Payback by James Barrington Read Free Book Online Page A

politely passed on to someone else.
    In reality, Evans was a career officer in the Secret Intelligence Service, responsible for local liaison and cooperation and, when he wasn’t out operating on the streets of Bahrain, he
could be found in the ‘Holy of Holies’, the name given to that section of the Embassy reserved for use by SIS officers.
    The telephone call he received just after four-thirty that afternoon was both short and unremarkable.
    ‘Bill?’ The voice had a pronounced accent, and Evans recognized it immediately. He checked the caller-identification display on his desk phone and wasn’t surprised that it
reported a ‘private number’. The clarity of the line suggested it was either a mobile or a car phone.
    ‘Yes, Tariq?’
    ‘I’ve found that album you were looking for. Could we meet this evening for a drink so that I can give it to you?’ The man’s English was precise but somewhat stilted.
    Evans glanced down at the filing trays on his desk, all of which, with the notable exception of the ‘out’ tray, seemed to be depressingly full, but knew he had no choice, because the
caller, Tariq Mazen, clearly had very urgent information for him.
    The telephone code the two men used was simple, innocuous and very easy to remember, and relied on a handful of key words inserted into the kind of conversation any two male friends might have.
‘Album’ meant immediate, right now. The other options were ‘book’, which meant an urgent meeting within twenty-four hours; ‘CD’ within forty-eight hours, and
‘DVD’ within seventy-two hours. Simple enough: ‘A’, ‘B’, ‘C’ and ‘D’ in descending order of priority.
    The second sentence contained the word ‘drink’, which meant that Mazen was already in his car waiting for him. For less urgent meetings he would have said ‘meal’, and
also suggested a date, time and place and, as the two men were openly friendly with each other, they would meet in a restaurant as agreed. There Mazen would hand over an entirely normal book, CD or
DVD, and Evans would pay him for it.
    The information Mazen needed to convey would be passed to Evans during the meal itself, if circumstances allowed, or afterwards as they walked back to their vehicles. Nothing in writing had been
their rule from the first. If Mazen had to supply photographs or documents, he would simply seal them in an unmarked envelope and leave it at one of a dozen dead-letter drops scattered around
Manama, and tell Evans using a simple number code which one he was going to use, and when the drop could be serviced.
    ‘I’m sorry, Tariq,’ Evans replied. ‘I can’t tonight. I’m up to my ears in work here, and I’ve just had another ten files dumped on my desk. If I can
manage tomorrow, I’ll give you a call.’ That ‘ten’ meant he would be outside the Embassy building within ten minutes.
    Evans glanced at the wall clock and stood up. He walked down a short corridor, knocked on a door and opened it without waiting for a response. Inside, a pretty, dark-haired woman of about thirty
looked up from her laptop and smiled at him.
    ‘Carole-Anne,’ Evans began, ‘I’ve just had a call from Tariq Mazen. He wants an urgent meeting so I’ll be out for a while. Could you please record that I’m
meeting him, subject and duration unknown, and I’ll write up my work diary when I get back. But if I don’t make it here by close of business, can you stick all my stuff in the safe and
lock it?’
    Carole-Anne Jackson – officially an American expatriate employed at the embassy as a typist, but in fact a CIA officer on exchange – nodded.
    Evans made a drinking gesture, but she shook her head.
    ‘No, not tonight, Bill. Prior engagement and all that.’ Evans’s face darkened in mock anger. ‘Who with?’ he demanded.
    ‘You find out,’ Carole-Anne replied, her smile turning into an impish grin. ‘After all,’ she added, ‘you are supposed to be a spy, aren’t