Chapter 3: A Caroline in the Sand

Kingdom Centre, resident parking entrance. ///wording.office.backpack

The Kingdom Centre isn’t just a hotel. In fact, the Four Seasons hotel doesn’t occupy even ten percent of the building. There’s a 57,000 square metre mall (because of course there is, as this was Riyadh and shopping is literally the only thing there is to do), there is office space and then there are the luxury residential apartments. I was surprised to be taken to one of the entrances for the residents, only accessible via a private section of the underground car park. William had an access card for the barrier.

“There’s a car behind us,” I said. “They won’t have a card!”

“Yeah, yeah,” said William, and after he had removed the card from the reader he raised his hand, wiggled the card and placed it on top of the card reader housing. The driver of the car behind us, driven by Gerard, briefly flashed its lights to indicate they’d seen the card. I couldn’t stop myself from looking over my shoulder and as expected Gerard simply took the card, inserted it and drove on.

Do you know that feeling you sometimes get when other people come up with insanely simple solutions for stuff and it makes you feel like you’re just a kid, surrounded by actual grown-ups who know how the world works? Because I’d never have thought of that. I’d have gotten out in a hurry to hold my card up to the reader for the second car. After all, it’s MY card and MY responsibility. But soldiers don’t think like that. They live and work in groups and it becomes second nature for them to split up tasks. This very simple act, an unrehearsed exchange between two people who had never met, communicated almost without effort, made it very clear to me what I was missing: I am never in a group of peers. It doesn’t mean I’m not around people, but I only ever perceive problems as something I have to tackle by myself. That’s how programmers and mathematicians see the world. Soldiers don’t.

“Where’s the other car?” asked Tom, when we were all parked.

“I sent them home. Just me and him. Hi, John Stein. Aramco Security. This is Gerard.”

Well, he wasn’t going to say ‘CIA’ in public to a guy he just met, was he? But Tom didn’t bat an eyelid as he extended his hand, shook Stein’s and said:

“Tom Naylor, Kellogg’s Cornflakes. This is William, with L’Oréal.”

Stein chuckled. The second black car drove up from the barrier and parked.

“That’s Phil and Tommaso. PHIL! Ride up ahead, tell ‘em we’re coming.”

“Sure thing,” said Phil, who I now recognized from the Armstrong training compound. He looked like Dolf Lundgren, but with an ill-advised goatee. Tommaso can’t have been anything other than Italian. I wish I could carry off white pants and a red shirt without looking like a gay tomato. They walked toward the sliding doors of the entrance and disappeared around a corner.

“Where are we going, guys?” said Gerard, who clearly wasn’t going anywhere until he knew more about my ... whatever Tom and William were. Instructors? Something like that. I’d spent a few days with them at the Armstrong compound. They were very nice guys, but I was just a civilian to them. A package, someone who needed to be kept out of trouble.

Tom leaned against the black car and folded his arms.

“Well, if I’m honest it wasn’t my idea to invite you along. We’re taking Mr. Carstairs here to see his parents.”

“Okay. So why were you following him?” asked Stein.

“Because his parents worry about him. What’s your excuse, Aramco?”

Stein smiled and opened his arms, clearly doing the opposite of Tom.

“What, I need an excuse to help out a friend of the company? He clearly didn’t know you were following him, so...”

“The company ... King ain’t with the company. He’s with the circus.”

The Company is the CIA’s nickname, just as the FBI is known as The Bureau. The Circus is how people in the business refer to MI6, but they don’t seem to mind. Probably because it’s very accurate, at least in my experience. The Dumpster Fire would also be appropriate. Their main office, the one you sometimes see in spy movies, is nicknamed Legoland.

“I know,” said Stein. “I’ve adopted him, sort of. Seeing as how they’re short-handed here.”

“Can we stop talking in code? I need a cup of tea and some food. These guys are CIA, these gentlemen are private security and I’m a concerned citizen. Come along or stay here, I don’t care, but I need tea and a bun!”

“I love tea,” said Stein. “So does Gerard.”

“Well, come along then,” said Tom. “We have to sign in at reception downstairs. If you’re carrying, tell me on the way up. If our guys upstairs find something else on you, you won’t be sleeping in your own bed for the foreseeable, CIA or not. Clear?”

“Crystal.”

A meek young woman I pegged as Sri Lankan, wearing a carefully positioned hijab, sat behind a desk in a windowless foyer and asked all of us to sign in as guests. Then we all got into the shiniest, gaudiest lift I’ve ever seen. It felt like being inside a Faberge egg. Meanwhile, Tom and John were still sniffing each other like dogs. Proverbially, I mean.

“So, you American?” asked Stein, as the lift started its ascent. Tom nodded.

“North Dakota.”

“So how are the Bucks doing?”

“Wouldn’t know. Ain’t been back since I was seventeen.”

“Army?”

“Marine.”

“No shit? I came up in Pendleton.”

“Lejeune. Did my DEP at Pendleton, though.”

The US Marine Corps, of which Tom was a former member, is not part of the army, but the navy. And they are very, very particular about that distinction. Tom and John started doing that odd thing Americans with a history in the armed forces do. They name seemingly random numbers and years, and somehow that makes sense. I don’t even recall what they said, but they seemed to find common ground in a matter of seconds. Then Tom turned to William.

“Sir, you a Marine as well?”

William gave the finest scowl I have ever seen, and in his best Scottish brogue he said:

“Fuck no. Royal Highland Fusiliers, mate.”

Gerard and I looked at each other and exploded in laughter. We’d spent a few hours together on a road trip to Damman, during which Gerard had lamented this exact habit in his coworkers and we’d spent half an hour making up ridiculous army units. I can’t remember them, but he’d come up with something like US Extra-special Forces Space Corps Planetary Explosives Sapper and I’d counter with Her Majesty’s 2^nd Devonshire Pudding Throwers and Gardening Platoon. You had to be there, I guess.

“What’s funny?” asked Stein, somewhat bewildered. The doors opened and we practically rolled out. Two guards who were standing around in an expensive looking corridor didn’t like that at all. They were wearing dark blue suits with blue shirts and red neckties that would undoubtedly snap off if you pulled on them. I noticed they both wore shoulder holsters. It’s a great look. The suits were rather cheap, though. Few hundred quid off the rack, tops.

“Nothing, nothing at all, Sir,” said Gerard, who didn’t want to piss off his boss.

“Our Martin played a soldier in a movie once, didn’t he, Will?” growled Tom.

“Gentlemen, I’m sorry. I am in awe of each and every one of your abbreviations, I assure you.”

“Who’s packing, Sir?” asked one of the guards of Tom.

“You know, I forgot to ask. All of us, I should think.”

“In that case pat-downs all round,” said the guard. I was first, and he found my pistol right away.

“This will be returned to you when you leave, Mr. Carstairs. Please wait there until everyone is done.”

This gave me a chance to look out of a window. I’d forgotten to register the floor we were now on, one of many examples of me being a piss-poor spy, but I guessed we were above the hotel floors. The view was, as always, impressive. The part of me that wants to get off this planet, or at least hole up in a quiet corner, wouldn’t really mind a private apartment halfway up the clouds, far away from the rest of the world. But it’s one hell of a trip to everyone I love back in England. And on balance, I’d probably go for Doha. Or Dubai, and get a place with a view of that magnificent tower. Or you know, go somewhere that doesn’t treat the women in my life as either whores or children and doesn’t run on slave labour. That might be nicer.

“Hello? Where have you gone?” asked Stein, who suddenly stood behind me. Except it wasn’t sudden, he’d been there for a while.

“Sorry. Miles away. Are we all done?”

“I’d hope so,” chuckled Stein, and pointed at a table that contained four pistols, two impressive knives and an honest to goodness pair of brass knuckles.

“Hey, I’ve never seen those. Where do you get them?” I asked, perhaps a tad too enthusiastically.

“Like you’re not enough trouble right now,” growled William, and shepherded the lot of us to the far end of the hallway. He knocked a pattern on the door, which was unlocked. Tommaso opened up. He too had a gun in a shoulder holster, but wore no jacket.

“Do you wear that around my mother?” I asked, somewhat shocked.

“Oh, sure.”

“I am not his mother,” said a very familiar voice. “Come in, dear. Oh, you seem to have brought an entourage.”

I won’t pretend I was surprised to see Caroline here. The hug surprised me, though. Normally I get two very airy kisses, at least in public. I just lean in for them. She greeted us in a room that was decorated in a very nouveau-Arabic way: very plush wall to wall carpet, two large leather sofas with lots of pillows stood opposite each other, with a rug between them for those who preferred to sit on the floor and not a single plant or flower but a TV the size of Liechtenstein. The walls were bare. This was very obviously not her own apartment.

She seemed a bit thinner than usual. It was not dissimilar to hugging a bag of bread sticks. Her perfume was pleasantly familiar. I don’t know what it’s called, but it is a unique blend she has made to order by Givenchy. Which is a shame, because that rules out one more birthday gift for the woman who quite literally has everything.

“I thought you’d show up eventually,” I said, after I let go. She wore an elegant blue dress, which left one shoulder bare, and some of the highest heels I’d ever seen. As always, hair and make-up were immaculate. And yet, she seemed tired. To me, at least.

“That seems to be my lot in life, dear. Introduce us, please.”

“Caroline, this is John Stein, he is the local CIA director when he’s not pretending to be with Aramco. And this is Gerard, one of his operators. Gentlemen, this is my former employer and dear friend, current dear friend I should add, Miss Caroline Keller.”

“How do you do,” said John. “Thanks, Martin. You just broke another rule. At least now I can do the same. Miss Keller, I assume you’re with MI6?”

“Yes, in an advisory capacity. Gentlemen, I must be rude and ask for some time alone with Martin. I wasn’t aware you’d be joining us.”

“Well, neither were we. He invited us along.”

Caroline looked at me with slightly raised eyebrows.

“Sorry, my bad. I just wanted everybody who was tracking me and wanted something off me in the same room. Work out some sort of schedule. Like a custody arrangement, so to speak. Because I only left the house to see my mum and dad, but apparently that now warrants being followed by FOUR cars from TWO agencies. Where were you when I was in the nick, by the way?”

“We were working on that, actually,” said Tom, who was standing somewhere behind us.

“Tom, not now. Well Mr. Stein, if you have some time to wait I’m sure we can furnish you with a drink. But if you’re hoping to conduct a debriefing, perhaps a separate appointment is in order.”

“I’d rather not leave before I get a chance to speak to him. If I get him first, I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Then I must ask you to wait. Tom, would you take care of our guests?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

I turned around.

“Oh, and get me something to eat! I’m fucking famished!”

“Uhhh ... What would you like?”

“A lot. No namby pamby stuff either, and no fast food. Something filling. Sandwiches. Milk.”

“MILK?”

“He’s fekkin’ Dutch, ain’t he?” sighed William, as he opened the door and ushered Tom and Gerard out.”

“Is he?!” asked Gerard.

Caroline sighed, but didn’t speak until we were alone in the room.

“This is a terrible idea, Martin. Bringing the CIA along? I mean really...”

“Where are my parents? I was told they’d be here.”

“They are nearby. Martin, sit. We need to discuss a few things right away.”

I flopped down on the sofa. Caroline opted to sit on the sofa’s wide arm rest. Lovely legs, especially since she’s a bit older than me.

“So, what’s up?”

Caroline took a small bottle of sparkling water and sipped from it, which was the first time I ever saw her drinking straight from a container.

“Martin, your father came back from his visit today in what I can only call a state of shock. He didn’t speak to your mother until he had spoken to me, and reported that you had gone on a terrible killing spree. In fact, he literally said: ‘And now he’s turned into a mass murderer.’ Which, to his credit, upset him deeply.”

I just nodded.

“It seems like you confessed all your crimes to him, and so I was interested to hear the recording he’d made. But Alfred had already deleted them, deciding on the way back here there should not be a record of your confession. I wasn’t very pleased with that, but I appreciate his concern for his son. So now I need you to give me a summary of your activities here. I cannot protect you from things of which I am unaware.”

“Well, there’s...”

“Oh not right now, dear. Your dear mother wishes to see you. Alfred hasn’t told her of any of your crimes. As far as she knows you were imprisoned for breach of contract as you fled the country after that horrible attack. She cannot, under any circumstances, be told that you have gone round like Judge Dredd, acting as judge, jury and executioner. And I’m not sure how much the CIA knows, but if they know half of what I’m aware of, that’s already far too much. They are not your allies, Martin. Keeping the oil flowing is quite literally their only objective. The more they know, the more leverage they have to keep you here.”

“And what are you aware of?”

She paused for a second, to compile a list.

“Two border guards. You called Peter right away, and he told me. Two police officers who detained you in this very building, one of whom you tortured by dragging him behind a car. And a professor who had a teaching position within the royal family, and whose job you now have. I gather that this was a joint operation with the CIA.”

“Nothing joint about it, really. They just loaned me a poison pen. I did all the work.”

“YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO KILL ANYBODY, MARTIN! That’s FIVE people you casually admit to killing in cold blood. You dragged a man behind a car!”

“I kicked one down an escalator as well. And I strangled a guy, in a secret CIA facility. For practice.”

“Escalator? When?”

“Couple of weeks ago. He just annoyed me, so I kicked him in the back on an escalator. He fell off, into a fountain. Landed on a rack of copper spray heads. Face first, I believe. I got away with it. I was dressed like one of them, all in white.”

“And the strangulation?”

“Some asshole from Boko Haram. Stein wanted to see if I had the balls to kill a guy. Took him apart like a Kinder Egg.”

“Martin ... that’s SEVEN deaths! No wonder Alfred thinks of you as Ted Bundy incarnate!”

“Oh, that’s not the half of it.”

“No,” said Caroline, half-whispered. “Because you’re keeping the worst from me, aren’t you?”

“I was about to tell you. I was just listing it chronologically.”

“Then out with it.”

“The explosion in the mosque ... That was me.”

Caroline didn’t look me in the eye. She just nodded.

“I thought as much...”

“Yeah.”

“Does the CIA know about that?”

“Christ, I hope not.”

“Well, that’s something. Most of the others could be construed as self-defence, or maintaining your cover. But where did you get the explosives?”

“Oh, they were already in the building. I didn’t know about those. I just wanted to torch the place.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“I did. During Friday prayer. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Still does, if I’m honest. Oh! Nearly forgot one. I kidnapped an imam. Tortured a confession out of him. He had some interesting things to say, that I haven’t shared with MI6 or the CIA yet. I have it on video.”

Caroline got up and walked to a window. She drew back a lace curtain and stared at Riyadh by night. I could see her face reflected in the window.

“Are you aware of the final death count?”

“Not as such, no.”

“Three hundred and four. Over ninety people succumbed to their injuries in hospital in the last few days.”

“Really? That’s ... wow. Tsk. Imagine the havoc those explosives would have caused in a city like London, or Paris.”

“Yes. I suppose that’s how you see it. And I have to remind myself that the prophet is wise in all things. He guides us with his mind and heart, never one before the other,” said Caroline to the window. I sat up straight. Couldn’t believe my ears.

“Excuse me?! You’re quoting the prophet?! You of all people?”

She turned around and gave me a stern look.

“There are many prophets, dear.”

“Really. Which one was that, then?”

“Mine. And it’s none of your business at the moment. Martin, enough is enough. You will come back to London with me. I have a business matter that I could really use your help with, and then you will turn yourself over to Miss Castle, who will fill your schedule to the brim with some wonderful projects. I quite understand you don’t want to spend the next decade as Dr. Who, but ten episodes should be doable. Kelly has some ideas as well, which you’ll find interesting. Something about canal boats. At the same time we will insert you into some committees and boards in the arts world. Unfortunately Nicholas Penny has just retired as director of the National Gallery, but I have a feeling that his successor won’t stay on for very long. We should be able to manoeuvre you into a favourable position, so that you’re the prime candidate when he vacates the office. I think that will suit you very well, don’t you? Miss Wilder was rather prescient in that regard. Oh, and you owe Phil and Wayne a movie. They have been pretending you’re in hiding only because you’re working on a script with them. Unfortunately we will not be able to maintain that particular fiction much longer, so I’m sorry to have to tell you that you will have developed an addiction to pain killers.”

“I have a what? Did you hear what you just said? I’m to be the director of the National Gallery? You can just decide that?”

“Yes, I suppose I can. But that’s not for another five or six years or so. Now, I believe you’re aware the nation has noticed you are nowhere to be found, especially once someone suggested you should be the next Doctor. We are being inundated with conspiracy theories, which puts rather a lot of stress on Kelly and your family, not to mention our company resources. But given that footage of you dangling off Tower Bridge with one hand whilst holding on to Kelly with the other has been seen by over half the world’s population, people will have no trouble believing you had to turn to pain killers after that incident. Those are very addictive, so the narrative will be that you recently checked into a private clinic in...”

“Caroline, stop talking! You just decided how the rest of my life is going to play out! That’s scary!”

“No, dear. Scary is letting you do as you please and letting you run around unchecked. Now, your mother has been kept waiting long enough. She’s in the hotel part of this building, but we can cut across on the 40^th floor. Again: not a word about your reign of terror here. Your father may be able to come to terms with it, but you will break your mother’s heart if you confess to her.”

Well, that seemed reasonable enough.

“Okay. I’ll be sure not to mention how many people I’ve killed.”

“Good. Then let’s go. Afterwards I have a medical check-up planned, but Dr. Sarma is still setting up his equipment, so it will have to be brief. Half an hour or so. Come on, up you get...”

“But ... they’re getting me some food. The guards.”

“I’m sure it will be here when you get back. And there will be tea and biscuits in your parent’s suite.”

“I don’t want biscuits.”

But I did want to see my parents, so I had no choice but to get up and follow Caroline plus a gaggle of armed men into the lift. It was a short trip to the 40^th floor, where there was indeed a crossover into the Four Seasons, through a corridor I’d never have found by myself as it led past their gymnasium. We then went up two floors again and before long I found myself in a very large hotel room with my parents. Caroline hung around, probably to make sure I didn’t actually confess to any capital offences, but my parents are now used to having her around. My house back in Ealing was the nexus of Sunday Morning Coffee With Something Nice, and both Caroline and Peter made regular appearances. Besides, my mother can socialize with just about anyone at any level of society.

The room, though not a suite, did come with a small pantry. Caroline made us all tea, which stretches her cooking skills somewhat but she’s gotten better since she started hanging out with me. Actually, I’m being facetious here. She may not be much of a chef, but Caroline Keller can do pretty much anything else.

I’ve noticed many people have a more strained relationship with their parents than me. I’m certainly well aware of their flaws, but I’m still very fond of them. Still, I hope you recognize the way that wherever your parents are immediately becomes home. I’ve seen them moving around a few times after they emigrated to the UK, but home was always where mum made tea and dad had the TV on at an annoying volume whilst bombarding me with questions about issues with his printer. Dad always has issues with printers. He’ll buy one every two years or so, and swear blind he’ll never get another Epson/Canon/Brother/HP ever again. Then he does, buying the brand he swore off eight years before. The Circle of Ink, is what Kate calls it. Invariably the new printer fails, because he hardly ever needs to print anything and so the heads dry out. And if they don’t, they’re designed to conk out after the warranty period is over anyway. I’ve seen Epson printers give up the ghost because the ‘ink pillow was full’. Dad went ballistic over that one. I am pretty sure he at one time planned to make a stand by collecting old Epson printers from the local council depot so he could dump them at their head office. But then it occurred to him he’d have to hire a trailer or a van to move them, and he’s deathly afraid of both. (My father is basically afraid of anything that requires a deposit.) So he got three Epsons from the depot, or stole them basically, kept them in the shed for a year and then they were gone again. We never said a word about it, but his St. Nicholas surprise that year was a fake ink cartridge Kate made from a plastic dustbin. (That’s a Dutch thing, the St. Nicholas surprise.)

Anyway, I had half an hour with my parents, who had been through a lot in the past few days. Their son had gone off to Saudi Arabia without much of an explanation, some weirdos on Facebook then accused them of having hidden my corpse, then there’s an explosion in Riyadh (and they don’t know how big a city that is, do they?) and they’re told I’m in prison!

Only this morning had dad come to see me, fully expecting to be stuck here for months while the Foreign Office pretends to do something, and he comes back ashen-faced and completely unwilling to talk. Because what would he say? ‘Our son is a mass murderer and he asked for suicide pills.’ Of course not. So he barely said anything, which made mum think I was being tortured or something. No, this wasn’t a happy family gathering. They had lots of questions and I had to lie to my mother’s face, with my father sitting right next to her, fully aware I was lying.

As we are an upstanding family, at least in the eyes of the law, they had quite a few questions about prison. I told them that it was uncomfortable and not something I ever cared to repeat, but that I had been given edible food, some credit, a place to sleep and that nobody had tried to shiv me with a deep-frozen turd.

Somehow they didn’t mention Kate or Melody, focussing instead on Edwin. And somehow, I didn’t ask. I didn’t ask how my girls were managing, because I didn’t want to know the answer.

There was a knock on the door, and Tom walked in without waiting for an answer. Security people get out of that habit pretty quickly, I’ve noticed.

“Excuse me, but the guys from the uhm ... Aramco ... are wondering how long they’ll have to wait.”

“Martin, speak to them and send them on their way. Keep it short. Again, do not tell them anything, even if you suspect they know,” said Caroline. “I’ve scheduled our departure for ten a.m. tomorrow. That’s when most private jets leave Riyadh, so we should have the least amount of scrutiny.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll be back soon. Sorry, mum. Just a ... thing I need to clear up.”

“Whatever you say, Martin. Try not to get arrested.”

“Yes, mum.”

I had expected to find John and Gerard in a bad mood. Patience is a virtue in the intelligence community, but nobody likes to be kept waiting. But to my surprise, they were holed up in a room with William, Phil (who had been my weapons instructor for an afternoon, which I’d forgotten) and Tom. They were drinking Scotch and it seems they were amusing themselves with anecdotes about ME. Me and my stupid, civilian, untrained stunts. Tom and I could hear them laughing as we walked down the corridor. As I entered, William was halfway into an anecdote about the training session I’d had at the Armstrong facility. He stubbed out a cigarette on a paper plate. The table was littered with napkins and empty food cartons.

“So we work them like dogs and at the end of the day they have to make it up the tower, to a heli evac. That’s the goal. King’s the package, but of course he’s on point half the time.”

“Yeah, yeah?” asked Stein, hanging on Will’s lips.

“So Peter, who’s supposed to be TL, he’s tired. He’s the oldest one in the group, he hasn’t paced himself and he’s trying to keep up with King who fucking LOVES that shit and just can’t handle another alpha dog. Yeah?”

Gerard gave a knowing chuckle.

“So we give ‘em a head start, come in with flash-bangs and laser pointers and basically try to keep the pressure on. Then we hear a single shot and we’re thinking: ‘Yup, there we go, they’re nervous and they’ll blow through all their ammo and that’s when we get them’, right? So we come to the third floor and there’s a man down! No trace of the rest of ‘em, though.”

“What? Down? From a laser pointer?” asked Stein. “Oh, Hi Martin! Shut up for a sec, I wanna hear this.”

“No, from a paint ball. In his thigh! So we thought they’d accidentally shot one of their own, and...”

“And left him behind...” groaned Gerard, rubbing his temple as he gave me a very disappointed look.

“Yeah. Then we find it’s the TL! Peter! And guess who shot him?”

“No! HE DID NOT!”

“Oh yeah! Point blank. ‘Cause he wasn’t moving fast enough and leaving a man behind would cost them one hundred points.”

“But leaving a DEAD man behind...” said Stein, grinning.

“Jesus...” said Gerard. “Jesus. I mean, it’s just an exercise, but...”

“You try that shit at The Point and you’re looking at a toilet brush for a month,” said Tom.

“Are you quite finished?” I asked, well aware I had been the butt of many a joke.

“I think so,” said John, now trying to act serious again. “Guys, can we have the room?”

“I’m not staying in this room, it stinks to high heaven of booze and fags! And my food must have arrived by now, I’d rather not have to eat that in...”

As soon as I said the word ‘food’, everyone exchanged nervous looks.

“Uhm ... Was this ... for you?” asked Gerard. “The stuff Tom brought in?”

“WHAT?!”

“I mean ... There was so much of it ... We figured it was...”

“You ate my food?”

“Well ... You weren’t here.”

“FUCK! Is there anything left?”

“Don’t ... think so...” said William. “I suppose I forgot ... that...”

“Oh, brilliant! I haven’t had anything to eat since seven a.m. But don’t mind me! I was only in PRISON.”

“I’ll run out, get you something else. There’s a food court in the mall downstairs,” said William, and scarpered.

“Sorry about that, agent,” said Stein, now sounding very officious again. “Let’s have a chat somewhere else, then. Jerry, you coming?”

“Yeah, yeah. Geez, I’m sorry, Martin. If I’d known...”

Two minutes later I was in a room with the two gentlemen from the CIA.

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The Protocols of Carstairs

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