Illegal Action

4

Liz pulled the duvet up to her chin, stretched out her legs and reached out to switch on the eight o’clock news. She briefly wondered whether to get up and make a cup of coffee, and just as quickly decided against it. In all the years she had worked with Charles in Counter-Terrorism, she had never really relaxed, even on a Saturday morning. Counter-Terrorism operations came up suddenly out of the blue and needed a fast response. She was usually home late, often away from home altogether, but the sudden excitement, the tension, were what she had loved about the job.

Admittedly her private life had become a mess. Her small flat in Kentish Town, once much loved, had become dowdy. Things broke down and she never had time to fix them; the tide of muddle had advanced inexorably. In the four months since she’d moved to Counter-Espionage everything had changed. The job wasn’t without interest, but the pace was slower, more nine to five.

She had used her unaccustomed spare time to get her life in order. The peeling wallpaper in the bathroom had been replaced with tiles. The whole flat had been repainted and a smart new stainless steel washer-dryer had replaced the stuttering old thing she had inherited when she bought the flat. The goose-down duvet she was cuddling was bought on a whim, but was the most satisfactory of all her improvements.

Now from the comfort of her bed, she contemplated the elegant new bedroom curtains and the uncluttered carpet and thought about the weekend ahead.

Most of it would be spent with Piet. He was Dutch, an investment banker with Lehman’s in Amsterdam. Every third Friday he came to London for a meeting in Canary Wharf and he would stay in London for the weekend. Friday night he went out to dinner with his colleagues but at lunchtime on Saturday he would appear at the basement door in Kentish Town, clutching champagne or a bottle of perfume he had bought on his way through the airport, and he and Liz would spend the rest of the weekend together. This was an arrangement which suited them both perfectly. It was warm and happy and undemanding.

If Piet knew what Liz did (and she suspected he did as she had met him at a colleague’s Christmas party), he never asked. It wasn’t that kind of relationship. They laughed a lot and ate good food. They talked about music and plays and the state of the world, and everything except work. Today they were going to a late-afternoon concert at St. John’s Smith Square. Then they’d have dinner somewhere and Piet would come back and share the goose-down duvet. Liz curled her toes in anticipation. They would stay in bed late in the morning and then after a pub lunch, Piet would make for the airport and back to Amsterdam.

All in all, a heavenly prospect. Thank goodness for counter-espionage, she thought, though still there in a small corner of her mind was her first love, counter-terrorism and working with Charles. She hoped all was well with him. And Joanne, she mentally added—conscientiously.