over the city, pushing down from the north. ‘But
that’s not my decision.’
Behind Jane, Rossan’s secretary sneaked open the door.
‘Mr. Hawick and the Chief are running late, but should be ready
in fifteen minutes Miss Stratton.’
‘Am I not summoned to attend, Maureen?’ Rossan asked,
quizzically arching an eyebrow. Shaking her head, Maureen closed the door with
a neat click.
Leaving the cup on the windowsill Rossan strode over to his
desk, the metal tips on his heels a precise manoeuvre in sound. When he sat
down the scuffed leather chair squealed. Glancing down at a single sheet
squared in the middle of his blotter, Rossan looked up before even reaching the
last line; his sharp blue eyes snapped on Jane like a gun dog sighting its
first downed grouse.
‘My schedule is clogged solid as it is,’ he said loftily.
Heading off Jane’s apology with a raised hand, Rossan sat back. ‘Teddy and the
Chief don’t regard Roly and me as their natural supporters.’
‘I just want to get Nick or Alistair home,’ Jane sighed, the
hairs on the back of her neck tingling. Through the smoked grey window the
pallid morning grew stronger, forcing tines of light through a dark band of
cloud.
‘Who doesn’t?’ he said, his sophistry surfacing.
A ball of tension spun through her and whether it came from a
lack of sleep or empty stomach, Jane couldn’t decide. ‘It’s Moscow flexing its
muscles,’ she said.
‘Is it?’ He gave a vulpine smile, the eyebrow arched higher.
‘Have that on good authority, do you?’
‘Come on Paul, you know Moscow have been looking for a strong
hand since Litvinenko.’
‘Haven’t they just,’ said Rossan. Alexander Litvinenko, a
perennial thorn in the Service’s side, an ex-Russian FSB officer who, once
granted asylum against Rossan and Roly Blackmore’s wise counsel, turned on his
former Moscow masters in print, and for his endeavours he was painfully
terminated with a dose of radiation. ‘And we’ve given them one, that what
you’re implying?’ He leant forward, elbows planted on his desk.
‘You mean by someone here?’ Jane flared.
‘Someone somewhere, has to be.’
Angry at Rossan’s flippancy a giddy twitch floated around her
tummy along with an itch deep in her palms she couldn’t ease.
‘Something I don’t know about, Paul?’
Again, he refused her. Keeping his distance which might only
have constituted a desk length, yet it seemed an endless expanse to Jane after
his supercilious shrug. ‘Hardly, you and Teddy seem to have the answers to
everything.’
‘On what?’ She demanded with feeling.
Surprised by Jane’s passion, Rossan cast around the desk and
hooked up a photograph of his wife Rebecca, wiping an imaginary smear off the
glass. Even at home Rossan continually ran into female intolerance,
indifference or anger. Rebecca, a debutante who’d sparkled quite considerably
in her youth, had never forgiven him when she lost her figure after the birth
of their son and daughter.
‘You’d have to ask C or Teddy,’ he said, seeming too pale under
the light.
Jane saw it clearly now, the reason for Rossan’s obfuscation;
it was her rise in C’s estimation, her new standing in the order of battle. ‘No
one’s been written off including Nick or Alistair,’ Jane said. She waited for
her anger to subside, to find its equilibrium.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘You should be.’
‘Good, I’m relieved we’ve reached a mutual understanding.’
Except she didn’t think they’d reached anything mutual. ‘I’d
better go,’ she said.
‘Of course, won’t do to keep the Chief or Teddy waiting.’
Closing Rossan’s door she pondered on his scheming, all the way
along to her own office.
• • •
Nick had been checked over by a surly
Russian military medic en route to Moscow. Diagnosed with cracked ribs, severe
lacerations, a flesh wound and a
that’s not my decision.’
Behind Jane, Rossan’s secretary sneaked open the door.
‘Mr. Hawick and the Chief are running late, but should be ready
in fifteen minutes Miss Stratton.’
‘Am I not summoned to attend, Maureen?’ Rossan asked,
quizzically arching an eyebrow. Shaking her head, Maureen closed the door with
a neat click.
Leaving the cup on the windowsill Rossan strode over to his
desk, the metal tips on his heels a precise manoeuvre in sound. When he sat
down the scuffed leather chair squealed. Glancing down at a single sheet
squared in the middle of his blotter, Rossan looked up before even reaching the
last line; his sharp blue eyes snapped on Jane like a gun dog sighting its
first downed grouse.
‘My schedule is clogged solid as it is,’ he said loftily.
Heading off Jane’s apology with a raised hand, Rossan sat back. ‘Teddy and the
Chief don’t regard Roly and me as their natural supporters.’
‘I just want to get Nick or Alistair home,’ Jane sighed, the
hairs on the back of her neck tingling. Through the smoked grey window the
pallid morning grew stronger, forcing tines of light through a dark band of
cloud.
‘Who doesn’t?’ he said, his sophistry surfacing.
A ball of tension spun through her and whether it came from a
lack of sleep or empty stomach, Jane couldn’t decide. ‘It’s Moscow flexing its
muscles,’ she said.
‘Is it?’ He gave a vulpine smile, the eyebrow arched higher.
‘Have that on good authority, do you?’
‘Come on Paul, you know Moscow have been looking for a strong
hand since Litvinenko.’
‘Haven’t they just,’ said Rossan. Alexander Litvinenko, a
perennial thorn in the Service’s side, an ex-Russian FSB officer who, once
granted asylum against Rossan and Roly Blackmore’s wise counsel, turned on his
former Moscow masters in print, and for his endeavours he was painfully
terminated with a dose of radiation. ‘And we’ve given them one, that what
you’re implying?’ He leant forward, elbows planted on his desk.
‘You mean by someone here?’ Jane flared.
‘Someone somewhere, has to be.’
Angry at Rossan’s flippancy a giddy twitch floated around her
tummy along with an itch deep in her palms she couldn’t ease.
‘Something I don’t know about, Paul?’
Again, he refused her. Keeping his distance which might only
have constituted a desk length, yet it seemed an endless expanse to Jane after
his supercilious shrug. ‘Hardly, you and Teddy seem to have the answers to
everything.’
‘On what?’ She demanded with feeling.
Surprised by Jane’s passion, Rossan cast around the desk and
hooked up a photograph of his wife Rebecca, wiping an imaginary smear off the
glass. Even at home Rossan continually ran into female intolerance,
indifference or anger. Rebecca, a debutante who’d sparkled quite considerably
in her youth, had never forgiven him when she lost her figure after the birth
of their son and daughter.
‘You’d have to ask C or Teddy,’ he said, seeming too pale under
the light.
Jane saw it clearly now, the reason for Rossan’s obfuscation;
it was her rise in C’s estimation, her new standing in the order of battle. ‘No
one’s been written off including Nick or Alistair,’ Jane said. She waited for
her anger to subside, to find its equilibrium.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘You should be.’
‘Good, I’m relieved we’ve reached a mutual understanding.’
Except she didn’t think they’d reached anything mutual. ‘I’d
better go,’ she said.
‘Of course, won’t do to keep the Chief or Teddy waiting.’
Closing Rossan’s door she pondered on his scheming, all the way
along to her own office.
• • •
Nick had been checked over by a surly
Russian military medic en route to Moscow. Diagnosed with cracked ribs, severe
lacerations, a flesh wound and a
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