Her ear was still tingling from headquarters shouting at her down the line, and she'd learned eight new synonyms for fucking idiot. She sighed. "Where did I go wrong, Jean?" Jean sat at the other end of the couch, hunched over a laptop. His broad, craggy features were lit in white by the glow of an excel spreadsheet. "Where does anything go wrong? You're a spy for hire. You're paid to eat shit, Olly." She sagged. "I'm out, aren't I? Blackrock aren't going to keep me on after this. Three dead, one kid in hospital, and I didn't even find out who Rostam was passing the schematics on to. I really screwed up." "You'll get a second chance." Jean hadn't looked up from his laptop in nearly an hour. "At least you found out where he was from. That's something, right?" "I guess." Isfahan province, as it turned out, was dead in the centre of Iran. But Iran was a big country, and whether those fake schematics were destined for the ruling party or the militant opposition was something Blackrock would have dearly liked to know.
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