“Long time no see. How are you, Carey?”
Carey Jordan’s face broke into a grin.
“Nigel, what the hell are you doing here? And why the lunch?”
“You complaining?”
“Absolutely not. Good to see you.”
“Then I’ll tell you inside.”
They were a little early and the lunch crowd had not arrived. The waiter asked if they wanted a smoking or nonsmoking table. Smoking, said Jordan. Irvine raised an eyebrow. Neither of them smoked.
But Jordan knew what he was doing. They were shown to a private booth right at the back where they could talk , unheard.
The waiter brought the menus and a wine list. Both men chose an appetizer, then a meat course. Irvine cast his eye down the list of Bordeaux and spotted an excellent Beychevelle. The waiter beamed; it was not cheap and had been in-house for quite some time. In minutes he was back, offered the label, got a nod, uncorked, and decanted.
“So,” said Carey Jordan when they were alone. “What brings you to this neck of the woods. Nostalgia?”
“Not exactly. A problem, I suppose.”
“Anything to do with those high-and-mighty folks you’ve been conversing with in Wyoming?”
“Ah, Carey, dear Carey, they should never have fired you.”
“I know it. What’s the problem?”
“There’s something serious and rather bad going on in Russia.”
“What else is new?”
“This is. And it’s worse than usual. The official agencies of both our countries have been warned off.”
“Why?”
“Official timidity, I suppose.”
Jordan snorted.
“As I said, what else is new?”
“So ... anyway ... the view last week was that perhaps someone ought to go and have a look.”
“Someone? Despite the warning?”
“That’s the general idea.”
“So why come to me? I’m out of it. Have been these past twelve years.”
“Do you still speak to Langley?”
“No one speaks to Langley anymore.”
“Then that’s why you, Carey. Fact is, I need a man. Able to go into Russia. Without drawing attention.”
“On the black?”
“Afraid so.”