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“Uh…” He fumbled through his papers, then showed me a picture: a scowling mugshot of a blond man who looked nothing like me. “Look… for you.”
“That’s not ME,” I snapped.
The lawyer gave me a shit-eating grin like, Yeah, ain’t THAT a bitch.
“Yes, but… they stop. You have guns. Bad, very bad.”
Between the guns not being registered to me AND the suppressors, I figured it would be ‘very bad’ indeed. But it also seemed like a search based on mistaken identity shouldn’t hold up in court.
“They made a mistake,” I said, pointing at the photograph. “They searched the wrong man.”
The lawyer smiled apologetically and shrugged. “Eh… sfortuna. Bad luck.”
Yeah, the very worst luck imaginable…
If it was a case of luck at all.
I kept turning it over and over in my head:
Had someone at MI6 double-crossed me?
Did Alistair have a mole he didn’t know about? Maybe someone on the Dutch arms merchant’s payroll? He’d mentioned that van der Linden probably knew about other MI6 field agents, which was why I’d been selected.
Had van der Linden found out about me, too?
“How bad is it?” I asked the lawyer.
“Um… the guns, no record… the, um…”
He clenched his left hand into a fist, made his right hand into a gun, and stuck the tip of his forefinger into the hole of his fist.
Someone else might have mistaken it for an obscene gesture, but I knew exactly what he meant.
“The suppressors,” I suggested.
“Si, suppressors. Illegale, molto illegale.”
Illegal… very illegal.
“How long in jail?” I asked.
He shrugged. “…five?”
Five months?
That wasn’t so bad.
But he wasn’t finished.
“With suppressors… six… seven years?”
I stared at him in horror. “YEARS?!”
He winced sympathetically. “Molto illegale.”
FUCK me.
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