The Rift by Rachel Lynch (good book recommendations txt) 📕

ever more challenging posts to match her skill set, with one eye on what might make her next annual report stand out. Reporting to ever-changing chiefs, depending upon her secondment, was part of the allure.

She looked around his office, at the paintings adorning the walls, the leather furnishings and the silverware – probably stolen from India. It was the same with any ancient government institution grounded upon the great British Empire: the trappings followed the victories. She scolded herself for her cynicism, something that she was slipping into more frequently. Not for the first time did she wonder if her time in the military was finished. She’d thought that the Royal Military Police might be different, somehow less accountable for the misery suffered around the globe, but lately, she’d realised that they all worked for the same people.

‘You’re confident that we’re back up to scratch?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir. I was most concerned with the routines set by the drivers – they tend to stick to their favourite routes, and it’s easy, here in Paris, to forget the threat level. Having said that, your personal bodyguard is excellent.’

‘Sit down.’ He motioned her towards a chair and he sat behind his desk.

She felt distinctly examined, and she shifted in her seat. Suddenly, the cool air brought no comfort. Her position at the MOD main building in Whitehall was liaising with MI5 and MI6 about intelligence received around the globe, most notably Five Eyes, a multilateral operation between the USA, UK, Canada, Australia and New Zealand. From there, they decided who to share information with. Recent intelligence had come out of Madrid and was on the radar of MI6; it detailed a potential threat from Morocco. It was a well-worn path: disgruntled nationals from the old French colony plotting the downfall of a Western power.

Sometimes she missed her role as a junior military police officer, investigating wayward soldiers who broke the law. But promotion brought desk jobs, and that’s how it worked. It had taken all of her time at the MOD to shake the misconception among other regimental staff that the Military Police were only out to expose everybody for sleeping with their secretary or being thrown out of a nightclub. It was a lonely world.

Trust was relative.

But Sir Conrad only wanted her expert opinion, and her time in Paris had at least, in that capacity, been a breath of fresh air. In many ways, she was forlorn at the prospect of returning to the UK. She was more comfortable when her unique abilities, learned through a wealth of courses offered to the Military Police, were exploited. That’s when she felt useful and worthy, if a little embarrassed, of her nickname, Wrench.

‘This intelligence from Five Eyes – it’s a good source. Did you discover any breach on our part? I believe that the focus was on drivers in Madrid, no?’ he asked.

Sir Conrad seemed jumpy. Perhaps it was the summit. It was a huge moment in his career. He was to personally host the group from Afghanistan. The summit itself would be attended by heads of state, but after the main event, Sir Conrad was to chair talks with the Afghans about their ongoing security needs.

‘No, sir. I don’t believe you have a problem with your locally employed staff here in Paris,’ she reassured him. ‘There’s an elevated threat level across the whole of Europe, and we’ve had no specific intelligence on Paris, just, I believe, an increase in activity across the sea border between Spain and Morocco. Traffic between the two continents is always on high alert, especially at that particular border point between Spain and Portugal because of the amount of cash and drugs that change hands. I believe it’s Interpol’s role to deal with drugs and trafficking?’ It was prudent for an ambassador of his calibre to take a wider interest in intelligence, but she wanted to know why he seemed so unnerved.

He waved his hand around and got to the point. ‘It’s more specifically the fact that one of the main players in arms and narcotics dealing from North Africa has been on the move lately, and it’s making the Americans nervous,’ he said.

Ahh, so this was the source of his concern.

‘Yes, Fawaz bin Nabil,’ she said. The CEO of Nabil Tradings Incorporated had been flying in and out of Madrid recently, raising more than a few eyebrows. Nabil was under surveillance by the Americans, but so far nothing had linked him personally to illegal arms dealing, which was, after all, made completely legitimate once one signed off the correct paperwork. The problem was that he was also suspected of being responsible for Morocco’s most lucrative export: the finest hashish in the world. Toing and froing between continents was an audacious move, but it was the job of Five Eyes to get to the bottom of why such a prominent player would risk travelling between Africa and Europe so brazenly.

Fawaz bin Nabil was the kind of player who kept his own hands clean and had several layers of foot soldiers carrying out his work on pretty much every continent. The guy was a billionaire oil and gas magnate and would go to bed with whatever countries offered him the best trade deal, no matter their track record. He also dealt in stocks, bonds, textiles, electrical goods, fertilisers and fruit. He was a slippery sucker who touched nothing personally that an international authority could do much about. Of course, the US wanted to wade in there regardless, getting rid of anyone who was worth more than they were and seemed to have more sway over the big boys of the Middle East, but they also knew that it could potentially spark a costly and highly damaging war. So, they kept him under close scrutiny. Fawaz upping his activity in Europe was something that made heads in London and Washington turn. Was he up to something? Not directly associated with terrorist links himself, the chance that he was at least