IF   [Part 2 of 2]

by Richard Banks           
    

          The last few words slip out before I know I’ve said them. I’ve gone too far, that’s not what I want. I wait nervously for his response. He’s silent and by the look on his face, he hasn’t a clue what next to say. Fortunately for him, the waiter comes over with our meals and our only conversation is with him. Brad takes up his knife and fork and makes an incision in the steak he has ordered before relegating both implements to the side of his plate. He buries his face in both hands and then with a deep sigh begins to gather his thoughts. “I’m not cut out for this,” he says.

 

         What follows could be him talking to himself or him to me; I’m not sure even he knows which. “It shouldn’t be in my job description,” he mutters. He mutters on. Some guys have the gift of the gab, but he’s not one of them. He should be running agents, taking part in covert operations. That’s what he's good at. He’s a doing sort of guy. Pussy footing about sweet talking people out of their secrets is not what he signed up for; at least he didn’t think so. He only wished he had checked-out the small print in his contract. It’s not right, he never wanted to do it, he’s sorry, he couldn’t be more sorry.

 

         My brain’s racing trying to keep up with all this, then the penny drops. He’s CIA and this has everything to do with my job in MI6, but that doesn’t explain Ronnie. How does he fit into all this, whatever ‘this’ is?

         Brad still has his head in his hands and a tear is trickling through his fingers. At last, he steadies himself, gives his face a quick wipe with his serviette and raises his eyes towards mine. “You’re still here,” he says.

         “Yes,” I say, “I’m still here, and I want some answers.”

         “Shoot.”

         “CIA?”

         “Yeah. AMB as well, but that’s mainly a front.”

         “So, why Ronnie, why me for that matter? but let’s start with Ronnie. What makes him so interesting?”

         “He’s a Russian agent.”

         “What?”

         “Been passing-on classified information for nearly two years; then we close in on him and overnight he disappears. Probably back in Moscow by now. His real name, if you’re interested, is Aleksey Platonov. We assumed the two of you were part of the same cell but when we asked MI6 to pull you in for questioning they closed ranks around you. Even when the top brass in Washington got involved the answer was still no, which led us to believe that you were being protected by a high ranking mole in the command structure.”

         “You must be joking,” I say. “I’m just a paper pusher. All the important people work on the fourth floor up. I’m on the ground floor, in the post room.”

         “What about Martin Frost?”

         “What about him!”

         “You know him?”

         “Yes, I know who he is, but so does everyone else in MI6. I’ve never even met him.”

         “But you did, for nearly half an hour at the Department’s Christmas party. By all accounts, he was very taken with you.”

         “I spoke to dozens of people that night. I don’t even know what he looks like.”

         Brad reflects solemnly on what I have said. “Well, you can understand how it looked, so the Agency decided that if the Brits weren’t going to investigate you, then it had to be us. However, we couldn’t do it officially, which is why I was given the job of discovering the truth without the Brits knowing, and, if possible, without you knowing. What a mess I made of that.”

         “So, you never really loved me; it was just your assignment. How dare you!” I take a firm grip on my plate with the intention of covering him with everything on top of it, but his own hand shoots out and closes around mine.

 

         “But I do, I mean love you. From the first time I saw you in Oxford Street, flouncing along in your blue dress and that goofy straw hat I was head over heels. Even if I hadn’t been ordered to follow you into the first bar or restaurant you stopped off at I would have done so anyway. You didn’t make it easy for me. If you had turned out to be the self absorbed, stuck-up bitch I was half expecting I would soon have come to my senses, but you weren’t. You were smart, funny, good company and utterly adorable. When you took off your shades your eyes sparkled like the sea off Palm Beach, and all I wanted was to dive right in.”

         “And what a splash you made. But you were playing me. I thought it was all about you and me. You don’t play with other people’s lives, not if you really care!”

         “OK, but hear me out. I was supposed to have everything sorted in a couple of weeks but I couldn’t go through with it. After three they told me to get a move on or I would have to spike your drink with this new tongue loosener that has side-effects likely to put you in hospital. So, at last, I got down to doing what they wanted me to do; and that brings us up to today. I knew from the off you were no spy but I needed proof, for you to tell me things you thought were going no further than me. It didn’t happen. Mission over, objective not achieved.”

         “So, what happens next?”

         “I make my report and you tell your people what I tried to do. There’s a diplomatic spat, I get fired for telling you what I was up to, and if that’s construed as aiding and abetting the enemy I’ll be serving time behind bars. Probably no more than I deserve.”

         “And what’s the alternative, I imagine there’s an alternative.”

         “There’s always an alternative. You say nothing to your people and I’ll tell mine that my deception was completely successful and that all the things you told me pointed to your innocence.”

         “So, you’re off the hook and I stop being a person of interest to the CIA. Game over and everyone goes back to the way they were?”

         “If that’s what you want. But if not we could let the dust settle, quit our jobs and take-up ranching.”

         “Do what!”

         “You heard. It’s the family business. We’ve got 200,000 acres in Oklahoma state. Dad wants me back home and on the board, thinks I’ve served my country long enough; that’s why he’s jetting over next month. Join me. You will need to earn your keep of course. It’s a hard life ranching, long hours in the saddle and the steers aren’t the best of company, but if that’s not to your liking we could always find you something else to do. We’re diversifying into real estate and retail. There’ll be no shortage of post rooms and who knows what opportunities await you on the floors up above. You can do whatever you want, or do nothing at all. Whatever makes you happy.”

         “If you’re hankering for a cowgirl I’ll be needing more than a ring through the nose.”

         “Is that a yes?”

         “You haven’t asked me yet.”

 

         “You’re putting a lot of pressure on a man who was nearly wearing your dinner. I’m asking, of course, I’m asking. Ladies and gentleman, everyone in the restaurant, I want you to be my witness. I’m asking this young woman to be my wife, to make me the happiest, most fortunate man since Moses was pulled out of the bulrushes by Pharaoh's daughter. And if that don’t count because Moses was a baby at the time then I’m definitely top of the list. Make it happen, honey! What do you say?”

         I decide to keep him waiting. “I’ll think about it.” 

 

[The End]  

 

Copyright Richard Banks