Free The Informationist: A Thriller by Taylor Stevens Page B

straight.”
    “Fair enough.”
    “This is my investigation. I run the show, I call the shots. You’re along for the ride—whether it’s to pass on information to Burbank or cover my ass, I’m not sure. You do what you have to do, but don’t get in my way, and don’t question my judgment. Most of all, don’t screw things up. If I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it. If you have a problem with any of that, I need to know now.”
    “No problem at all,” he said. His words came calmly, and the tone was nonchalant. He flicked the napkin over his lap and reached for the bread basket. “But since we’re talking about ground rules, I have a few of my own so that I can do what I’ve been hired to do.”
    “Go ahead.”
    “I’m being paid to watch your back and keep you alive,” he said. “Richard’s got peace of mind, not to mention money, riding on you, and I’m his insurance policy. I know for certain that you’re capable of taking care of yourself, but this was Richard’s call, not mine. If it were my assignment, I wouldn’t want me here either, so I understand your position. But like I said, it was his call, so don’t take it out on me by making my job harder. You do what you have to do, I’ll stay out of your way and keep my thoughts and opinions to myself. But I do need to know where you are every minute of every day and night, who you’re talking to, and who you’re paying off, and for what. If you can uphold your end of the bargain, I can uphold mine. Deal?”
    “I’m not happy about it, but I can live with it.”
    “Good,” he replied with a nod, and then, “Richard has told me next to nothing on where we go from here. What’s the plan?”
    “We start with Cameroon,” she said. “Our flight leaves tomorrow morning for Douala. I’ll update you as things unfold, but for now be sure you get eight sets of passport photos taken before we leave. I need them in my possession before we’re on the plane.”
    The conversation had already been interrupted several times by the attentive waitstaff, and it took a longer pause with the arrival of the main course. The discussion strayed from small talk to the similar aspects of their work to small talk again, and it was over coffee whenMunroe reached for the folder by the foot of her chair and pulled out the file of her life’s history that Burbank had given her. She slid it across the table. “You’ve probably gone over this already,” she said. “But if not, it’s only fair that you have it—I have yours.”
    Bradford put down his cup, reached for the file, and slid it back to her. “I assembled that file, Michael,” he said. “I don’t need it.”
    Munroe leaned back and allowed silence to engulf them. Bradford said nothing, offered no explanation or justification; he simply sat and returned her gaze with a placid expression. It was a rare reaction. Most of humanity, when trapped in an uneasy silence, would say something, anything, in order to free themselves from the discomfort of quiet.
    “If you’re the one responsible for that,” Munroe said finally, pointing to the folder, “you certainly left out a lot of key information.”
    “Yes, I did.” His voice was low and smooth, and he leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. “Some information I couldn’t get, but the rest didn’t seem pertinent.”
    Munroe kept quiet, and when once again he didn’t take the bait of silence, she angled toward him so that her face was close to his and in a whisper said cynically, “It’s interesting that you’d find psychiatric evaluations to be so much less pertinent than a history of broken bones.”
    “I would have included them if they were accurate,” he said. “But you and I both know that they aren’t.”
    “You’re not only a hired gun, you’re also a psychologist? That’s very impressive.”
    He smiled and leaned back against the chair. “Am I wrong?”
    “I don’t know. You’re the expert.” And then she