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“Whatever the fuck it is you’ve gotten yourself into, watch your fucking back. Dismissed.”
63
The first thing I did was call the number I’d memorized – the one on the business card Alistair had given me.
A male voice I didn’t recognize answered with a British accent. “Name?”
“Lars Henriksson.”
There was a pause as he typed on a keyboard. Then the voice said, “Did the discharge come through?”
“Yes. Please thank Alistair for me.”
“I have no idea who that is,” the voice said in a bored tone, “and I recommend you never use that name again on future phone calls.”
Damn – the secrecy was starting right away.
“Alright,” I agreed.
“I have you with a Swedbank checking account with the last four digits of 7263. Is that correct?”
Shit – I hadn’t given Alistair that information. His ability to reach every single part of a person’s life was scary.
“That’s correct.”
“I’m wiring 10,000 pounds into your account for relocation expenses.”
I almost choked. 10,000 pounds was more than I made in three months.
“I also have a note here to remind you to stay in hotels,” the voice continued.
“I remember.”
“Good. Settle your affairs in Sweden, then come to London. You’ll be expected to report for duty next Thursday at 10 AM.”
One week from today. Things were moving fast.
“How do I report for duty? Where do I go?”
“Meet your contact at the same place you met him three days ago. You recall where that was?”
The café.
“Yes.”
“Any other questions?”
“What about my cover story?”
“Your contact will have all the pertinent information. ”
“Should I tell other people I’m coming?”
“Anyone who needs to know, tell them you’re relocating. But stay away from specifics. If you absolutely must, say that you’re consulting for a joint UK-Swedish military task force and leave it at that. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Any other questions?”
