Free Keys to the Kingdom by Derek Fee Page A

in every favour you have on the Hill,’ Terman said waving at the waiter who approached the table cautiously. ‘The Congressman and myself have decided against eating.’ He tossed a hundred dollar bill on the table. ‘For the drinks and a tip.’
    The waiter scooped the bill and beat a retreat.
    ‘The Saudis are going to crunch my nuts when I go after them,’ Bradley said picking up the document case.
    ‘Do your job and you’ll get out of this with a smile on your face,’ Terman said standing up.
    ‘When do I get the originals?’ Bradley asked.
    ‘I’ll be in touch,’ Terman said and headed for the door. He was ravenous. He needed to find some place where he could have a steak and a beer and mix with people like himself. Putting a Congressman in your pocket sure can give you an appetite, he thought.
     
    Terman failed to notice that the male member of the quiet couple sitting across the room had been taking photographs of both him and his companion. The photos were already winging their way to Langley. The couple continued with their meal, it was a rare thing indeed for the Company to pay for a meal at such a prestigious hotel. Another tag team would pick up Terman as he exited the St. Regis.
     

 
    CHAPTER 8
     
     
    London
    Worley watched the faces of his fellow Londoners as he exited from the Underground and turned in the direction of the twin-towered office block in Vauxhall housing the British Secret Service. After his meeting with Burfield he had returned to his small house in Kew and collapsed on the bed. He had woken in the late afternoon and had been disorientated for a few minutes. The smells of spices and oriental cooking that had in the past dominated the house were now overlaid with the musty smell of emptiness. It had been over a year since he or anyone else had stayed in the house and it was beginning to show. The antique furniture that he had collected over the past twenty-five years appeared opulent when compared with the stark utilitarianism of the standard furniture supply by the Foreign Office for his flat in the compound in Riyadh. His books still lined the shelves of his living room and his collection of Classical vinyl LPs stood in the wooden racks he had made with his own hands. The house had always given him a cosy feeling but now he felt like a stranger re-visiting part of his previous life. Visitors would think the house quintessentially male, devoid of a woman’s touch. Several women had lived there with Worley but his lifestyle eventually drove them away. He had never considered children. Not that he disliked them. He just thought it was better that Harry Worley’s line should end with him. The world he had come to know was no place for children.
    ‘Come in, Arthur,’ Burfield cupped his hand around the mouthpiece of his phone. ‘Be with you in a trice,’ he said sotto voce.
    Worley entered the room and sat in the chair before Burfield’s desk. He switched off his brain and looked out through the window at the offices of M15 directly across the river. It was curious that the twin organs of the British Secret Service should have been located in the direct line of sight of each other.
    Burfield quickly terminated his phone call. ‘I wondered whether you were going to bother after all,’ he said slipping the fingers on his hands through each other as though he was praying. ‘So we’ve come to put our hand in the wound after all. But I suppose it just proves that there’s more of Saint Thomas in us than Saint George. At least your colour seems to have come back a bit. Yesterday you were looking decidedly green about the gills.’
    ‘I’m sorry for being such a bore, Geoff’ Worley forced a smile. ‘Humour me on this one. If Gallagher is dead then I can assure you that I will stop and desist with the pursuit.’
    ‘How have things been these last two years?’ Burfield asked.
    ‘Fine,’ Worley answered nervously. ‘Why do you ask?’
    ‘Saudi’s a strange station,