| without telling Fox. “Who’s calling?” The reply was delivered in a frantic tone. “It’s me. It’s Barnacle.” Mars shut his eyes. Mr. CIA again. For a trained intelligence agent this man was jumpy and reckless. He’d all but outlived his worth, although Mars had one final use for the American, so he’d have to placate him now. “How can I help you?” “They’re on to me. I’m being tailed.” Mars cocked his head. “You’re sure of it?” “I’ve been with the Agency for decades.” “You are in Support. You aren’t exactly George Smiley.” The comment hung in the air for a moment. “I’ve worked the other end. I’ve been to the Farm. Obviously I can tell when there’s overt surveillance on me.” “Overt?” “Well… a lead tail who is making himself seen. I might have seen others who were low profile.” Mars said, “You’ll be here in no time. You’ll be fine.” “You don’t think CIA would tail me in London? They will. They’ll pick me up, too, if they have enough evidence.” “What evidence can they possibly have?” “The fucking banker talked, obviously!” In response to the American’s tone, Mars said, “Barnacle,” in a low and threatening voice. “Sorry. It’s just that—” Mars interrupted. “The banker didn’t know your identity. Whatever they have, it’s not from Dirk Visser. If you are, in fact, being tailed, it’s simply because you are in the small cluster of those who had advance knowledge of all the operations that were compromised. This is |
tiny attic room. It was a fourth-floor walkup, dingy and dark with two bare lightbulbs illuminating the entire studio. There was no furniture, not even a chair or a table. She put her bag down in the middle of the room, sighed, and turned back for the door. She purchased a sleeping bag at an army surplus store in the Arch Gallery, along with eating utensils for one, an olive green cold-weather balaclava head and face covering, and a few other personal items. She stopped at a hardware store to pick up some tools, a home goods store for a towel and a washcloth and a thick rubber welcome mat, a sporting goods store for a yoga mat in a canvas case, and a food market for provisions on her way back to the flat. Back inside she stacked her food on a moldy shelf in the kitchenette: a few bags of crackers, protein bars, canned tuna, and bottled water. In the tiny and foul-smelling bathroom, she put her toothbrush and toothpaste on the rusty vanity and tossed the bath towel and the washcloth over a hanger. She unfurled the sleeping bag in a small closet next to the bathroom door, changed into track pants and a sweatshirt, then sat down cross-legged in the closet with a protein bar in one hand and her phone in the other. She scanned the Internet on her mobile phone as she alternately chewed and sipped water, looking at maps and satellite images, solidifying |
