is screaming, the sound echoing and reverberating off the hard surfaces. Outside the door there is the sound of pounding feet.
The threat has been delivered. It’s past time I was going.
John Bruckner, the Highwayman, is emerging from Flint’s office as I arrive to report about my little mission for Siraj. Out of courtesy to our chief Bruckner had removed his stained Andy Capp hat while in the office, but he’s in the process of restoring it to its customary place and customary task—covering his nearly bald pate. I retreat to the wall because the Highwayman has the build of a beer keg and about as much dexterity.
An exuberant handshake later, he’s offering me one of his foul black cigars while stuffing one into his own mouth. I wave him off and pull out a cigarette. The heat from his dented Zippo fans my face as I lean into the lighter. He transfers the fire to the tip of his cigar and sucks lustily on it until the tip of the stogie glows red. The rituals having been observed, we lean against opposite walls and study each other.
“Now, how is it that I’m a bloody lorry driver and you’re a bloody magician?”
“I’m prettier than you are.”
“Right you are, and you dress better,” he says, hitching the waistband of his baggy corduroy pants up over his paunch.
“What have you been up to?”
A jerk of the thumb at Flint’s door and he says, “Old Granite Face has me running arms from Lagos to the troops out in the bush.” When the Highwayman gets his rig up to speed he can move from London to Melbourne or Shanghai without passing through any of the territory in between. “Effing roads are no better than goat tracks,” he continues. “They’ve beat the bloody hell out of my suspension. Bloody natives.”
It isn’t just white man’s burden rearing its head. Bruckner has seen strange and disturbing things while traveling his “short cuts,” and he lives in fear of getting stranded in this strange, surreal no-man’s-land.
“Show a little gratitude. Nigeria is the only thing that’s keeping petrol in your truck.”
“Yeah, well, why can’t the niggers build a bloody first world road?”
I keep control of my features. Bruckner’s somewhere in his sixties. Times have changed, but not the Highwayman. He’s racist and sexist, and despises foreigners with a superiority unique only to a white Englishman. Straightening up with a grunt and another tug at his pants, he says, “I’ve got to push off. Join me and the lads for a pint?”
“Can’t.” I incline my head toward Flint’s office.
“Well, next time.”
He leaves, trailing smoke like the fumes from one of his lorries. I tap on the door. I can’t actually hear Flint’s invitation to enter, but I go on in. He’s in his great stone chair, necessary because his sharp stone body would cut the upholstery of any normal chair to shreds.
I take my customary chair, stub out the butt, and take out another cigarette. The streetlights throw shadows across the bookcases. Only a small lamp on the desk is lit so Flint’s eyes glow red in the gray stone face.
“God damn it! Must you be this effective on behalf of our enemies?”
Oh, damn, I had hoped to report about my actions in Dubai before Flint heard of it. No such luck. It seems I will not be basking in the sunshine of my chief’s approval today.
“I take it the UAE has raised their prices.”
“You know bloody well they have. You cut off the man’s hand! He’s a friend of the prime’s.”
“I must occasionally succeed, sir, or Siraj is going to wonder if his ace bodyguard/assassin is a complete cock-up.”
“Can’t you exert any influence over Siraj?”
“Bahir is viewed as a blunt instrument. I think Siraj would be just the tiniest bit suspicious if the Caliph’s assassin suddenly started displaying political acumen.”
Flint grunts, and gives a grudging nod. Gestures from my boss are disconcerting. It’s like watching a statue come to life. He surprises me when he snaps his fingers together and produces a flame. I realize it’s for the forgotten cigarette hanging between my fingers.
My, my, this is rare condescension. I guess I’m forgiven for my unauthorized bloodletting. Leaning forward, I light my cigarette. The harsh Turkish tobacco is like claws raking across the inside of my lungs, but the hit to the nicotine pleasure centers outweighs the discomfort and the theoretical lung cancer.
“Where are you off to now?”
“I’ve got a date.” I preen and Flint makes a grinding sound like