Harman-Smith sank back into his chair. The establishment was loyal to those within its confines but harsh to those who broke the rules. Writing pointless reports and meeting ministers had wasted his morning. In his opinion, most middle-ranking civil servants strolled around all day with their thumbs up their bums. He knew he was doing a good job and that they didn't understand. He was the head of a team that produced results. His team swept up the scum and deadbeats who filled the streets with drugs. When the system fails, you have to compensate accordingly. Bend a few rules but never break them. The rules were anything the regime of the day accepted. He strongly defended their methods, stating that undercover agents were the key to opening the drug trade door. He had always done his duty to the police force and his country. Now those same officers were changing the rules. If there was a problem, the damage limitation exercise had begun. He left the Ministry Building and walked out into the street, knowing those at the top would deny all knowledge if anything went wrong.

Fuming, he returned to his car. Harry, as always, was there waiting, and he told him the news.

"Great! Fucking great! Screw them. It's not like the old days; now you have to be PC and fart correctly. It's coming to the point where I don't give a toss anymore.  Tell me, are you hungry? There's a nice pub at the end of the road where Jones' lives. It's on the riverside, and we can watch the world go by."

Harman-Smith sighed. "Why not? Yes, Harry, too much has changed. As you said, if something needed doing in the old days, you damn well did it. What the hell happened to common sense?"

"My old school teacher had a saying...the trouble with common sense is, it ain't so common."

Harman-Smith nodded as he drove across the Hammersmith flyover. Turning left into a street, and stopped the car close the kerb.

A traffic warden watched in amazement when a vehicle stopped on treble red lines. He moved with a company sergeant major's precision towards them.

Harry dug deep into his jacket pocket, searching for his warrant card.

"You can't park there!" the warden bellowed. "Move, or you'll get a ticket."

Harry opened the window. "Where else do you suggest we park?" he asked politely. "We're working."

The warden opened his ticket pad and began to write as Harry got out of the car. "Hey, Adolf. Before you feel a bigger pratt than you are, would you please look at this?"

The man peered at Harry's warrant card, shut his pad and muttered, "I'm only doing my fucking job," and as if still on the parade ground, marched away.

Harman-Smith locked the car and strolled to the parapet overlooking the Thames. He gazed at the multiple masts swaying with the wind and tide. Moorings such as these cost a fortune. How had that villain Jones managed to find and pay the rent for a flat in this location?

Together they walked along and entered the Rutland pub. Harman Smith pointed to an empty table beneath a couple of oil paintings. Harry settled into a chair opposite his boss.

The good looking barmaid smiled, waited, took their order of two ploughman's, and two pints of bitter. In less than ten minutes, she placed their order in front of them. "Enjoy," she said as they watched her glide away.

When she had gone, Harman-Smith smiled at Harry. "Not many of them to the pound."

"When she bent over, guv, the temptation was irresistible."

"You get arrested for that."

"Not for thoughts, guv."

They discussed the present scenario as they sipped their pints.

"Any more thoughts on Jones," asked Harry.

"He's a clever bastard. One minute he appears to be playing for our side. The next, he kicks the ball into touch, and his girlfriend tells me he wants out. I could, of course, make one telephone call and hand him over to the boys in blue."

Harry shook his head. "You wouldn't do that," said Harry. "I'm having another pint. Want one."

"I've been thinking about dropping Jones into deep shit. Thanks, make mine a half."

They continued chatting until it was time to leave.

"Good luck," said Harry.

"It's not me that needs the luck, and anyway, I make my own."

Harry waited in the car, relaxing after his lunch, which had included a couple of pints of real ale. He reclined the seat and closed his eyes.

Harman-Smith walked briskly from the pub the short distance to Davy's flat. He stopped and looked around and wondered how Jones' could afford such a place. In this area, a poky one-bedroom flat would cost at least four hundred thousand pounds. He mused crime must pay well these days. When he mounted the steps leading to the front door, his eyes surveyed a list of names: Jones's was not there. Taking a calculated guess, he assumed that Flat five would be the fifth buzzer from the top. He pressed the button and waited.

Angie opened the main door. "Come in, guv. Davy's waiting."

He followed her up the stairs and into the spacious flat. He glanced around, noticing that the lounge had the minimalist of furnishings. He did not like the style. The way Angie sat close to Davy made it obvious they were deep into a relationship.

"Grab a chair and sit down," said Davy.

"No, thank you. I prefer to stand." Harman-Smith stood a few metres in front of them. "What do you want?"

Davy's voice quivered as he spoke. "I want out. I've done what you've asked, and now it's time for the Agency to let me go."

Harman-Smith walked across the room and stared blankly out of the window. His immediate thought was to close Jones down. The water traffic moving at a snail's pace up and down the river calmed him. He turned to face them and said, "Who told you you have finished. I need more, much more information. Why didn't you tell me you were in the Royal Navy?"

"You never asked."

Harman-Smith paced the room.

Angie grabbed the moment. "You were in the army, so you've something in common: big fucking deal!"

Harman–Smith stared at her. "Let's see if my assumptions are correct. Unbeknown to any of us, your bedmate is a far bigger criminal than I imagined. He's changed his name, lives better than I do. He has a past about which even we can't find out. And you, madam," he said pointedly, "should dump him, or you'll find yourself back on the beat."

Angie, not in the least intimidated, shouted, "You arrogant bastard! I know everything – we don't have secrets. Life may not have dealt Davy the best of hands, but people like you, who cheat and connive, make it worse."

He chuckled. "Listen – sweet Juliet defends her Romeo!"

Davy shouted, "Shut it." Angry, he stomped out of the room, returning a few minutes later. There was a brooding silence and the air filled with aggression. In control, he handed Harman-Smith the bulky file. "If you care to read my notes, you'll find I've detailed names, places, the laboratories, dealers and addresses of everyone involved in the UK operation. I've paid my debt. Whatever you know, or think you know, about me doesn't matter. It's past; it's history; it's dead. The last thing I need is the likes of you crawling up my arse with a torch to see where I've been. Back off, I'm getting out, and if you disagree, I'll leave anyway. I'm sure Angie and I can survive with or without your help." He sat and held Angie's hand.

Harman-Smith studied the information, turning the pages. "Jones, you are shit on the sole of my shoes. I could have you jailed forever. Now, you live in a luxury apartment overlooking the Thames. Don't threaten me, or your feet won't touch the ground. I'll not lose sleep over you - and if you ask my wife, she'll tell you I love my sleep. You might be able to escape the system, but Symes can't. She belongs to me, I made her, and if needs must, I'll break her. Angie's not as tough as you think. For the moment, you'll do as I say or end up in prison, and she'll be on the streets. I came here to close you down, but this," he declared, waving the file in the air, "gives you a reprieve. Remember, I don't bargain. You give, I take. Here's what you'll do. I want the top man and enough information to enable me to nail him to the cross. Do it, and I'll consider your future. Ignore me at your peril."

Davy jumped up." You are a bastard. I may not have a choice, but if I need help, will you assist?"

"Depends." He placed the file under his arm. "Now I have most of the information I need. Whatever happens to you doesn't make a great deal of difference to me. But remember, I can move mountains, and I also bury people."

"How the fuck do you live with yourself?"

"I do what I need to do," he said, running his fingers through his thick grey hair. "It's a dirty business. I'm good at my job. That's why they pay me a lot of money."

Angie, biting her bottom lip, butted in. "I thought we had an agreement. Once, I thought you were a man of your word. I know now you merely use people and cast them aside when they're no longer effective. It's time you left."

"I make the rules. Do anything stupid, and I'll feed you to the dogs."