Page 82 of Hang on St. Christopher

“Catchy.”

“It looks like a brand-new one. Brand-new. See that dirty metal bit at the top of it?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“That’s platinum. These things are expensive. A grand each.”

“So... what? Beyond the capacity of local terrorists?”

Jill shook her head. “Dunno. Probably. And if so, you’ve been got at by much more dangerous customers than the local terrorists.”

“MI5? I think I know how to deal with them.”

“I don’t think it’s MI5. This particular bug...”

“Who, then?”

She bit her lip.

“Who?”

“Sean, you have the capacity for getting into deeper waters than you can swim in. My advice to you is to?—”

“Strong. Thatcher. A lippy, aggrieved, drunken copper spilling his guts out to the Scottish papers...”

“Tell me that’s not a threat.”

“Not a threat, just something that might happen to a jaded middle-aged copper with a story to tell.”

She frowned and then sighed. “The only people I know of that have this type of bug are the Special Activities Division of the CIA.”

I waited to see if she was kidding, but she wasn’t bloody kidding.

“I’m being bugged by the CIA?”

“Or someone who has gotten access to CIA equipment.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. What have you done?”

“I haven’t done anything. Not lately. The agent who I was running in the IRA is dead.”

She subconsciously tapped my personnel file.

“Yes. I know. I think it’s unlikely that the CIA would be interested in your agent unless there was an American dimension. Was there an American dimension in that particular case?”

“No.”

“Well, then, I doubt that’s it. And a lot of water has passed under the bridge in the last year.”

“Why would the CIA be interested in what I’m doing now?”

“What are you doing now?”

“It’s this case, Jill. You know it’s something to do with this case.”

I suddenly wondered if I could quite trust her. We went back, but I hadn’t seen her for years, and if Sean Duffy suddenly became a problematic issue in her career path, then Sean Duffy would be gleefully tossed under the next double-decker bus.