Nate brought his luggage inside and changed into something more casual, throwing on a pair of blue Levi’s, a black Arc’teryx pullover, and a pair of tobacco-colored Todd Snyder Nomad boots. The two then headed out looking for a pub. There were one or two within spitting distance of Wally’s flat; however, he preferred a spot up near Edwardes Square, a short fifteen-minute hike.
During the walk, Nate explained the thesis he was researching, providing background on the city of Ubar and the research he had conducted thus far. He talked about Captain Ahmed and his mysterious coin, the camel trails, and Bertram Thomas’s letter to T. E. Lawrence that he had discovered in Cambridge. Lastly, he detailed what he was looking for in London. By the time he finished his recap they had arrived at the Scarsdale Tavern.
It was a charming, picturesque brick building adorned with plenty of florals, and the interior had the warm and cozy feeling synonymous with English pubs, with a central bar brimming with beer taps and liquor bottles and traditional wood flooring and tables. They slipped into a pair of chairs around a table in the main bar area. The establishment was already at about half capacity, and it seemed as though it would be a full house tonight.
A waitress walked over to take their orders. “What can I get you?” she asked.
“Pint of Guinness please, love,” Wally said.
“I’ll have the same,” Nate agreed.
“And food tonight?” the server asked. The mention of food madeNate’s stomach grumble, and he realized for the first time how hungry he was. The entire day had been spent driving or poring over old documents, and he hadn’t eaten anything since that morning in Cambridge.
“Absolutely,” Nate said emphatically. He glanced briefly at the menu lying on the table and then shot a look at Wally. “Are fish and chips too touristy?”
“Nah, mate, you’re alright.” Wally winked at him. “Everyone in here can smell the colonies on you anyway.”
Nate laughed and returned his gaze to the server. “Fish and chips it is, please.”
“And I’ll take the burger,” Wally tacked on his order without looking at the menu. This was clearly not his first time in the establishment.
“Right you are.” The server collected the menus and left, returning momentarily with their pints.
Wally lifted his beer in a toast. “Cheers, mate. It’s good to see you.”
Nate clinked glasses with him. “You too, buddy.” They both took long pulls off the dark beer.
“You sound like you’ve been busy,” Wally commented.
“Yeah, in an academic, boring-research kind of way.” Nate waved a hand in the air, realizing that he had been so focused on his research that he had neglected to ask Wally what had been going on in his life. “But what about you? What have you been up to?”
“Well,” Wally started, “you’re tracking that I’ve been working K&R, yeah?”
Nate nodded. Kidnap and ransom insurance was a highly lucrative business, and London was the central hub for it. Large carriers would sell insurance, either to individuals who traveled abroad or to corporations whose employees worked in high-risk countries. If one of theiremployees happened to get kidnapped, the firm would pay a ransom up to an agreed-upon sum. It was, of course, in the best interest of the firm to get the lowest possible deal for the safe release of their clients, and so they sent out negotiators to barter lives for cash. Being a negotiator was extremely delicate work as well as extremely dangerous, and it took a particular type of person with the right background and skills to pull it off successfully. Because of this, the larger firms tended to favor hiring former special operators and intelligence officers. In London, a large portion of the small cadre of negotiators were either former SAS or MI6, Britain’s legendary intelligence agency.
“I’ve been freelancing for several firms here in London,” Wally continued. “Some fella gets snatched up, I work the case and go talk to the geezers that grabbed him. Sometimes it takes a few weeks, sometimes a few months.”
“Well, it must pay pretty well. A flat in South Kensington doesn’t come cheap these days.” London’s property market had exploded over the decades. It was nearly impossible to find a reasonable price on a house or flat, and extremely expensive to rent.
“Mate, you ain’t lying,” he said. “That two-bedroom flat costs me four thousand pounds a month.”
“Well, they say location is everything.”
“Yeah, true enough,” he replied.
“Are you working anything now?” Nate asked.
“Nah, mate, just wrapped one up in the Caucasus. Some poor sod got himself snatched up by an amateur group. I got him released eventually, but they didn’t treat him too well while they had him.”
As Nate drained his beer to catch up to Wally and the server brought another round, he wondered how his friend’s personal life had been. He knew Wally had been married to a London cop and that things had been tough. In the army, Wally was constantly on deployment or trainingand she often worked the night shift, meaning they rarely saw each other. Like many marriages in the special operations world, it was only a matter of time.
“How’s Hannah?” he asked finally.
Wally said nothing for a long time, just stared down at his beer. Finally, he spoke. “She’s good, I imagine. We don’t talk much anymore. She has some new fella now. Cunt works as a dispatcher or some nonsense.”
“I’m sorry, Wally.”
Wally shrugged. “It’s alright. Funny, isn’t it? It wasn’t even the trips that got to her, it was when I was home. The Lines are too far from London, so we moved to Oxford to make the trip a little more manageable. Didn’t matter. With all the late nights, I wound up sleeping in the barracks half the time anyway. Not sure she believed me that I wasn’t screwing around.”
