Zero Hour

THE INVESTIGATOR WIPED the snowflakes off his eyelashes with a mittened hand and cursed. He hated the cold wind coming off the North Sea. He hated the crowds. And most of all he hated being away from his family at this time of year. It didn’t snow in the south of France.

He pushed his way through the people near The Hague’s Christmas market. Soon it would be over, he told himself. No more sneaking. No more paranoia. He could dump his burner phones and get back to being a nobody. British intelligence could leave him alone. He would retire. He would be gone.

He rushed along and wheezed as he breathed long plumes of crystalline vapour. Why they’d chosen a busy street he’d never understand. Bloody English. Bloody Roast Beef. If they were in France he’d have met at a quiet cafe. One where the owner was practically deaf and was paid well to look the other way. Instead, he was out—oof—he bumped into a woman with her shopping. She yelled out at him, but he looked back and wheezed an apology in French and kept on going. He checked his watch and glanced behind again. There she was again. The blonde. He was already late. And pressed on sure he would lose her in the throng.

IT WAS to be a straightforward swap meet. Everett McKenna, the intelligence director overseeing the operation knew, could be something or could be nothing.