Brant blew it off, said:

‘With lime, I suppose. Have a real drink for once.’

The barman knew Brant, of course, everybody knew him, but the other geezer, he was new and very worrying. He had manners, said thank you when he plonked the drinks down, so he couldn’t be a cop. But he had a look, despite the nancy suit, he had a way of holding himself, that was… not to be fucked with. The barman would keep an eye, see what he could discover.

Brant clinked his glass against Porter’s, said:

‘I think the bar guy fancies you.’

Porter took a quick glance, said:

‘Not my type.’

Brant knocked back a lethal gulp, Porter sipped at his then, seeing Brant’s expression, took a larger sip, said:

‘Could I get some water for this?’

Brant was lighting a cig. He’d switched to a so-called low-tar brand, it wasn’t doing it. Porter, six months without smoking, inhaled the smoke greedily, resigned himself to the neat whisky, asked:

‘So what do you think of the Yank?’

Brant looked at his watch and, if he’d only known, he had maybe ten minutes before he was shot.

The Yank was L. M. Wallace, a terrorist expert. All the squads had been assigned one, the reasoning being that they knew when and where an attack might happen. As the Americans spoke of 9/11, the Brits, alas, now had 21/7. Brant stubbed out the cig, said:

‘Haven’t met him yet.’

His tone suggested he could give a fuck, but he asked:

‘You met him?’

Porter nodded. He’d been assigned as mentor, guide, nanny, what the fuck ever, mainly to ensure the guy was made welcome. He said:

‘He’s big, I’ll give him that.’

Brant laughed, his special filthy one that had no relation to humour, and he said:

‘Hung, eh?’

Porter finished the drink and felt the warmth caress his stomach, the artificial ease. He’d take any relief he got, said: