The Increment: A Novel - By David Ignatius Page 0,75

between him and his old friend, after the disruption of this beautiful woman and the complicated “other” life she evidently was part of. It wasn’t his business, except in the sense that the life of Adrian was dear to him, and he knew that for all his professional skill, the British officer was wandering. He thought of Susan, Adrian’s wife, a woman he had always thought of as a perfect match. Bright, witty, caustic when necessary. A life companion, he would have thought. But some lives require complication. They can’t live with too much happiness. They seek out danger. A lover who is borderline crazy, who will draw you into a spider’s web and suck you dry of whatever impulse made you want to risk your happiness in the first place. Adrian wasn’t a lover so much as a thrill seeker.

The tension between them ebbed away, and soon enough they were talking about the operation. Harry stopped the car at an off-license and brought some beers out to the Rover. It was the safest place to talk about secrets. They ran through what Harry would need to contact his Iranian agent, and what Adrian and his team could deliver. Harry made notes for himself, but then wondered if he should even bring them back to the United States. They were incriminating. In that sense, maybe he was a thrill seeker, too. He had gotten tired of his life partnership with the Culinary Institute of America and wanted something a bit spicier.

“Tell me to fuck off,” said Harry, “but who are these people of yours? I mean, who owns them? Is the Increment a real organization? Or is it just a cute name?”

“They’re all special-ops people, by training. Members of the Special Air Services, our esteemed SAS, and a few navy chaps from the Special Boat Services. They are seconded to us for one-off missions. They do what we ask, on our rules, extralegal. Whatever it takes. And then they go back. The thing is, for the right sort of person, you really don’t want to go back, do you? You want to play James Bond forever. So is the Increment real? I would have to say, ‘Yes and no.’”

“Deniable.”

“But of course. Isn’t that sweet, Harry? I mean, this is a world that doesn’t have enough mystery left. And here, to excite the blood, we have a bunch of stone-cold killers who can get in and get out, and get the job done, and nobody is the wiser. And if anyone ever asks a question, we just say, ‘Sorry, mate. That’s a state secret. Can’t really help you with that one.’ Never-Never Land. That’s the Increment.”

BRIXTON

The five conspirators met Monday morning in a warehouse off Brixton Road, in the heart of the West Indian ghetto of South London. The sign on the door said it was an import-export company, GENTLE WINDS, and that was surely true. Adrian gathered them in a conference room in the back, past a mailing room that was all boxes and twine. He sat “Mr. Fellows” down in an overstuffed leather chair, as guest of honor. The SIS chief of staff was dressed in an old corduroy jacket with worn leather patches at the elbow, and a blue denim shirt open at the collar. He had an easy command of the group, a manner that was relaxed but also focused on the mission. It was evident that he had worked with the members of this team before, and that they trusted him.

The three operatives were dressed in the clothes they would wear in Iran. Hakim, the Pakistani from North London, wore a simple cotton shirt and a pair of trousers of the kind you might see on South Asian migrants throughout the Middle East. The daredevil on the motorcycle of the day before had vanished; now there was a faint submissive wobble to his head and a deferential smile. Marwan, the Yemeni from Barking, wore a cheap brown suit and a gray and blue polyester tie; he looked every inch the Arab businessman trying to hustle a buck. He too had managed to disguise the athletic vigor of the previous day. His suit was baggy; it made him seem bulky, rather than muscular.

Jackie was the most transformed. In place of the striking riding habit of Sunday afternoon, she wore a loose-fitting gray gabardine jacket that covered her down to her knees, and a black scarf that almost hid her blond tresses. Sunglasses shielded her eyes; but her