LITMIR.BIZ

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in arms had been sent to ask.

      ‘I heard you got offered a big job?’

      Fox nodded. ‘Aye, I did that.’

      ‘I think you should take it.’ Snow sipped his lager.

      ‘You mean “Six” thinks I should take it?’

      ‘Yep.’ Patchem had known all along about Snow’s operational relationship with Fox, which was why he had chosen him to make the approach.

      Fox downed his pint. ‘Training makes me thirsty. You’ll have to persuade me.’

      Snow took the hint and got Fox another pint of bitter and a Diet Coke for himself.

      ‘What, you become bent or something? Where’s yours?’

      ‘I’m driving.’

      ‘You are not. I said you’ll have to persuade me. Now get yourself another. You’re staying the night at mine.’

      Snow returned to the bar; he hadn’t needed much encouragement. This time, in addition to his pint, he plonked two double whiskys on the table. ‘If we’re drinking, we’re drinking.’

      Fox lifted the spirit glass. ‘Up the arse, no bebies!’

      ‘You’d know.’

      Fox narrowed his eyes. Not many could get away with saying that to him. They both downed the whisky. Dave looked up from his newspaper but said nothing. Fox sipped his pint. ‘So what’ve you been doing for the last decade and a bit?’

      Snow recounted his own story, from his return to the Regiment after his assignment with The Det, to assisting the Ukrainian SBU, getting shot, and then ‘joining’ Six.

      Fox whistled. ‘Me? After the Regiment I worked for a bunch of tossers for six years, got made redundant, and then, I nearly forgot, killed three bad guys and saved a princess.’

      Neither story was the usual ‘reacquainting yourself with your mate’ chat, but then neither man was a normal ‘mate’. Although of different generations, they had worked and almost died together in the SAS. Snow thought back to the night in Armagh when they’d been dragged out of the ditch by Jimmy McKracken, the IRA’s newest and, by reputation, hardest ‘hard man’. Fox, having an Irish father from whom he had inherited the nickname ‘Paddy’, had played the local trump and claimed to be from another cell. He had knocked Snow about with blow after blow to give his story credibility, while using his best Ulster accent.

      After McKracken’s men finished planting the roadside bomb, Fox and Snow were taken back to a farmhouse, where, in a world before mass mobile phones, the IRA cell leader wanted to corroborate Fox’s story. Snow was thrown – bruised, head covered in a Hessian sack – into the barn, while Fox was marched to the kitchen. Neither man knew where the other was but both acted as one.

      Snow pretended to be more injured than he was and, just as his IRA guard was removing his sack, he lunged out with his leg, sweeping the man to the floor. The young Irishman was winded and dropped his handgun. Snow rolled on top of him and using his head as a weapon, broke the Irishman’s nose before clamping his still-bound hands around the youth’s neck. He had only meant to render him unconscious but the adrenaline of the situation meant he’d pressed too hard.

      This was Snow’s first kill, a hard kill, but he had had no time for remorse. Using the volunteer’s knife, he cut through his bonds, collected the gun, and made, as stealthily as possible, for the farmhouse.

      In the kitchen, Fox wasn’t tied to the chair but had the eyes of two men on him, while McKracken had moved away to make his call. Having spent his summers with his grandparents, who hadn’t lived far away, Fox was regaling his watchers with stories when one of them sensed movement outside. Fox sprang to his feet and kicked the nearest man in the groin. The first terrorist crumpled and Fox grabbed his assault rifle. As he did, Snow sent two 9mm rounds through the window and into the skull of the second. Fox ventured further into the house, as Snow moved through the door, pistol trained on number one, lying on the floor clutching his groin.

      Fox heard shots but McKracken hadn’t stayed to fight. He had taken his Cavalier and was making good his escape. The night had been a success. The bomb was defused and the remaining IRA cell member turned ‘grass’, delivering valuable intelligence. Fox and Snow had made an effective team.

      Fox stood. ‘Come on, let’s get some grub.’

      ‘What about here?’ Snow fancied the homemade steak and kidney pudding.

      Fox looked at him as though he was mad. ‘Do you enjoy living?’

      Dave, who was collecting the glasses, stared at Fox. ‘Think about me. You get to walk away, but the missus insists on cooking for me every bloody day!’

      They exited the pub and moved down the high street. ‘You wanna move the car?’

      Snow shook his head. ‘No, it’s a pool car. If it gets towed I’ll get another.’

      ‘“MI6 takes on clampers” – that’d look good in the Evening Argus.’ Fox enjoyed his own quip. ‘Right, I fancy an Indian.’

      Fox marched the pair of them around the corner to the Indian Cottage restaurant, a sixteenth-century cottage converted to become Shoreham’s best Indian. The fact that, like most Indian restaurants, it was owned and staffed by Bangladeshis was lost on the two former soldiers.

      *

      The noise of a seagull outside the bedroom window woke Snow with a start. Head throbbing, he unzipped the ‘maggot’ Fox had lent him and rolled off the mattress. Wearing only his boxers and T-shirt, he walked to the window and looked out. The house had a view of the street opposite and, if he craned his neck to the left, Shoreham beach and the English Channel. The early morning sunlight danced on the surface of the sea. Snow pulled on his jeans and made his way downstairs in search of ibuprofen, aspirin, or paracetamol – anything to avert the hangover which would soon fully manifest itself.

      The sound of a kettle boiling and the smell of bacon met him halfway. As he reached the bottom Fox greeted him with a broad smile. ‘Have a nice lie-in? You must be getting soft in your old age.’

      Snow checked the time on the microwave: it read 7:15. Fox grabbed the kettle and poured the scalding water into a pair of mugs. ‘Here, regulation brew. Milk’s in the fridge.’

      ‘Cheers.’ Snow poured a measure then handed it to Fox. ‘You got any…’

      Fox cut him off. ‘Second cupboard. Still got some horse tablets they gave Tracey for her back.’

      Snow took two painkillers and gulped them down with hot tea. ‘How are you feeling?’

      Fox cracked an egg. ‘Me? Right as rain, but then I’m not an English poof. Sunnyside up?’

      ‘Yeah,’ Snow nodded, although truth be told he was still full from the previous night’s curry.

      ‘What time are they expecting you back at spy central?’

      ‘It’s flexible.’ Snow took another swig of tea. ‘So?’

      Fox spread his arms. ‘You want me to give up all this for a fistful of sand?’ Snow remained silent as a smile spread across Fox’s creased face. ‘Did you think I’d actually say no?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Eat.’ Fox slapped two eggs, three rashers of bacon, and a pair of sausages onto a plate. ‘For tomorrow we may die.’

       Arizona Bar and Grill, Kyiv, Ukraine

      Gennady Dudka was looking forward to seeing his oldest friend, Leonid Sukhoi. He crossed his arms and smiled, reminiscing about times long ago. They had been conscripts together in the Red Army before being selected for the KGB Border Guards, where they had both stayed and risen through the ranks until Sukhoi transferred back to his native Belarus and Dudka returned to his homeland of Ukraine. They had met up as frequently as work

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