Eva raised her palms. “Why not both?” Her tone turned serious. “You said Sophia still works for Direction générale de la Sécurité extérieure. You also told us she was bloody good at what she did and that you trust her unquestioningly. Well, trusted, past tense. My point is, if you have an in at the DGSE who you’re reasonably certain hasn’t been turned by Tartarus then you should absolutely talk to her.”
“And,” Bishop added, “if it happens to be over a candlelit dinner, so be it.”
While Nash could see their point, he didn’t necessarily want to. The thought of seeing Sophia again filled him with both excitement and dread. They had been spectacular together, for a time. She was the love of his life and he should have fought harder to keep her, but in the end their conflicting schedules, separate countries and career ambitions had defeated them in a way no foe ever could.
He still dreamed of her. In his more sombre moments, he still longed for her. Eva had asked why he hadn’t contacted Sophia after he’d retired: the truth was he’d been too scared to. Scared she’d moved on. Scared she hadn’t but still wouldn’t want to see him. Scared she did want to see him, but they couldn’t rekindle the love they’d once shared. Scared they could.
If the fight against Tartarus had taught him anything it was that he shouldn’t sit life out in the safe confines of the shadow of doubt. His life wasn’t over. It was time he forged a new one full of happiness and left regret behind. He should have contacted Sophia. He should have done a great many things. Now, with everything closing in around him, he feared his time was almost up.
While Eva and Bishop’s logic was sound, in the end he settled for the safest response.
“I’ll think about it.”
As the waiter brought another round, Nash’s attention was drawn to the street outside. Two men milled about on the far side of the roundabout. In itself, that was nothing unusual, except they were huddled close enough to suggest they knew each other but hadn’t exchanged a word in the last twenty minutes. The more Nash observed, the more he saw they were purposefully not looking at the bar. They were watching everything but the bar. The moment the grey-haired man spoke into his sleeve, Nash’s instincts kicked in.
Raising his glass, Nash spoke in a low voice. “I can’t be sure, but I think we’ve been made. Two suspects diagonally across the other side of the roundabout. Suspicious stakeout vibes. The one on the left just spoke into his cuff. At least pretend to use a mobile phone, man. Come on, that’s sloppy.”
Eva and Nash were experienced enough not to gaze in the direction Nash indicated, not immediately anyway. They took their time, acting as naturally as they could while casting a casual glance towards the two men.
“Sketchy as fuck.” Eva leaned in for some olives. “How we playing this?”
“If they’re using comms devices they’re not alone.” Bishop eyed the waiter, making sure he was out of earshot. “We could be surrounded. There’s no back door to this place, so I suggest we pay up and casually make our way to the train station and see if we’re followed. Once mobile we can re-strategize from there. Plan?”
“Plan,” Nash and Eva concurred.
Standing, Nash realised he was more intoxicated than he’d thought. Not drunk, but not entirely sober either. Damn this getting old shit. Gone were the days of downing a bottle of wine before going drinking. He pushed through it, unsure whether it was the fuzzy semi-drunk feeling or his lamentations at getting older.
He was reminded of his friend Sebastian Hawk. They’d formed a bond when they were in the SAS, and as the principal of the local school at Devil’s End, Hawk had given Nash his teaching job. A few years older than Nash, Hawk once claimed he drank less as he grew older and simply stood up quickly for the same effect. Nash didn’t necessarily believe it—he’d seen the man down a bottle of Jack Daniels and go on to chair a flawless parent-teacher evening.
Eva paid their bill, thanked the underworked waiter and the three made their way to the exit.
“No tip?” Nash asked.
Eva shook her head. “This is Australia, mate. Hospitality staff get paid a good wage with all the benefits, so unless someone actively sucks your dick during the night, Aussies don’t generally leave a tip.”
“Uh, fair enough, I guess.”
Bishop brought Eva up to speed. “When you paid, the two outside moved off, one talking into his sleeve again. We’ve certainly got company. Nash, you armed?”
“Negative. I pretty much came directly here from the airport. You?”
Bishop shook his head. “Like tipping, this country looks down on guns. Ownership is severely limited, so we haven’t been able to source any.” Bishop cracked his neck. “This could be interesting.”
Nash flexed and unflexed his hands. “What are we thinking? Tartarus? ASIO? MI6? CIA?”
Bishop inhaled deeply. “My money’s on SHISH.”
“SHISH?” A crease formed between Eva’s brows. “Who the hell is SHISH?”
“Albania’s State Intelligence Service. I hardly ever get to bring up SHISH. It’s honestly the best intelligence agency name. Say it with me: SHISH.”
Ignoring the request, Nash grimaced. “I feel like you two aren’t taking this as seriously as you should.”
“I assure you, they’re not SHISH, the CIA or any of those.”
All three turned to see the waiter. And his gun. Mainly the gun.
The waiter held a Beretta at waist height, pointed at the three of them. His expression was grim, his grip firm. They were unarmed and he had the drop on them.
Nash turned ever so slightly towards Eva. “You really should have tipped him.”
Chapter Four
Bishop folded his arms. “I thought you said weapons were hard to come by in this country, and yet here’s this humble waiter waving one about like it’s nothing at all.”
“I’m not a humble waiter,” the not-humble-waiter replied.
That explained the generous pours and the confused order taking. It was hard to detect an accent. When he was a heavy-handed waiter he’d sounded Australian enough, but now less so; regionless in a practiced way.
“To get the drop on the three of us, no, you’re not,” Bishop conceded. He let out a bored moan. “Whose turn is it?”
Blinking several times, the man asked, “Turn for what?”
“I did the last one,” Eva replied.
“Uh,” Bishop raised a finger, “no, you didn’t. That was me.”
“What are you lot on about?” The gunman’s face was a mass of confusion.
