Free Blood Moon Rising (A Beatrix Rose Thriller Book 2) by Mark Dawson Page B

stayed at the table, finishing his beer. He paid the check, stood and, making sure that she had gone up to her room and wasn’t waiting in reception, went outside to the parking lot. He got into his Freelander and drove the short distance into downtown Basra.
    He parked on the Corniche al-Basra, near the Lion of Babylon square. The area was busy with people, and traffic rolled alongside, impatient horns sounding. The buildings nearby were pocked with bullet holes, and there were deep, untidy piles of rubble all about. The street lamps overhead flickered on and off, casting intermittent puddles of light down onto the sidewalk.
    The passenger door opened and Captain Michael Pope slid into the seat. He was wearing a white dishdasha , a long Iraqi robe that reached down to his ankles. A scarf was pulled up over his mouth and nose. He pulled the scarf down.
    “Good evening, sir,” Faulkner said.
    “How did it go?”
    “Fine. I picked her up and brought her across.”
    “How is she?”
    “Combative.”
    “I know that, Twelve,” Pope said impatiently. “Physically?”
    Faulkner was puzzled. “She looks alright. Why?”
    “You don’t think she looks ill?”
    “She’s thin,” he said, “but ill? I don’t know. Can’t say I noticed.”
    “Keep it in mind,” Pope said. “You’re going to spend time with her. More than I have. Something’s not right and I can’t put my finger on it. And if I’m right, I need to know about it. Alright?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    He shifted, the robe tightening so that Faulkner could see the shape of a holstered weapon beneath his armpit. “What’s your plan for tomorrow?”
    “I’m going to get her equipped, and then we’re going to go and have a look at the oil field. If I can persuade her to go after your man first, I will.”
    Pope nodded his approval. “Keep her focussed on that. Promising that she would get him out was the only way I could have this cleared. I cannot afford for this to go wrong.”
    “I understand, sir.”
    Pope pulled the scarf up around his mouth again.
    “Keep me on top of everything and if you need me, call. But no one else can know I’m here. As far as SIS is concerned, I’m in London.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    He opened the door and disappeared into the busy night.

Chapter Sixteen
    B eatrix managed a broken night’s sleep and finally gave up the pretence at six. She rose, showered in the lukewarm dribble that was the best the hotel could manage and dressed in a white sleeveless T-shirt, black pants and black boots. She collected her Oakleys from the dresser and went down to the restaurant, where she had fruit and toast for breakfast, washing down two Zomorphs with a glass of tepid orange juice.
    Faulkner joined her as she was flipping through an out-of-date copy of the Herald-Tribune .
    “Ready?”
    She nodded.
    He drove her to downtown Basra. They stopped at a money changer and swapped some of her dollars for Iraqi dinars. They continued to a tailor’s workshop, and he told her that she was expected. Faulkner drove off to take care of the paperwork for their drive to the oilfield, and she went inside. A man was working with a large bolt of fabric, measuring it out and then using a pair of long-bladed scissors to shear off the amount that he needed.
    She cleared her throat.
    He looked up. “Miss Rose?”
    “Yes.”
    “Number Twelve said you were coming.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “That doesn’t matter, does it?”
    “No,” she said. “Just that the quality of your merchandise is as good as it needs to be.”
    “Then you need not worry. It is.”
    Beatrix knew that the Group had quartermasters positioned around the world. They assimilated themselves into local society and surfaced only when called upon to kit out agents when they were in the field. She had met plenty of them during her career, but it had been years since she was active, and so it was no surprise that this man was new to her. He led her into a smaller room at the back of