The Watchman Read Online Free Page B

was playing with people’s lives, whether serving officers or local assets on the ground. Missions that went bad were never confined or selective; there were ripples which spread outward like a malevolent echo, picking up others in the process and bowling them over.
    â€˜Well?’
    â€˜No. I’m not saying that. I think we should proceed with greater caution, that’s all.’
    â€˜Point noted.’ Moresby nodded and moved on, and Vale sat waiting for the meeting to end. Now was not the time or place to have a stand-up fight with the man; Moresby had friends and mentors of his own who would support him and his new energetic approach to field operations. Vale, by comparison, would be seen as old school and over-cautious.
    He’d been out-manoeuvred. But he wasn’t done with this. Not by a long way.

Five
    S ome of the jobs I take on have a surreal inter-connection. After Bogotá I got home to New York to find a message requesting an escort assignment across the border from the US to Tijuana, Mexico. Just like Bogotá, among its other delights Tijuana is known as a centre for drugs activity. Some things you just can’t get away from.
    I kicked my heels for a couple of days, using the down time to catch up on a few personal and business-related matters, like gun practice in a local indoor range, intensive workouts at the gym and checking out a couple of security-related websites I use. Then I packed an overnight bag and flew down to San Diego.
    I was to meet with a man named James Beckwith from the Drugs Enforcement Agency. His bio included responsibility for Intelligence Research, which gave me a small insight to the job he might want me to do, but without specifics. He said he’d been given my name by a mutual contact in the Department of Justice.
    Beckwith’s office was located in a large building situated along a meandering road in the sandstone- and scrub-covered hills in the north-eastern sector of the city. But he didn’t want to meet me there. Instead he’d suggested the Sheraton out near the airport, a busy but anonymous block of brick and glass where business meetings were common and therefore unnoticed.
    Middle management types in the spooks business no longer meet in back alleys or smoky beer joints; they do so in smart hotels or business suites. It’s called hiding in plain sight. For the most part it works like a dream, since most of them look, walk and talk like corporate drones, complete with tablets, smartphones and briefcases.
    Special Agent Beckwith was true to type. I spotted him waiting in the foyer when I arrived. He was stocky and neatly dressed in a dark-blue suit, although he had the tightly-knit build of a man who works out a lot. He had a light tan, pretty standard for anyone in southern California, and the buzz-cut of a former marine. And a smartphone which he was studying carefully.
    He apologised for the subterfuge. ‘I figured the further you stayed away from the office, the better. I need a clean face for this assignment.’ He didn’t explain and looked a little tight around the eyes. I wondered if it was because I was an outsider he’d been forced to bring in. He hustled me into a sports bar where we grabbed a corner table away from the constant foot traffic of travellers, luggage carts and uniformed staff.
    â€˜This is your brief,’ he said, placing a folder on the table in front of me. ‘I’d prefer it if you read the details right here and gave it back.’ He caught the eye of a waiter cleaning tables. ‘You want to eat?’
    I shook my head. I’d eaten lunch earlier and didn’t feel like prolonging this meeting. It’s often the same with briefings, wherever they occur; there’s a lot of preliminary talk, like dogs sniffing out the opposition, none of which actually accomplishes anything. I’d rather get to the basics and get on with the task.
    He looked relieved and stood up,