Present day - England

Abraham Morrisey stood in front of the dresser mirror in his hotel room, smoothing down his grey shirt front and opening the collar. He shrugged into the dark blazer, straightened that, did up a single brass button, and took stock of the image facing him. Pleased, he pocketed his billfold and phone, took a quick look around the room, and left, locking the door.

The lift was quiet as it swished to the lobby, where he exited and headed to the lush conversation area in front of the reception desk. Mallory West, his companion for dinner sat relaxed, long legs crossed, on an oversized sofa. The pony tail worn earlier in the day was gone, and the result was a small cascade of auburn hair reaching onto her shoulders.

He took in as much as he could in the short walk across the lobby, his mental check list running through the facts he knew about her. Thirty-six years old. College grad. Senior agent in the British SIS after a seven year, meteoric rise. Impeccable record.

She shifted from her relaxed pose to one of balance, ready to greet him, and the smile turned quizzical as he slowed, spreading his arms.

"I thought casual had an international definition." The white flared skirt and the pale green, short sleeved sweater, with a necklace of small chunky coloured stones he felt could have taken her anywhere. And the heels brought her eye level with his six foot frame.

"This is casual, and you don't look the film version of a casual American."

"Canadian. We probably aren't recognized as casual."

He grinned, smiling at the pleasant sound of her accent, and taking her hand as she stood. "I made reservations in the dining room here. It seemed more practical than driving somewhere. Hope that's okay."

"They have an excellent dining room here at the Kirkland." she said, taking his arm. "Traffic on a Saturday is rubbish in town. Did you get settled all right? Is your room nice?"

"Seems fine, I haven't unpacked everything yet. Still a little jet lagged."

They were shown to a table and comfortably seated, both adjusting to the moment. "Care for an aperitif?" he asked, opening the drinks menu.

"A small sherry, please."

The waiter appeared, and he ordered the sherry for Mallory and a Drambuie for himself. The meal was mostly small talk, a rehashing of the day's earlier meeting with department heads and intel gatherers. Toward the end it switched to reciprocal backgrounds, each probing with care for those social hand holds that keep such conversations flowing between two competing colleagues.

Fresh coffees arrived, and they both shifted for comfort with the expected change in conversation.

"So, you are going to be my babysitter while I'm over here." He added a bit of sugar to his cup and stirred.

"I was waiting for that to come up. That's not why I agreed to dinner you know."

"But I am right."

"Since the current events prompted inclusion of our cousins, a little professional caution shouldn't seem out of the ordinary. After our meeting this morning, the mandarins, Percy and Grant, huddled on the phone before presenting a united front to the unwashed. It seems both sides have pulled up the drawbridge somewhat."

He watched her lips hover at the rim of her cup, and when she spoke his eyes shifted to the chocolate pools that were hers.

"But we're going to lower them, just between us?" He smiled teasingly.

She made a patient blink, indicating a tolerance for his remark. "My boss wants to make sure your boss doesn't meddle in our operation with the courier. Apparently, he expressed an interest in where the delivery takes place."

"I'm here strictly as an observer for a joint intelligence group from Canada and the USA, Ms West. I have no other specific orders."

She smiled and looked down at her hands. "Of course. Well, you may as well know what has taken place to date, since they didn't cover all the details at the meeting." She relaxed against the back of her chair and began with the accent he embraced internally. "Our watchers have had eyes on the target as of 16:47, Monday last. He arrived alone, was met by a member of the local chapter, registered here in the Kirkland Hotel, and hasn't been out of his room since." She picked up her coffee. "Obviously he's waiting for contact of some sort."

Morrisey listened to the words, but his mind was on the woman delivering them. Pretty impressive creds, he thought, ranking in the SIS they way she did. His office had given him a briefing on her, but in person it seemed lacking; she was far more than the data provided. Better be on your toes, Abraham.

The dining room had become busier and the conversation noise level rose accordingly. Regarding him carefully, Mallory set her cup down and leaned back, folding her bare arms over her chest - her ample chest - Morrisey couldn't help but noticing - again. He was struggling with wanting to learn the essence of this woman, while trying to remain cognisant of the information delivered through those lips.

"Yeah, the briefing was a little sparse." He hastily adjusted his thoughts back to the topic. So, no exchanges during the greeting, no visitors? Anyone tail the greeter?"

"Nothing that tweaked our interest. After he settled in here in the hotel, the man that met him was unfortunately lost on the underground. We do have two people employed in the hotel reporting, along with remote audio and a camera, on his room door."

He raised an eyebrow over the loss of the subject; seemed sloppy, but he didn't press. "Nothing planted inside?"

"Nothing that wouldn't have been scoured out with a detector. Our audio is quite advanced."

"Phone?"

"Silent, both hotel and his own."

"Has he been out of the room at all?"

"No, Takes all meals by room service."

"Nothing being slipped by in dishes or on napkins?"

"We're confident there hasn't."

"So the plan is to just wait?" He noted the responses were made almost by rote.

"That's the plan." She slipped a finger in the cup handle. "Your director's interest in the meeting something you care to share?"

"Told you I was simply here to observe. I am strictly need to know. At the meeting they mentioned he was bringing something into the country."

"Brought something in. He was carrying a metal briefcase, a standard issue for couriers."

He waited. "Any guess as to what it is?"

Mallory toyed with the edge of the tablecloth, and he watched her compose herself with a small lip nibble before speaking again. "Curious questions for one just here to observe, Agent Morrisey."

"Just an occupational curiosity, nothing more." His earlier warning to himself kicking in.

She absently turned her cup on the saucer. "There has been no official indication."

He smirked. "I gather then someone knows something unofficial."

Her expression was enigmatic, and Morrisey lost the smirk, replacing it with a surprised curiosity. He sat watching her, his remark having set off some kind of internal alarm that she was obviously struggling to control.

"What did I say?" He finally had to ask.

"I think you're well aware of your intention - as am I"

"Mallory. I'm simply trying to understand the situation."

"As an observer."

He frowned. "Yes. As an observer. I have no ulterior motive here." The lie felt like rust on his tongue.

"The hackneyed motto of intelligence agencies the world over."

"Fine. I withdraw the question. Sorry if I transgressed."

His almost sincere expression of conceding failed to convince her, and she tried another jab. "Having an observer from a cousin agency, when nothing has yet been discovered seems rather irregular, don't you agree?"

"No more so than having agency heads set up meetings to permit same." He countered. "Why are we doing this? We both know there is more to this than just some routine courier visit." He sighed. "Yes, I'm to here to observe. Also to find out who he meets. Satisfied?" The rust on the lie thickened.

"Confirmed, anyway." She tasted her coffee and set it back down. "The current wisdom is that our courier, identified as Vyacheslav Bugrov, is here to meet with The Guild to present a deal . . . or complete one." Her voice faltered at first but recovered as she sat straighter and made eye contact. "It has been determined that he was sent by Russia's Department G, Europe Station."

"That's Vladim Iilyin's gang."

"Yes. We also believe your people have more than a passing interest in The Guild. Is that true?"

The waiter appeared with a coffee samovar, enquiring as to refills, and they sat back waiting, each considering how to manoeuvre through the topic. Morrisey asked for the cheque and waited until the man had left.

"Cards on the table?" He tried a slight smile.

"It's your deal." She returned his smile, eyes locking on his.

"Bugrov is a possible link we hope would lead me to The Guild."

She gave a short toss of her hair and sipped her drink, studying him closely. "Why do I not believe that?"

"What do you believe?"

"Personally, or the company view?"

"They're different?" His surprise showing.

"Let us say, I reserve my suspicions until I learn a little more." She finished her coffee and set the cup aside, then leaned closer, her dark eyes drilling his. "Your being here is not a situation I wanted. I actually objected to the idea. Not that my objection carried a lot of weight." She hesitated; her teeth appeared chewing on her lower lip.

"Why? Are we hiding something?"

The remark caused her look to intensify to a point he almost felt concerned. "I need to know I have your trust and silence." She held her breath, questioning what she was about to do.

He shifted under her gaze. "Will my saying you have make you happy?"

"I'm serious, Morrisey. This could be life and death." The leap taken, she steeled herself for his response, watching him try to read her.

"Okay, yes. You do." he spoke slowly, but with assurance.

She sucked in her breath and wet her lips. "I want what's in the briefcase . . . I need it."

He held up his mug toward the waiter, and signalled for more coffee. Her surprise revelation sent his thoughts scrambling, and he used little bits of business to stall while he tried to organize them.

"I think I need to hear that again - more specifically."

She knew she was taking a giant leap, but he wouldn't just go away, and she needed to do what she had to do. "Do you know the name Ava Kapova?" She spoke softly, watching his face intently.

Morrisey shook his head.

"She's Felix Kubavich's mistress."

He stared, mouth open. How the hell come he wasn't informed of that? "And just how do you know that?"

"Are we still in 'cards on the table' mode?"

Morrisey canted his head and agreed.

"I run Ava Kapova."