Free Charlie’s Apprentice by Brian Freemantle Page B

carefully chose the centre at Berkshire where he knew Gower had not been instructed: he didn’t want identification by association from instructors careless of security.
    Charlie selected the motorway route. After half a mile he demanded the number of vehicles Gower had overtaken since they’d joined and which cars that had been behind from the beginning were still close.
    ‘Someone’s following! It’s a test!’ exclaimed Gower, snatching a series of hurried looks into the rear-view mirror.
    ‘Soon it isn’t going to be training. When you’re operational and it’s got to be an automatic reflex to check. And check and check again. You’ve always got to know what’s happening around you.’
    ‘Even when I’m not on assignment.’
    ‘ Always,’ insisted Charlie. He wasn’t happy with the slight head movement of disbelief from the other man.
    ‘Are we being followed?’
    ‘You tell me.’
    Gower was silent for several moments. Then he admitted: ‘I don’t know how to identify pursuit in this sort of circumstance.’
    Charlie was glad Gower’s admission hadn’t taken longer: the turn-off was already indicated. ‘Slow, into the inside lane. Mark the cars behind. And those ahead, too. In a moving vehicle it’s as easy to watch a target from the front as from the back; all you need to do is maintain speed.’
    Gower did as he was instructed, nervously checking both directions. ‘I take the turn-off?’
    ‘Don’t indicate until the very last moment: without a warning you can lose anyone in front. Take the turn. See who’s behind you …’ There was a protesting blare of a horn from the rear at the lateness of the indication. ‘Fuck him,’ dismissed Charlie. ‘Get on to the roundabout underneath the motorway: here’s your learning point. Everywhere in the world major highway slip-roads go into roundabouts from which there’s always another slip-road to rejoin as well as leave. Go completely around … watch your back. Anyone?’
    ‘A red Ford … no, he’s turned off.’
    ‘Now go up the connecting link to get back on to the motorway in the same direction we were originally going.’
    ‘What about a real operational situation? What should I do if a recognizable car stays with me?’
    ‘Abort,’ declared Charlie. ‘But sensibly. Don’t panic and go dashing back to where you started: panic is proof of guilt. If it had been operational, we’d have taken the next turn-off to whatever reasonably sized town was signposted. That would have been an explanation for the first suspicious manoeuvre: we’d made a mistake and came off too early. Every town has something historical it’s proud of. We’d have been tourists, looking at the sites. After which we would have made our way back leisurely.’
    ‘And then?’
    ‘I told you. Abort.’
    ‘Abandon an assignment?’ Gower seemed surprised.
    Charlie frowned across the car at the other man. ‘What’s the alternative? Leading whoever is watching you to whatever that assignment is?’
    ‘That seems …’ began Gower slowly, searching how to explain himself. Charlie talked across him. ‘What was the final thing I said to you at the last meeting?’
    ‘Something …’ Gower stopped abruptly, suspecting another test and remembering the instruction to recall everything, word for word. ‘I asked if what we were doing had a title. You said “It’s called survival.’”
    Charlie smiled, pleased. ‘If you as much as think an operation is blown get out: save yourself and maybe the operation. Let someone else come in after you to take it over …’ Charlie saw the other man prepare to speak. ‘That’s not failing: giving up. That’s being professional.’
    ‘It’s not been explained to me like that before.’
    ‘For Christ’s sake lose your public school pretension. You haven’t joined a club your father put you down for at birth. Road-sweepers and refuse-collectors go around the streets, picking up the shit and muck that people cause. Our