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jeans and boots, along with an expensively distressed leather jacket. She is also giving out a strong, uber cool ‘ don’t fuck with me ’ message. I follow in silence, and when we’ve collected a couple of lattes we take them to a secluded table.
    ‘So you’ll stay with your friends tonight,’ she says.
    It’s all been arranged, so she fills me in on the fictitious interview I’m meant to be having with a UN guy in Geneva.
    ‘But what exactly do you want me to do when I get to the Sharif’s place?’ I ask.
    For a moment, Carla Hirsch’s eyes are blank and she shakes her head. She’s not used to holding people’s hands. The men and women she works with are professionals who know what they’re doing. I’m an accidental infill. But the stakes are high, so she puts down her coffee and considers me across the table.
    ‘If we have a nuclear incident, either here or back home, it would be serious,’ she says. ‘You do appreciate this, Rudi.’
    ‘Yes – of course.’
    There’d be mass evacuations. Everything would have to be re-located. The West End or Broadway could all just fizzle away. If my President or anywhere in Washington was the target, the White House and the Pentagon would have to be moved out to Texas or Wyoming, or maybe even to the Rocky Mountains.
    ‘We suspect that the Sharifs are funding a group who could make this happen: ruthless Islamists who think we’re all decadent children of Satan. For these guys, it’s a war, Rudi, and martyrdom’s an honour. They don’t care about what happens in our corrupt Western societies. They see us as a diseased tribe that needs culling … and quickly.’
    I’m thinking of seductive Arab and Asian virgins. They’re sitting on clouds in heaven, opening their arms to welcome battle scarred brothers, while down on planet earth there are mushroom clouds erupting in the sky over every Western capital of any consequence.
    ‘It’s a terrible thought, I know,’ my Controller says, ‘and we could be wrong. But these people are your friends, Rudi, and we must assume the worst. They’re up there on our wanted screen just now and we hope you can check them out.’
    ‘Right – ’
    ‘Initially, you’ll need to embrace the Sharifs. Win them over and show genuine interest in whatever it is they’re doing. The Foundation that offers scholarships to bright young Muslims sounds interesting … you might get to meet some of the these guys.’
    *  *  *  *  *
    It is, I suppose, elementary spy school stuff, but it leaves me cold. I don’t have any ideas about where to start as a covert operator. I’m resisting, and Carla’s picking up on it. She sucks in her elegant cheeks, considers the state of her nails and takes a deep breath. She’s scarily focused and appears to be quite detached from any emotions she might have. Agents, however, have to be managed, so she changes gear and becomes specifically pro-active.
     ‘What you must do,’ she suggests with a pinched smile, ‘is to see if anything’s changed. Find out why Mike or Michael is now Mohammed. Is his sister, Sulima, singing from the same hymn sheet? We need to know for sure if they’ve joined up with the fundamentalists or if they’re just making a show to assuage their Muslim consciences. It might also be interesting to consider the exact nature of their relationship … are you with me on this, Rudi?’
    ‘No – not at all … what do you mean?’
    ‘Well – they are brother and sister. They’re both in their thirties and they live together in a secluded lakeside mansion. They are, I assume, emotionally, if not sexually active. Mike or Mohammed, or whatever you want to call him, has never married, and neither has Sulima … so what’s the story?’
    This is prurient, mean-spirited conjecture and I think Carla Hirsch is vile. The Sharifs are lovely people and there is nothing improper about their living together. I’m sure about this, I think. OK – maybe it’s a little unusual, but