Free The Envoy by Edward Wilson Page A

the instructor’s face as he said those very words. The instructor then paused and examined the eager upturned faces of America’s future spy elite. ‘And, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘that – along with “the cheque is in the post” and “I promise I won’t come in your mouth” – is one of the world’s three biggest lies.’ What the ban on assassination really meant was that you never write anything down. All planning and coordination must be mental and deniable.
    Later they learned to refer to killings as ‘wet ops’. The ideal assassination, of course, was one that could be passed off as an accident. And the most efficient form of ‘accident’ is a fall of more than seventy-five feet. (‘Elevator shafts, stairwells, unscreened windows and bridges will serve. Bridge falls into water are not reliable. Ideally, try to ensure that no wound or condition not attributable to the fall is discernible after death.’)
    Kit’s first attempt at a ‘wet job’ took place in Germany during his last posting. Horst had turned out to be a double agent: double in the sense that he seemed to be taking money from both the Stasi and the CIA. It was impossible to turn him over to the West German authorities: a court process would have compromised agents in the field. Kit and a major from the US Army Intelligence Corps decided to take Horst for a drive along the Rhine in Horst’s own car at two in the morning. The German’s hands and feet were bound and he must have thought they were planning to kill him by making it look like he had fallen asleep and driven over a cliff – and he was determined to make sure it didn’t happen that way. As they were driving along an autobahn , Horst’s car sputtered to a stop. ‘Fuck,’ shouted Kit, turning to Horst in the back seat, ‘your fucking gasoline gauge doesn’t work.’
    Horst smiled: he had been waiting for Kit to find out.
    ‘What are we going to do?’ said the major.
    ‘Listen, Roger, would you mind walking back to the village to chase up some gas – or a telephone – while I look after this piece of shit.’
    Kit listened to the major’s feet as they crunched away into the darkness. After five minutes Kit got out of the car to have a pee. Just as he started pissing, a voice began to shout from the other side of the autobahn. ‘ Horst, kommt hier – macht schnell !’ Somehow Horst had managed to undo the ropes that were binding his feet and hands. Before Kit could even do up his flies, Horst was out of the car and running towards the voice.
    Kit shouted, ‘Fuck,’ and took off running after his prisoner. He was still ten feet behind when Horst climbed over the autobahn guardrail to get across the central reservation to reach whoever was calling to him from the opposite lanes. Except there wasn’t a central reservation: they were on a viaduct. Neither Kit nor his German counterpart from the BfV, the West German FBI, heard the body land on the gravel streambed two hundred and fifty feet below. They waited for five seconds; then the BfV colleague called across the dark void. ‘Kit, you still want me to drive around to pick up you and Roger?’
    ‘Yes, please.’
    It was textbook perfection. The police and local press reported it as a ‘tragic accident’ – motorist ran out of fuel and fell to his death while seeking help. Two days later workmen were busy raising the barriers to prevent such an accident from happening again. There were, however, other repercussions. Kit’s cover was blown – and he was never sure how. In the end, there were more deaths and Kit had to leave Germany – which was one of the reasons he preferred sleeping in a safe house in the East End.

     
    ‘How long is Brian going to be away?’
    ‘I don’t know.’ Jennifer looked out to sea and the wind blew a twist of hair across her mouth. ‘He couldn’t say for certain – at least a week, maybe two.’
    Kit skipped back as a breaker crashed and surged over the shingle. The wind was