The man on the doorstep was a stranger, but he knew the type. They were all from the same rotten womb - cloak and dagger merchants.
Water dripped from the man’s pink nose as he grasped together the lapels of his sodden suit. ‘Good morning, I’m Major Roberts.’
Cain tightened his grip on the latch. ‘What the hell do you people want?’
‘Please forgive this intrusion, Mr. Cain.’
‘Name’s Longthorn, has been for two years. Mr. Kite ought to update his files.’
Roberts, short, stocky, and balding from a life of army caps, stood with his back bent slightly, his chubby face rutted by his profession, yet his tired eyes held an unmistakable kindness.
‘I’m not from Kite’s section. My bag’s Military Intelligence…or what might remain after this new European Order’s finished with it.’
‘Not interested, Major, same coven, same pot.’ He started to close the door.
Roberts shoved a hand against it. ‘I’m here of my own volition.’
‘Get to the point, Major. I’ve things to do.’
‘An old friend of yours asked me to come…. John Dekker.’
‘Grief.’ He rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘I thought he was dead. Is he still fighting other people’s wars
‘May I come in?’
Cain swung the door open. ‘On second thought, we’ll talk outside. I could do with some fresh air.’
‘Of course. Anyway, the dog needs a run.’
‘Dog?’
Roberts turned and stroked the wet head of the black Labrador sitting on the concrete path behind him. ‘This is Storm. Very apt for today.’ He smiled. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t a mack. It wasn’t raining when I left London.’
Cain grabbed one of the wax jackets off a peg and a pair of Wellington boots from the pile on the stone floor, handed them to him and said with a wry smile, ‘I keep spares for clandestine meetings.’
Roberts grinned and walked in, dog at his heels; it shook off the rain, yawned and licked some rancid butter from the floor.
‘I won’t be a minute. Need to shove some togs on,’ Cain said as he bent to stroke the animal’s neck. ‘Whisky, Major?’
‘Too early for me.’
‘Really.’
Cain returned from upstairs as Roberts pulled on the last boot. ‘Good fit?’
The dog sniffed at the Wellingtons and Roberts shoved him away. ‘A little tight, but they’ll do.’
Outside, pushing hard against the wind and rain, they worked their way down a steep bank into a grassy field and stopped in the middle. Both were hunched up, backs against the onslaught. Hands
EXCERPT from Chapter 1
