A Sentimental Traitor Read Online Free PDF

through the corridors of the European capital without ever finding out what she did there, and
even if one did stumble across a clue, most men usually got confused by the seductive combination of perfume and tobacco, or the ridiculous notion that a woman couldn’t do ‘that sort of
job’. From behind the inconspicuous but carefully monitored security of the building on Avenue de Cortenbergh, Patricia Vaine headed up EATA. Her operation rarely appeared on organizational
charts, and even then only as a footnote, as a subsidiary of Europe’s External Action Service. Yet in truth, as the European Union’s fledgling intelligence service, EATA was potentially
one of the most influential centres of power in Brussels.
    It wasn’t supposed to happen, no national government had agreed to it, but neither had anyone objected. It was inevitable that something like EATA would come into being. The European Union
had all the other trappings – a flag, an anthem, a president, a seriously screwed-up currency and a foreign policy of sorts. And, inevitably, ambition. They needed their own intelligence
operation, a full hand of cards, and Vaine had set about delivering it. EATA was housed in a modest office block a short walk from the park, and lacked any sign of the usual extravagance that
accompanied most European buildings like the Commission offices at the Berlaymont, and least of all the imperial splendours of the Parliament itself. The only clues that gave away EATA’s home
were the air-tight security pods through which staff and visitors alike had to pass, and the guards, who were all armed. This was Patricia Vaine’s kingdom, and she had shown herself to be
remarkably inventive, like an alchemist of old creating gold from nothing – although that was an easier trick in Brussels than most capitals.
    That was another thing, money was never a problem, even though EATA wasn’t supposed to exist and couldn’t be identified in any budget. It had been twenty years since the EU had last
had its accounts signed off by its auditors and everyone was in on the game – Irish farmers, who got subsidies for flocks of sheep that didn’t exist, as well as Spanish fishermen who
were paid to throw fish back into the sea. It was inevitable that Greek farmers would join in the fun. They were given millions for growing tobacco, even while the EU spent still more millions
trying to persuade people to give up smoking. ‘There’s no accounting for ideals,’ as one Commissioner had blithely explained. And if in its early days EATA couldn’t hope to
match the resources of its national rivals, there was nothing to stop information liaison officers wining and dining every political hack, opinion former and press man in the business. Why pay for
information when you could rent it by the meal?
    And, as EATA’s ambitions grew and its demands inevitably became more complex, they could always outsource, hire in a bit of muscle or experience, lean on friends. It was through one of
Vaine’s contacts in this world of dusty mirrors that she had first picked up reports about a notorious Islamist gun-for-hire who had been spotted scurrying through northern Europe. There was
talk of a deal being done in some dark place, whispers about a surface-to-air missile. Dirty, delightful stuff. It seemed to Vaine to be a solid lead, and since it was her lead she’d
decided to cook it a little longer, follow it a little further to see where it might take her. It seemed like an excellent idea at the time; after all, she needed a few prize scalps to establish
EATA’s credibility. Dear God, she’d had no idea that it was all so imminent, or the intended target a plane full of kids.
    Which left her with this huge bladder-bursting problem that made her head ache and her coffee go cold. If she were to reveal now what she had known but hadn’t understood and had kept
hidden for too long, she would be shown no mercy. Her organization would be ripped apart.