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“Knight is at Guy’s Hospital,” Colonel De Villiers told him, “but he’s alive.”
Morgan closed his eyes in relief. The Colonel pretended not to notice the tear that ran down Morgan’s cheek. Instead he used a set of keys to take off the cuffs that bound Morgan to the gurney. The American pushed himself up, and took in his surroundings: he was in a bare corridor, the smell of bleach and disinfectant thick in his nostrils.
“I’m sorry you had to be brought in like this,” De Villiers said as Morgan rubbed at his sore wrists. “Given the circumstances, we decided the best option was to convince MI5 to claim you as an operative. As far as everyone but the few operators from the rooftop knows, you were a British intelligence asset, who died heroically. Jack Morgan has been under my protection in the Tower this entire time.”
“You said we?” Morgan asked.
“The Princess likes you,” De Villiers replied, confirming Morgan’s thoughts about who had been pulling the strings to keep him out of a British prison.
“Thank you, Colonel,” Morgan said, putting out a hand.
“Marcus,” the Guards officer insisted.
“You saved Peter’s life?” Morgan asked as they shook.
De Villiers smiled. “He saved his own. I found him on one of the stone arches. He’d kicked his way there and was using his cuffed hands to grip a submerged mooring ring. His head was just above water.”
“So you did save him.” Morgan smiled.
“I helped him.”
For keeping him from prison, Morgan had offered the Colonel a handshake. For saving Peter Knight’s life, he put his arm around the taller man and embraced him.
“No need to make a scene, Morgan,” De Villiers said, coloring a little.
“Jack,” Morgan told him, standing back. “Thank you, Marcus.”
De Villiers smiled and straightened his jacket.
“But now, if I’m not here to see Peter,” Morgan asked, “then where am I?”
De Villiers cleared his throat, and told him.
Chapter 127
THE SMELL OF bleach and disinfectant hit Jack Morgan strongly as he pushed open a heavy door and entered the pathologist’s lab, the room as still and lifeless as the woman that lay at its center.
Jane Cook.
He stopped as if shot when he saw the shape of the covered body on the metal table, the memory of his lover’s contours etched into his mind so that even the silhouette of her was enough to trick him into believing it had all been a nightmare, and that Jane would now rise, smiling, and kiss him.
She never would, Morgan knew. Jane Cook would never breathe again. She would never laugh again. She would never crease the corner of her lip when she was deep in thought, a memory that now pushed a choked laugh of love from Morgan’s dry throat.
He approached her.
De Villiers had warned Morgan not to pull the sheet away, and Morgan obeyed. He had
seen her death. He knew what lay beneath the sheet, no matter how he wished he didn’t. Instead, he reached under the material, and felt out Jane’s hand. As he gripped her cold fingers, a quartet of tears trickled over the cuts and bruises of his cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I know that Flex’s death can never bring you back, but you were a warrior. I wanted you to know that justice was done.”
Morgan used his free hand to wipe at his red eyes. They were tired—so tired.
Behind him he heard the sound of the doors opening. “Give me five more minutes, Colonel.”
“It’s me, Jack,” came the voice of Princess Caroline in response.
Morgan turned. The royal was dressed in dark jeans and a hoody, and held a baseball cap in her hands.
