Edward Wilson

The Envoy

Arcadia Books, 2008.

Driscoll turned away. They walked in silence until they reached Regent's Park. They crossed the road and followed a path into the greensward...Driscoll finally spoke. "And who do you work for?" Kit knew it was pointless to dissemble. The nature of the operation would only point in one direction. "I work for the U.S. government."
"You're talking shit."
Kit was taken aback. "What do you mean?"
"Tell your bosses to fuck off."
"Fine." Kit reached deep in his pocket and felt the Smith and Wesson.

Kit had hoped to recruit the IRA gunman for a mission that would involve 'some diving, some snooping - and maybe even a hit or two.' But now he would have to protect his identity; 'Driscoll's life wasn't worth having his cover blown. He was going to take Driscoll down to the weeping willows by the boating lake. There wouldn't be any lovers or watchmen; the night was now a pelting shower of sleet. The police would write it off as an internal IRA feud - like the last time he had to terminate an agent's contract.'

Suddenly there was nothing but flashing white pain. Kit was lying on his back, struggling for breath. The blow to the solar plexus had come totally without warning. He hadn't seen Driscoll move at all. Kit couldn't have reached for the gun even if the Irishman's foot wasn't pinning his hand. Driscoll meanwhile removed the Smith and Wesson from Kit's coat pocket. "Very thorough," he said, "you've even got an American gun." Driscoll pointed the pistol in Kit's face. "But your fake American accent wouldn't fool anyone"