Free Hunted: BookShots by James Patterson Page A

moment you can be sure it’ll be a glowing report.’
    With Claire gone, Shelley sat and thought. He was being tested, no doubt about it. Were they suspicious? For the first time he wondered about the wisdom of staying clean. It marked him out, and not in a good way.
    He found himself chewing his lip, wondering what they knew and what they were planning. If his cover were blown, they’d have confronted him by now. He’d be food for pigs.
    Wouldn’t he?

CHAPTER 20
    CLARIDGE HAD FINISHED watching CCTV film taken from outside the Ten Bells pub on Commercial Street. The only relevant footage was a brief glimpse of the back of a tan jacket as its wearer disappeared into the pub. Like the two men who had met Kenneth Farmer, this one had known to use CCTV dead spots.
    Just then came a knock at the frosted glass of his office door, and he looked up to see a figure outside – a figure wearing a tan leather jacket.
    Claridge closed the viewing application on his computer and went to the door. There stood Hugh Tremain of D Section, wearing the selfsame jacket Claridge had just seen on the CCTV footage. Tremain carried a laptop. ‘Might I have a word, Simon?’ he smiled.
    Claridge swallowed, trying not to let his apprehension show. ‘Of course. You mind if I leave the door open while we talk? It’s getting a bit stuffy in here.’
    ‘I’d prefer that you didn’t. It’s a rather . . . sensitive matter.’
    It was past seven in the evening, and the open-plan office behind them was almost empty. ‘We’ve more or less got the place to ourselves,’ said Claridge, and with a meaningful look at Tremain added, ‘I’ll leave it open, if you don’t mind.’
    ‘Sure, whatever you say. Your office.’
    Claridge hurried back to his desk.
    ‘What did I interrupt?’ asked Tremain, placing his laptop on Claridge’s desk and sitting.
    ‘Oh, nothing too important.’ Claridge glanced nervously at Tremain’s laptop as his fingers danced on the keyboard.
    ‘So what are you typing then?’ asked Tremain pleasantly. He sat back and crossed his legs.
    ‘It’s procedure to log visitors.’
    ‘Yes, of course. I usually do mine when my visitor has departed.’
    Claridge continued to type, then pressed return.
    ‘All done?’ smiled Tremain.
    ‘All done,’ Claridge smiled back.
    ‘No point in trying to kill you now, then?’
    Claridge didn’t even blink. Didn’t give Tremain the satisfaction. ‘Is that your intention, is it? To kill me?’
    Tremain chuckled. ‘If it was, would I do it here in the office, do you think?’
    ‘Your organisation seems to favour hiding in plain sight.’
    ‘Does it? Really? Is that so?’
    The two men fell silent and Claridge was glad of a moment to gather his thoughts. He’d been exposed somehow. But how? And how much did they know? And what the bloody hell was Tremain doing in his office?
    ‘I won’t insult your intelligence by asking you how much you know about us,’ Tremain was saying. He slouched, but watched Claridge carefully. ‘You’d be a fool to tell me. The point is youknow something , and that’s enough to worry my associates. As you’re well aware, we’re in the business of containing information, Simon. We nurture it, protect it. We take care it doesn’t go anywhere it shouldn’t. But when it does – well, then we need to do something about it.’
    ‘Are you talking as an MI5 man or in some other capacity?’ asked Claridge, probing gently.
    ‘Bit of both. The lines are blurred.’
    ‘So – what? You plan to buy my silence?’
    ‘Well, that depends. Can your silence be bought?’
    Claridge made a small scoffing sound. ‘What you’re involved with is inhuman. It’s despicable.’
    ‘That’s a no, is it?’
    ‘You bet your life it’s a no. You need to be stopped.’
    ‘I see. And you’re the man to do it, are you? Simon Claridge in the giddy heights of F Section is going to bring us down?’
    Claridge felt himself deflate a little.
    ‘No, I thought not,’