Enemy Agents Read Online Free PDF Page B

unique forms of torture. What do you like better,” he asked, his eyes alight with pleasure, “tarred and feathered, or drawn and quartered?”
    Thorpe had tracked Sidorov, and knew his reputation. He knew that Sidorov would actually do the things he threatened. Sidorov liked torture. It was his hobby, his passion. Thorpe stared his captor in the eyes and answered:
    “Actually, our worst torture is a naked woman and a bottle of scotch. I’d be terrified if you tried that on me.”
    Sidorov smirked and nodded to a guard. The guard held a damp rag over Thorpe’s mouth and nose, and the world faded away.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    4
    Chris Quarrel walked into the same post office he visited every Monday. He smiled at the woman behind the desk, who recognized him vaguely as a regular customer. Taking out his key ring—the one that featured a gaudy and memorable plastic figurine of Donald Duck—he easily selected the correct key and opened up a P.O. box. There were seven envelopes inside, addressed to four different people. He slipped the envelopes into his inside pocket, closed the box, and left after waving to the desk clerk.
    It was snowing in Ottawa, possibly for the last time since it was now late April and all the snow on the ground was already gone. This was one last reminder of what frosted roads looked like before the rain took over and gave way to summer. Quarrel hadn’t had time to change his tires yet, and he justified his procrastination by saying he needed snow tires for just such an occasion.
    The office was on the third floor of a generic-looking office complex in the southwestern part of the city. The other floors were full of ordinary corporate offices: a P.R. firm, a gas station chain, an electronics importer. The office where Quarrel worked was signed as “Ocean Association, Inc.,” and if asked in the elevator, Quarrel would tell people he analyzed temperature patterns in the world’s waterways. This was, of course, not true.
    CSIS-2 was the top-secret branch of the Canadian Security and Intelligence Service, and this was its central hub. There were agents around the world: surveilists, hackers, and in a few cases, operatives who could carry out the more dangerous missions. But the paperwork had to be filed from somewhere, and this was the place. It was a bustling office full of young, energetic people who always needed somethin g right no w .
    Quarrel first stepped into the “coat room,” where he hung the keys next to a dozen other key rings, took off his wet jacket, and allowed a guard dressed as a janitor to scan his retina. This was the entry procedure: hang up your coat, get blinded in one eye.
    In the thirty feet between the door and his cubicle, Chris was stopped twice. First, Erica Gibbons stopped him by slapping a manila folder into his chest. The folder was bright yellow and sealed with a red sticker.
    “Courier just came. This is for you.”
    Quarrel raised a questioning eyebrow.
    “I don’t know. They told me it was for Level 7 clearance.”
    Clearance worked like golf scores: lower was better. A seven was top secret, but not nearly important enough for any of the big shots to be bothered with. Since he had been with CSIS before joining CSIS-2, Quarrel had been cleared up to Level 7. This was a unique position, since everyone else in the office was cleared for higher or lower levels, but Chris was the only seven. So he got a lot to work on, but never the important files. Erica, despite being a year older than Quarrel, was only cleared for ‘secret’ files, not for anything with a clearance number. This one was probably an expense report, or rejection from a budget committee. Even that dick Pete Hershey would tell Quarrel he was too busy to bother with a Level 7, so Quarrel was stuck with it. Just more paperwork for the pile. Quarrel tucked the folder under his arm, thanked Erica, and continued on his way.
    Ten steps later, Carol Kimura, the Director of