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

arming them was something that Counter Terrorism was also aware of. Perhaps Sir Conrad was privy to information that she hadn’t seen. In her briefing the previous day with the Military Attaché here in Paris, Colonel Palmer, he hadn’t mentioned the ambassador’s heightened unease. But then her history with Palmer was messy and their relationship tense.

The ambassador was clearly angling for her ear, and Helen just wished he’d come out and say what he wanted. The rumble of the air-conditioning unit caught her attention, and she watched as Sir Conrad clasped his hands together in a bridge and glanced at the window deep in thought.

She was thirsty and wondered when she’d be offered a drink. His prevarication distracted her and her mind turned to her parents and the last time they’d seen each other. Things hadn’t been the same since she’d told them the news about Luke.

Of course they’d been sympathetic – she still remembered her mother’s cries – but it was more the fact that Helen couldn’t face them for weeks afterwards. It had driven her away again as she looked for roles as far away from the UK as she could, to avoid the constant barrage of questions about her health and state of mind. In their opinion, the best thing for her to have done was leave the military and seek a more ‘domestic situation’ as her mother put it. After all, what sane, healthy woman chooses to join regiments of soldiers around the globe, putting herself in harm’s way, just because every regiment on active service needs a Military Police attachment that any qualified man could fulfil? In fact, her career was the only thing keeping her going. Perhaps she was hiding behind it. The air-conditioning whirred, and she waited. She became aware of the pulse in her wrist; the blue bulbous snake throbbed and she realised that she was anxious. Any thought of that period in her life, when everything had stopped and settled for a while, resulted in the same flow of adrenalin. It was a glaring irony that she’d rather face hostiles than her past.

She knew one thing: ambassadors were political beasts, and Sir Conrad’s motives would always be driven by self-preservation. The door opened behind them and she turned her head to see Colonel Palmer enter.

Here we go, she thought. ‘Sir,’ she greeted him and stood up. Her anxiety raged anew; she figured that she’d made some terrible mistake in her reporting and she’d missed a huge security breach, somehow related to Fawaz bin Nabil. She tried to conceal her elevated breathing.

Palmer nodded to her, and the ambassador beckoned him to take the seat beside Helen. They all sat and Helen crossed her legs, wishing for her own desk in the MOD, rueing the day she’d decided to throw herself into all that the Military Police offered a career-minded officer. Her head craved something simple, like investigating an infantry squaddie stealing Yorkshire stone from graves: a straightforward case attracting the wrath of a platoon of simple soldiers. The worse that could happen was you’d be called a ‘monkey’: a slur that might be confused as racist, but it wasn’t, it was because the RMP were always on your back.

It was no secret to those who knew both of them that she and Palmer held each other in utter disdain, but the ambassador didn’t know that. However, it was the colonel who had the ambassador’s ear here in Paris, and while she was here, it was Palmer who she reported to, as her military senior. She braced herself for a brushing down. She was convinced that she’d missed something. Her eye had been off the ball since Luke. She cursed herself and resettled her sights on early retirement.

It was the ambassador who spoke. His stance more relaxed, she noticed. He had a fellow dick-swinger here, that’s why.

‘Everyone knows what you did for Ashraf Ghani, Helen.’ He let that gem sink in.

Helen swallowed. This wasn’t what she was expecting.

‘Let me explain,’ he carried on. She no longer heard the whir of the air-conditioning, just the blood rushing past her carotid artery in her neck.

‘One of the objectives of the NATO summit is inviting members of the Afghan government to attend to discuss the Resolute Support Mission.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘At the summit, Ghani and four senior figures in the Afghan government are meeting with NATO and the American special envoy at the Palace of Versailles for three days to discuss further US funding of the RSM in Afghanistan. As you know, the mission aims to transfer Afghanistan’s national security back into its own hands. The UK, NATO, and of course, the hosts, France, will all be represented. Yours truly is the chosen candidate for the UK. After the cameras have stopped flashing and the prime minister and the US president have gone home, I’m in charge of these sensitive negotiations. The poppy harvest has been increasing steadily for years, despite the best efforts of the United States to curtail it, and Fawaz bin Nabil benefits immensely from instability in the region. His recent increased activity at the Spanish–Moroccan crossing could be linked to making sure the talks run the way he wants them to.’

‘In other words, derail the Afghan government’s efforts to curtail Taliban profits?’ she asked.

‘Exactly,’ Palmer spoke, taking her by surprise. Was he on her side?

She gathered her thoughts. ‘With respect, sir, the Americans have been at Versailles for the last six months. Security around the summit is second to none. Have they shared any intelligence relating to Fawaz? Has he any historical links with anyone attending the talks? Is MI6 sending a team, sir? Or the Foreign Office?’

‘Yes, yes, of course, we know that. But I want my own reassurances. The Americans have their eye on their president – rightly so – and we commend that. There was no intel when you led Ghani away from his vehicle along with the UK’s ambassador. How did you know?’ he asked her.

Helen looked at