than yours, so behave yourself and answer my questions.â
âHeâs an intelligence officer, okay? I donât know his nameâ agh! He ⦠agh! ⦠he didnât tell me. I swear! Heâs burned out ⦠heâs an operations guy who works a desk now. He found out what his bosses have planned for the future, some mad police state deal, and he doesnât like it. He came across something Iâd written, saw a ⦠a chance to expose what was going on without risking his own skin, gave me information on the story and told me to ⦠to ⦠to talk to Sharon. Agh! Will you stop that, for Godâs sake! Itâs the truth! â
âAnd you donât know his name?â
âNo. He didnât give me one, and it wouldnât have been his real one even if he had.â
She eased off on his fingers, but kept her grip, ready to put the pressure back on.
âWhat does he look like?â she demanded.
âHeâs an old guy, late fifties or early sixties, maybe. White, with gray hair. Wears, like, antique square glasses. Face made up of these deep, straight lines, like that actor, whatshisname ⦠eh, Scott Glenn. Looks pretty fit still, and hard as nails.â
Caul released Chiâs hand and leaned back in her chair, her expression still chilly, but no longer aimed at him. He flexed his aching fingers, glaring at her, but decided he wasnât going to make a big thing of it. Heâd just had his balls handed to him by a woman half his size. It wasnât a story heâd be spreading around. This was his second bout of violence in one day; he definitely needed to start doing some martial arts or something.
âSo how about it?â he said to her. âWill you let me talk to Sharon?â
âWhat?â she grunted, looking at him with faint surprise, as if sheâd forgotten he was there.
âSharon,â he repeated. âWill you let me talk to her?â
âForget it, Goldilocks. You wonât be getting anywhere near her. Thereâs not a snowballâs chance in hell.â
Chiâs mouth dropped open slowly and he frowned uncertainly.
âWhat did you just say?â he asked.
Harriet Caul leaned in close, so that her face filled his vision, in case he might be in any doubt about her assertion.
âYou will never get to talk to Sharon Monk. Donât call her, donât text or email, and definitely donât come anywhere near her or youâre going to learn the true meaning of âpolice harassment.â And tell your bloody handler the same thing.â She eyed him for a moment, her expression softening slightly. âListen, Iâd get clear of this if you still can, kid. People like you donât last long around people like him. Heâll just use you until youâre ruined and then heâll dispose of you.
âOh and tell him this is our favorite café, too. And you can piss off out of it.â
Chapter 9: Going Public
The local library wasnât far from Sharon Monkâs flat, so Chi decided to use the computers there. It was time to look at Robertâs thumb drive. If there was malware on it, heâd rather let it loose on a public computer than his own, even if it did make him feel a bit guilty.
On his way there, Chi made no attempt to sneak around or evade detection. He had no wish to look a fool again. If someone wanted to follow him, let him. He was done hidingâfor the simple reason that he didnât seem to be much good at it.
He booked time on a computer and sat down, leaving the laptop in its bag on the floor. Slotting the key into the front of the PC tower, he opened the folder. There were dozens of documents, all of which looked innocent enough until you saw that some were sales invoices for surplus military supplies bought in Eastern Europe as well as large quantities of ammonium nitrate and diesel. So this was the stuff, according to Robert, that Sharon