We were eating a late lunch in what was called Parliament View restaurant on the rooftop floor of The Box, overlooking the pleasure boats packed with colourful tourists going up and down the river, when the possibility of not returning from the situation I was being coerced to join was broached.
The restaurant was empty apart from the two of us. The accentuated noise of cutlery made the emptiness of the place increase the sensation of being tied to a wooden pole about to be shot, as I was listening to the screams rebounding inside my head. This was no nice, clean James Bond film I was being recruited to join. This was a job where I would not get the lady at the end of it, and I might not even be coming home.
“The current working intelligence came from the source I told you we have inside
