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A Shadow Intelligence

Oliver Harris
Chapters (58)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by Oliver Harris
  3. ONE
  4. TWO
  5. THREE
  6. FOUR
  7. FIVE
  8. SIX
  9. SEVEN
  10. EIGHT
  11. NINE
  12. TEN
  13. ELEVEN
  14. TWELVE
  15. THIRTEEN
  16. FOURTEEN
  17. FIFTEEN
  18. SIXTEEN
  19. SEVENTEEN
  20. EIGHTEEN
  21. NINETEEN
  22. TWENTY
  23. TWENTY-ONE
  24. TWENTY-TWO
  25. TWENTY-THREE
  26. TWENTY-FOUR
  27. TWENTY-FIVE
  28. TWENTY-SIX
  29. TWENTY-SEVEN
  30. TWENTY-EIGHT
  31. TWENTY-NINE
  32. THIRTY
  33. THIRTY-ONE
  34. THIRTY-TWO
  35. THIRTY-THREE
  36. THIRTY-FOUR
  37. THIRTY-FIVE
  38. THIRTY-SIX
  39. THIRTY-SEVEN
  40. THIRTY-EIGHT
  41. THIRTY-NINE
  42. FORTY
  43. FORTY-ONE
  44. FORTY-TWO
  45. FORTY-THREE
  46. FORTY-FOUR
  47. FORTY-FIVE
  48. FORTY-SIX
  49. FORTY-SEVEN
  50. FORTY-EIGHT
  51. FORTY-NINE
  52. FIFTY
  53. FIFTY-ONE
  54. FIFTY-TWO
  55. FIFTY-THREE
  56. FIFTY-FOUR
  57. FIFTY-FIVE
  58. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Cover

Cover Image

Also by Oliver Harris

The Hollow Man

Deep Shelter

The House of Fame

ONE

The Secret Intelligence Service puts two years and over 100k into the training of new field officers. You’re shown how to steal cars, strip weapons, hack bank accounts. There are courses on the use of improvised explosives, two workshops dedicated to navigating by the stars. But nothing about what I had heard one old spy call whiplash. No one tells you how to go home.

You’re negotiating with a crime syndicate in Kabul on Thursday; Saturday night you’re at a dinner party in Holland Park. Cutlery tinkles. There is something you’ve forgotten. You lock yourself in the bathroom and call a restaurant on Sadarat Square to speak to a man you know is dead, and when the phone’s answered there is the call to prayer in the background. The worlds cannot all be real at the same time. You apologise to your hosts as you leave, blaming jet lag, then sit on the Central Line hearing mourners wail. After the first few times, officers switch to a desk-based role or they find ways of managing the transition. I can’t do desks, so I had to learn.

I accumulated rituals, which veered between superstition and procedure. Most of all, I collected places that I could touch as if they were a charm and say: Everything’s under control, you know what you’re doing. The Premier Bar in Jordan’s Queen Alia airport was one of them. Travel between the lucky and unlucky parts of the world regularly enough and you’ll find yourself killing time in Queen Alia. The Premier Bar tucked itself away in a corner of the main terminal, a fridge and three aluminium tables, with a clear view across the departures hall. It had Arabic news on a flat-screen TV and bottles of Heineken in a fridge. I thought of it as my local.

I had come to Queen Alia airport en route from Saudi Arabia, and was under strict instructions to proceed directly to London. This in itself was ominous – most of my debriefs were held in third countries. An operation had been pulled suddenly. I had one bag and the clothes I wore, which stank of smoke and petrol. The pale jacket and chinos of a certain type of Englishman abroad are not made for arson.