How to Betray Your Country by James Wolff (spicy books to read .TXT) 📕

minutes after it had started. By that point he was already familiar with the facts of the case. He had read the police report, spoken at length with the doctors who had operated on her and stood at the junction near King’s Cross every morning for a week, for at least an hour each time, watching the rush hour traffic roar and stutter. His job had taught him that information on its own was of little value, since so much of it turned out to consist of theories, allegations, promises, rumours, speculation or lies. He wanted context, not information. He wanted the driver.

The man was tearful as he gave his testimony, describing a journey from Hull, a six o’clock start, the fifteen-minute stop at Wetherby services, his route through London and the way the cyclist had appeared from nowhere, slipping on the wet road and disappearing from sight somewhere between the third and fourth axles. It was like someone had flashed a torch in his side mirror, he said, a burst of yellow jacket that tugged his head to the right and then suddenly was gone. He didn’t know what was happening until a pedestrian started screaming.

Afterwards August saw the driver on the pavement across the road, smoking a cigarette and talking on his phone. He was only metres away when the man laughed. He didn’t stop to consider that he might have been laughing at something funny his child had said, or out of relief that it was all over. So much for wanting context. Within a week August had flown to Leipzig. The driver had been taken off the road by his company after the accident and given a temporary position in the sales office. Using a different name, August called from a payphone and made an appointment, saying that he represented a large UK manufacturer and would appreciate a discreet chat to explore whether the German company could provide a cheaper service than their local rivals. In his hotel would be preferable, to avoid the risk of being seen visiting their office. He had learned by then that the driver had an old conviction for assault and three arrests for domestic battery, that he was fifty-eight, left-handed, ten kilos overweight and kept a hammer in the glove compartment of his Skoda, which was in the garage after having all its tyres slashed late one night. August chose a hotel not far from the small apartment the man shared with his elderly mother, in the expectation he would walk home from their early evening meeting through a nearby park.

The man was uncomfortable, apologetic about his faltering English and ill-suited to his new role as salesman. He couldn’t understand why this client had asked for him by name. A workman set about replacing a broken window and a cold wind quickly emptied the lobby of other guests. He sat there in his coat, wondering what to make of this shabby Englishman, so unlike other people he had met in the haulage business and with little interest in the subject beyond a few cursory questions about routes and costs. Even when he got his figures mixed up the Englishman didn’t seem to mind at all. He just stared in that way he had, his large hands gripping his knees and his eyes watering in the icy wind that rushed in through the broken glass. Winter in Germany can be brutal if you’re not used to it, he thought. And the English are so soft.

“August?” said William. “Everything all right?”

“What’s that?”

“I was just wondering what made you come out here.”

“Oh, a chance to be on the digital front line,” he said, pulling himself together. “Who wouldn’t want to work for … here.” He really needed to find out what the company was called before it became a problem. “If Beatrice is the boss then the company’s name must have been her idea – I’m still trying to decide whether I like it or not.”

“It’s not everyone’s cup of tea. At least it’s not called something strategies.”

“What do you think?”

William shrugged. “I worked for a company called FGM Solutions once.”

“This one strikes me as a difficult name for non-English speakers to pronounce.”

“What?”

All right, he was running out of ideas. One last try.

“Beatrice used a good analogy about the digital space being like a chessboard where all the pieces move however they want.”

“And I thought I’d heard all her shit analogies.”

“Is that where the name comes from?” asked August.

“How so?”

“The chess thing.”

“What chess thing?”

A woman appeared at the kitchen door. She was in her late forties, short and plump and wearing a pair of oversized spectacles with red plastic frames. Her short blonde hair was cut into the shape of a helmet.

“Walk with me, August,” she said, smiling broadly. She arranged a purple silk scarf around her neck. “I’m heading out to a meeting, but five minutes will have to be better than nothing.” She turned to William, her smile still in place. “Please check your emails. There’s a small crisis of your own making to be dealt with before you go home.”

She led August out of the apartment into the hallway, closed the reinforced door and lowered her voice. “I didn’t want to do this in front of William, but I checked my emails and it was nine o’clock you were supposed to be here. You know that, don’t you?” August started to reply but she cut him off: “Ssh, my turn to talk.” He wondered when his turn had come and gone. She walked down the stairs, speaking loudly over her shoulder. “It’s important that I set the scene for you, August, make sure we’re on the same page from day one.” Her heels clattered on the stone steps. “The key message is this: I want you to feel good about being here. These are very exciting times. There are opportunities appearing at an incredible rate and it’s my job to make sure that we identify, seize and exploit those opportunities.