The file contained a photo and a date, nothing else. Scowling, Sarath passed the file back to her contact and rose from the leather backed seat. Beneath the tweed overcoat she was sweating, short hair curling against her neck as the open fire roared in the fireplace. Perched opposite her Jones seemed perfectly at home in the Sahara heat, cool and collected in his crisp, clean suit. Blonde hair carefully trimmed and styled as he watched her with hazel eyes. “And what,” she asked, “am I supposed to do with this?” “You know exactly what you’re supposed to do with it.” Jones said. “British Intelligence doesn’t conduct assassinations,” replied Sarath. “Of course they don’t,” Jones nodded. “But you’re not British Intelligence are you? Not really.” Sarath’s expression didn’t change and Jones continued. “I keep your secret, and you deal with mine. Fair is fair.” “I’m not a traitor,” hissed Sarath. “Maybe not,” he shrugged, “but I can convince MI6 otherwise.” I had a lot of trouble writing this piece. I really wanted it to be longer but the challenge …