Free Bomb Grade by Brian Freemantle

his suitcases unopened and held up invitingly the Heathrow duty-free scotch, Macallan. He hadn’t been able to get his preferred Islay single malt at London airport.
    â€˜Wonderful,’ accepted the Scots station chief.
    Charlie didn’t believe the tumblers he found in the kitchen were crystal but they certainly looked like cut glass. He served it neat, knowing to add water or to attempt to find ice would offend Bowyer.
    â€˜Death to the enemy, whoever they are,’ toasted Charlie, looking directly at the other man.
    â€˜May they show themselves quickly,’ accepted Bowyer.
    â€˜Would you like a cigarette?’ offered Charlie, continuing his role of host. ‘I don’t smoke but I brought some Marlboro in because I guess I’ll need them.’
    Bowyer frowned. ‘Why, if you don’t smoke?’
    Charlie felt a burn of embarrassment. ‘When I was here before, to hold up a packet of Marlboro was the guaranteed way to get a taxi.’
    Bowyer held back the smirk, but only just. ‘I’ve heard about it. It’s one of the legends. You have been away a long time, haven’t you?’
    Charlie decided that whatever Bowyer told London he’d include that, just to make him look a prick. Which he had been, trying too hard to show how smart he was. Not an auspicious beginning, he decided.
    John Fenby frowned across his desk at the head of his Scientific Division. ‘She’s a woman!’
    The scientific head, Wilbur Benning, ached to remind the Director that females usually were. Instead he said, ‘Hillary Jamieson is one of the most outstanding young physicists I’ve ever encountered. Frankly I’m surprised she’s with us: she could take any one of a dozen jobs paying four times as much as she’s getting at her current grade.’
    â€˜So why isn’t she?’ demanded Fenby, an unshakeable believer in conspiracy theories.
    â€˜No one knows why Hillary Jamieson does anything,’ said Benning. ‘She’s a free spirit, doing whatever she wants to do because she knows she’s too damned clever ever to have to worry about anything.’
    â€˜But is she a threat?’
    You prick, thought the scientist. ‘To what?’
    Fenby, whose fears were kept chilled by the Cold War, blinked. ‘Any operation she might be involved in.’
    Benning was enjoying himself, building up stories to tell in the bar later. The frown was exaggerated, further to unsettle the Director. ‘She’s a headquarters-based scientist, not a field operative.’
    Defeated, Fenby said lamely, ‘But is she good?’
    â€˜There’s no one better.’
    The change of attitude was palpable. The deference was back from everyone except Sobelov and his demeanour was obvious, too. The man was scared, panicking, not thinking before he spoke and looking more and more foolish with every argument he attempted.
    â€˜They can’t guarantee that much!’ Sobelov protested.
    â€˜They can. And they are. And there’s a revised value. It could be worth as much as $100,000,000, in total.’
    â€˜It’s a trap,’ persisted the challenger.
    â€˜Not for us it isn’t. And the way I’m organizing it you get your war with the Chechen. Except we don’t have to get involved or distracted by it. We just make the money while other Families destroy each other, making fresh opportunities for us.’
    â€˜It’s brilliant!’ said Oleg Bobin, publicly changing sides. ‘Absolutely brilliant.’
    Silin let the silence stretch for as long as he felt able. Then, heavily, he said, ‘So I have everyone’s confidence? And agreement to conclude the negotiations?’
    The assent was unanimous and immediate, from everyone except Sobelov. Relentlessly, Silin prompted, ‘Sergei Petrovich?’
    â€˜We should be involved in the negotiations,’ persisted the man.
    â€˜It’s always been this way