In fact, hadn’t he whispered this advantage to his superior during a private moment in the cloakroom as his going away party wound done, “Retired, but still serving, sir.”? And hadn’t his superior responded with a conspiratorial nod? Nigel Lovecraft remained in the game for the odd job, valuable as gold. Or as sterling.
And quiet requests did come now and then from some mid-level Five staffer on an in-and-out night visit to his Brussels hideaway or in untraceable letters to the same address. Could Nigel check around for an outgoing Russian, conversant with money laundering and encryption software? Could he recommend a housewife, mid-twenties, who spoke Pashto and Dari? Those were some of the easy ones for him.
And one recent early morning still another strange job request. This one, the
