Stephen Hunter by Tapestry of Spies

Author:Tapestry of Spies [Spies, Tapestry of]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-09-18T12:00:56+00:00

"I quite agree," said C. "Gentlemen, I merely want to make certain that

all data that is pertinent to MI-5 matters arrives at MI-5 headquarters,

that's all," said Sir Vernon. "I think we all agree on the ultimate

disposition of the case, but it seems equally certain that Julian Raines

will have information of great import to us."

"And so you see, James," said C, "we have cut a deal.

The deal is that we will continue to run the operation and you will

continue to do what is best. But all reports must be sent on to MI-5,

for their analysts. Is that understood?" "Yes sir," said Holly-Browning,

furious. "It's not really so bad," said Sir Vernon. "It's a good deal

better than having a bloody MI-5 snoop in the middle of everything, eh,

Sir James?" He smiled.

Holly-Browning nodded politely. But something vexing occurred to him,

clouding his smile. Who had informed MI-5?

TARRAGONA BELIEVE ME," SAID JULIAN, FLOLDING UP A GLASS OF CT4AMPAGNE

and blinking in the sun, "I've been dead and I've been alive and alive

is better."

"Hear, hear," said Florry, hoisting his own glass.

"To life, then, darlings, the death of us all," Julian toasted.

Even Sylvia drank, though not as lustily as her two companions.

"And how's the neck, Robert?" she asked.

Florry looked at her shyly. She had not said much to him.

"It's on the mend. Another inch or so and he'd have nipped an artery.

But he missed, it whizzed through, and here I am."

"To Spanish marksmanship!" said Julian grandly, which accounts for the

presence of a full two-thirds of this lovely grouping."

"We were just awfully lucky," said Florry. "Halfway through the second

day, a foraging party was less than fifty paces off. We were cooked."

"And then some wonderfully ingenious fifth columnist touches off the

POUM magazine at La Granja, and all the Johnny Fascist types totter off

to watch the smoke rise and cheer for their team." Julian greedily drank

more champagne. "Here's to luck, Julian's wonderful luck," he toasted

again, this time removing his father's wedding ring from under his shirt

and holding it, on its chain, out for them to see. "This little beauty

didn't do him much good, but it's come in handy for us, eh, Stink?"

Florry smiled wanly. "Indeed," he said.

"Well put, old sport."

"Do they treat you decently in that awful hospital?"

Sylvia asked politely.

"The Spanish, it seems, can do nothing well except cook," said Florry,

somewhat relieved to turn to a neutral subject. "Three times a day, they

wheel in huge steaming, wonderful meals. Meanwhile men die because

nobody thinks to change their bandages."

"The future is definitely behind schedule in Spain," said Julian. "I

don't believe the present has even arrived."

Florry sat back in the wheelchair. Sylvia and Julian had contrived to

spring him from his great bay of bleeding boys for this outing, and they

wheeled him down the two blocks of Tarragona's own Ramblas here to the

Esplanade high above the sea. Before him stretched a mile of white sand,

a rumpled mess of a Roman arena, and the sleepy, tepid Mediterranean. A

few bathers dabbled in it, a few more lay in the sun. The breeze was

fresh and salty; gulls flipped and fluted on it.

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