Free The Watchman by Adrian Magson Page B

Portman your real name?’ He smiled at me and I got the impression of someone who meant me no ill will. Maybe it was the cultured English accent, firm but non-aggressive.
    â€˜Portman’s fine,’ I said. ‘Who are you?’
    â€˜Tom Vale.’ He stirred sugar into his mug. ‘Nate Sweetman told me about you.’
    It took a second to recall where I’d heard the name. Sweetman. Engineer. Bogotá. Nearly kidnapped. Nice guy, if over-chatty.
    â€˜Do I know him?’
    â€˜You should – you saved his life. He nearly got FARC’d.’ He smiled to show he had a sense of humour.
    â€˜Just like that? He told you?’
    â€˜We have a family connection. He needed to talk to somebody about what happened.’
    â€˜Why you? You know about stuff like that?’
    â€˜A little.’ He sipped his coffee and looked pleasantly surprised, then sipped again. I let him do his thing and waited. While we’d been going through the preliminaries, I’d been watching the street and the door, checking out passers-by and customers. None that looked like they were with this Mr Vale, though.
    â€˜You also know about stuff like that,’ he said eventually.
    â€˜You think?’
    â€˜Well, starting with Nate, who’s a very good judge of character, let’s look at the facts: you walked into a kidnap attempt and calmly disarmed one kidnapper, shot two with the first man’s gun and put down a fourth outside and took his vehicle.’ He looked at me with a lifted eyebrow. ‘You don’t mess about, do you?’
    â€˜No point,’ I replied. ‘Have you seen what they do to people they don’t like? They use chainsaws.’
    He grunted. ‘I admit I thought Nate was hallucinating when he said you paid his hotel bill on the way out. But the hotel confirmed it. Neat. Cool under fire. Which makes me think you’re more than just a good Samaritan or a bystander who got lucky.’
    â€˜You said “starting with”.’
    â€˜Pardon?’
    â€˜A few seconds ago, when I asked who told you, you said “starting with Nate”. It implies you spoke to others.’
    â€˜Oh.’ He raised a hand in apology. ‘Well, I know you don’t work for us, so I ran a quick check on other agencies. The only official Portman I found is a senior admin supervisor with the NSA – but she’s a busty fifty-year-old with two children and a sick Chihuahua. If it hadn’t been for a stroke of luck my people wouldn’t have found you so easily. They’re very good, but there are limits.’
    â€˜Your people?’
    â€˜I’ll come to that. My main question is, what does this mystery man, this Mr Portman, who pops out of nowhere and disrupts a kidnapping so effortlessly, what does he
do
, exactly?’
    I shook my head. ‘You tell me.’
    He nodded. ‘Fair point. I just wanted to gauge your reaction, that’s all. The fact that you haven’t run screaming into the street is a good sign.’ He leaned forward and said, ‘I’m with SIS, otherwise known as MI6, London.’ He sighed. ‘I can’t tell you how rarely I ever get to say that to strangers. It’s almost a confessional moment.’
    â€˜Bless you.’
    â€˜Thank you. I’ve spent my life working in intelligence gathering – mostly as a field controller, running operations. Now I’ve shown you mine, it’s your turn.’
    He was either the best fantasist I’d ever met, and a hell of a good liar, or he was telling the truth. It presented me with a dilemma. I could stand up and walk out of here and probably never see him again. Or I could find out more.
    I hate mysteries.
    â€˜You’ve got my name, my address. The rest is simple: I’m a shadow. I run security, evaluate risks and where needed, provide hard cover in potentially hostile situations.’
    â€˜Hard cover. Like