by Geoff Wolak
* * *
In Bern, Switzerland, The Zimbabwean Ambassador stood confused. So did his staff. Their two shiny black limousines had been securely stored overnight in the spacious embassy garage as usual. But today was different. Today they were … pink. Neatly and expertly re-sprayed. Pink.
They walked around the vehicles. No paint spots were visible on the glass, the chrome work or the floor. The paint gleamed, dry and shiny, a perfect gloss finish, diligently tested by the Ambassador’s hands himself. They stood and stared, already late for their meeting.
At Broadlands, Beesely held an A4 colour computer image, freshly printed off, roaring with laughter. Otto did not understand what this use of K2 resources actually proved.
3
The London CIA Deputy Section Chief, Hamilton Burke Junior, followed his Israeli colleagues flight-plan to Broadlands, the same helicopter. He too had checked out Beesely, and he too had been told to attend the meeting. As he landed, he could not have missed the three men sat by the side of the lake, and fishing.
His assistant tapped his arm and spoke into the headset as they unbuckled. ‘That’s the new Israeli Section Head for the UK.’ They exchanged glances.
‘The guy looks pretty fucking relaxed. He a regular visitor?’
Beesely stood waiting on the gravel, a direct path toward him keeping the Americans away from talking to the Israelis. He waved to them as they cleared the rotor blades, the two men finally straightened up. ‘So nice of you to pop down.’
Burke wore a casual jacket over a polo t-shirt, covering a barrel chest, a neck the same girth as his head. With crew cut grey hair, he appeared to Beesely to be in his fifties. The Americans glanced at the Israelis as the Israelis watched the Americans walking into the house.
‘You do business with the Israelis,’ Burke noted, very matter of fact, as they assembled around the table. The used cups had been deliberately left, giving the impression of a long prior meeting.
Jane stepped in, Beesely saying to her, ‘Shall we clear this lot away and start afresh?’ He gestured firmly for the two Americans to sit down. ‘Please, gentlemen, have a seat.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘Sorry, you were saying something about the Israelis? Like the fishing, gets them away from London.’
‘Sure,’ Burke agreed, his eyes taking in as much detail of the room as he could find. ‘Love to fish myself,’ he announced whilst still checking out the room, managing to make it sound his least favourite activity, his accent now getting broader and heading west.
‘Excellent!’ Beesely boomed with a broad smile. ‘You’ll have to try the lake after the Israelis head back.’
The helicopter roared past the house.
Beesely turned to Otto with a surprised look. ‘Have they gone?’
Otto nodded.
‘And left the fishing gear on the lake?’
Otto again nodded.
‘Bloody typical! Not the most diplomatic of people.’
‘That’s for sure,’ Burke blurted out, immediately regretting it.
‘As friendly as waiters in a Tel Aviv hotel,’ Beesely joked. They all laughed, Burke’s laughter forced. Beesely continued avoiding eye contact with his guests as Jane brought out tea, plus coffee for the Americans in the exact flavours and measures of milk and sugar as the guests favoured. It was not missed on them and they exchanged uneasy glances.
Burke sipped his coffee, the exact Colombian blend he had brought with him to the UK. It remained hard to find outside of South America. ‘So, how’s Dame Helen working out for the Circus? If … you’re still in the loop?’
Otto tapped Beesely’s arm, Beesely ignoring the dig from Burke. ‘She wants to make an appointment and pop down. Today if possible,’ he lied.
‘What is this, open house day?’ Beesely feigned.
Otto continued lying, ‘She wants us to have another crack at that Russian problem.’
Beesely nodded, deep in thought, then edged closer to Burke and whispered. ‘We’re holding some Russian computer guys.’
Burke nodded his apparent understanding. Of what, remained to be determined.
Johno opened the front door, ‘Bastards bit me when I fed them, then one shat on my shoes. I’m gunna get a cattle prod.’
Beesely played back the image in his mind, before realising how the Americans could have interpreted Johno’s words. ‘So, to business, gentlemen.’
‘And what kinda business can you help us with?’ Burke asked, folding his arms and easing back.
Otto handed Beesely a bank statement, as with the Israelis, and Beesely slid it forwards. To their surprise, Burke took out a pair of golden, half-moon glasses, holding the page at arm’s length. Beesely remained silent, his fingers interlaced and held against his chest as if an earnest monk in prayer. Burke finally gestured with a hand, a conscious plea for explanation.
Beesely eased forwards. ‘That money is for your unofficial operations in central Europe. Consider it a gift, of sorts.’
Burke whipped his glasses off. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Let me explain,’ Beesely offered as he stirred his tea loudly. ‘I have made a substantial amount of money over the past fifty years, had some shrewd investments at the right time. Now that I’m getting old and ... winding down, and I would like to see some of that money put to good use, and by that I do not mean Save The Whale.’ He tapped the spoon, deflecting Burke’s stare. ‘You see, I have spent my entire adult life either in the military or in private security –’
‘You sold your interest in those private security companies years ago. You could have made a whack in Iraq!’
Beesely considered that it was obviously a well-used phrase, albeit painfully poor use of Queen’s English. ‘So it would appear to the wider world,’ he stated with menace. ‘But you should not believe everything you hear.’
Burke waved the sheet. ‘And who knows about this?’
‘Just us.’ Beesely took the paper back. ‘But there are some provisos that we would like to … request before handing over the money.’
‘Which little country do ya want invaded?’ Burke asked with a grin, glancing at his assistant.
Beesely forced an unfriendly smile. ‘Nothing quite so dramatic, young man.’ The put down could hardly have been missed. Burke stopped smiling. ‘We simply want two things. First, that you do not carry out operations on our turf, and by that I mean Switzerland. And second … if you have some small operations that we may help you with, that you consider contracting back to our division.’
Burke nodded and cracked a smile. He understood where Beesely had been expertly leading him. ‘Business is business!’
‘And when you are no longer contracted to the CIA…’ Burke’s eyes widened at the illicit employment offer. ‘Some room for consultancy work, for someone with your skills.’