Hunter Killer

by Chris Ryan

  ‘What’s that, old sport?’

  ‘Danny Black. He did a good job, all things considered. But he knows the truth about all this. And as you and I understand, we can’t entrust something as dangerous as the truth to just anyone.’

  ‘Quite,’ Buckingham said.

  ‘I’m just saying, perhaps I made a small error of judgement letting him go.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘Where is he now?’ Maddox said.

  ‘Last I heard, on a plane to Eritrea.’

  ‘How heartwarming.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Have your people found his friend? Alive? Dead?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. But we have it in hand.’

  Another silence.

  ‘Danny Black is a situation the agency could take care of, if you understand my meaning,’ Maddox said.

  Buckingham inhaled slowly. He spun round in his chair and looked through the window, out across London. It looked just as it always had done. Grey, dirty, busy. The river running lazily into the distance. He found himself glancing up towards Marble Arch, then north: the area where Black had pummelled him. Black’s eyes had been wild. Out of control. Unhinged. And Buckingham himself felt his temperature rising at the memory.

  ‘Thank you for the offer, old sport,’ he said. ‘But I can deal with Danny Black.’

  He spun his chair round again, and smiled placidly at the American.

  Maddox shrugged. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘If you ever change your mind . . .’

  He gave Buckingham a meaningful smile. Then he left.