and holds it aloft with the full email and file sent to Harriet Alexander when we were in Madrid.
Chris shifts forward, looks. His mouth hangs open. ‘What the fuck?’
The woman switches her gaze to Chris. I do not move. The old man in the carriage ahead is absorbed in his newspaper. The young woman has earbuds in connected by a thin white wire to her phone. In her lap open at the page is Orwell’s dystopian novel.
‘Mr Chris Johnson,’ she says, ‘the way you encrypted that email to the UK Home Secretary, well, you gave us a hard task to decode it. If you are game, we are very interested in acquiring your special… services. Better to have you onside than off.’ She smiles. ‘Still, we found you all. Eventually. But of course, we did have a little help.’
‘Fuck you.’ Chris spits at her.
She glances down to the saliva on her gilet, then points her gun to Patricia’s head and looking at me, says, ‘I’ll make the choice for you now really very easy: come with me or I kill your friends.’
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