    ‘I could have taken her home,’ I say.
    ‘Oh, come on,’ he scoffs dismissively. ‘You’re much too old-fashioned for that.’
    ‘I might not have come to the bar. I could have left her in the car park.’
    ‘You like a drink, Ant. We both know that.’
    He’s got me there. I feel strangely violated. He’s predicted my every step.
    ‘Why go to all the fuss?’ I asked. ‘If you wanted to meet why couldn’t you just call me like a normal person?’
    He takes another sip of beer and his eyes scan the room from left to right as the glass is raised. His voice grows a little quieter.
    ‘This isn’t just a joke, Ant. People watch. This way, there’s nothing to show we didn’t meet by accident. No record, no phone calls, no prior meeting.’
    ‘Please. Who cares?’
    ‘The people you once nearly worked for care,’ he says, and turns to me in the manner of a parent admonishing a guilty child.
    I feel the hair go up at the back of my neck. No one knows that. I’ve never told anyone. From wondering whether my old friend has lost his mind, I now have to ask myself how, unless he’s seen my personnel file at the Firm, he can possibly know about this secret chapter of my life which I buried a long time ago. My mind is scanning over the little history I really know about Seethrough.
    We meet for the first time at Sandhurst, where he’s lecturing in Faraday Hall while I’m a still an officer cadet, and once again on exercise near Warminster, where we manage to topple the Land Rover. As a young lieutenant in a Guards regiment he’s rebadged during the Gulf War to operate with a branch of the SAS called the Force Projection Cell, based in Riyadh, where we meet again by chance at the end of hostilities. We see each other a few times in London after the Gulf but eventually lose touch. He’s always travelling, and the few times we speak by telephone, when I ask him what he’s doing he says he can’t talk about it. I regret the loss of contact. He’s a brave and principled soldier, gifted with charm, energy and a wide circle of distinguished friends, but I move, by choice and temperament, in less exalted circles. It occurs to me now that I’ve envied his enormous self-confidence, his freedom from introspection and his use of old-fashioned expressions that remind me of my father. But it makes sense now. My old friend Captain Seethrough has become a spy.
    ‘Why the approach?’ I ask casually, hoping to disguise my astonishment. ‘Am I a target? There’s not very much that’s secret about the landscaping business. I know some frogs and newts you could recruit.’
    ‘Don’t be facetious, Ant,’ he says, taking another sip from his glass. ‘We thought you might want to go back to Afghanistan. Courtesy of the Firm this time.’ He studies my reaction. I try not to have one. ‘There’s an op there if you want it. The Chief’s been looking for someone and I’ve managed to convince him that this one’s got your name on it. Think you might want to give it a try? Nobody’s poked around the place as much as you have, or speaks the languages.’ He pauses while the proposition sinks in. ‘You failed the first time and I’m giving you a second chance.’
    ‘I didn’t fail,’ I say, ‘I opted out.’
    ‘That’s not quite what your file says, Ant,’ he says with a sceptical tilt of his head. So he’s seen my PF after all. Then his manner changes completely and he looks around the room as if he’s just arrived.
    ‘Do they do food here?’ he asks loudly.
    ‘I haven’t got much of an appetite,’ I say.
    Seethrough goes to the bar and orders two more beers, and I watch as he engages the barman in conversation, laughing with him as though the two of them are old friends. He has the gift of immense and apparently spontaneous charm. He can convince a complete stranger of