THE MISFIT UNIT: 19) ST. JAMES'S

My Saturday Evening Post: A Serial Novel of Intrigue & Lunacy

In London at six p.m. next day, Jeff Dalkin moseys into the oak-paneled bar of Brown's Hotel on Albemarle Street and occupies a corner table. The theme of this cozy establishment is top shelf Scotch whiskey, and Dalkin cooperates by ordering Oban single malt with two cubes of ice and a few drops of water.

Richard Thornington soon appears in the doorway, his gawky frame wrapped in a Burberry trench coat; toothy grin accompanied by a pink, runny nose. He bounds over, sits downs, removes a handkerchief from his pocket and blows into it.

"Here's the problem," Dalkin hunches forward. "It's impossible to tell whose schizophrenic anymore."

"Excuse me?" says Thornington.

"Everybody walking around, yakking to themselves, gesturing with their arms. Most of them are talking into cell phones you can't see. So you don't know who's schizophrenic and who isn't. Anyway, start from the beginning." Dalkin sips Oban and listens as Thornington recounts the stunning news from his Russian source.

"Do you think...?" the Brit concludes.

"Sure sounds like it." Dalkin nods. "Anything else?"

Thornington crosses his arms, slightly exasperated. "Actually, I thought that would be quite enough."

"Actually, you're right. It's actually quite enough." Dalkin locks eyes with the Brit. "Unless there's something else?"

"Well... there is something else." Thornington pauses. "My Russian source also says he knows the identity of the SVR mole inside MI5."

"Yeah? Who?"

Thornington shakes his head. "He wouldn't say."

"Of course not. Just teasing you?"

"No. He wants a great deal of money."

Dalkin shrugs. "Don't we all. How much?"

"One million dollars."

"Blow me," says Dalkin. "Have you taken this to Five?"

"You're joking, mate. They don't want to know."

"Can I meet the source?"

Thornington looks away. "I don't know."

"Are you capable of finding a million dollars—blow me—to make a deal with your source all on your own?"

"Most unlikely."

"Well, I am." Dalkin winks. "But it won't happen unless I get to eyeball your source up close and personal."

“It’s not so much me,” Thornington whispers. “It would make my source nervous to meet somebody new.”

“He’s motivated by brazhort, right?”

“Brazhort?”

“Dough, money—blow me. Just tell him brazhort is my middle name. Capito?”

Thornington shrugs. "I'll phone him and ask." He begins to lift himself from the stuffed armchair.

"Wait a second." Dalkin stirs. "You're going to call him?"

Thornington reseats himself. "We have a secure method."

"Can I hear about it?"

"He uses a pay-as-you-go mobile registered to an alias. I'm the only person who has that number."

"So, what's keeping you?"

Thornington returns eight minutes later with a toothy grin "He's joining us for dinner."

"Tonight?”

"That's okay, isn't it?"

"He's here? In London?"

Thornington nods sheepishly.

"How...?"

"He works here," says Thornington. "For the SVR."

"An illegal?"

"No. He's with the rezidentura at the Russian Embassy. Directorate S. He has oversight of illegals in Britain."

"Fuck me," says Dalkin. "So, where are we going?"

"I know a good Indian," says Thornington. "Nothing like hot curry to cure a cold."