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“You want to tell me why you never thought it important to share the fact that Josef Serafin was CIA?” Peter said, absently rubbing his bad leg.
Bastien shrugged. “We had an arrangement. Thomason sent me to Central America to kill both Serafin and his boss, Ideo Llosa, the head of the Red Terror. Once I made Serafin, he agreed to take care of the other half of my mission. It was why he was there in the first place. I left him to it. The question is, why did the CIA want him to make contact with the Committee? Why stay under deep cover?”
“I can think of one good reason. They’ve never liked the fact that we don’t have the same political agenda they do. Most of the powers-that-be in the American government think they know what’s best for the world, and the Committee doesn’t always agree.”
“Don’t we feel the same way?” Bastien said. “We don’t willingly share intel with the CIA any more than they share it with us. You’d think we’d learn to work together.”
“Not in this lifetime,” Peter said.
Bastien took a sip of his coffee. “Probably not. I expect they sent Serafin in to try to take us down.” He didn’t like the way he’d automatically slipped into “us” mode. He was no longer part of the Committee, and never would be again. “His real name is Killian, by the way.”
“Thomason said he and Isobel had a history.”
“Is that old fart still around? I thought he was put out to pasture long ago.” Toussaint picked up one of the smaller guns, weighing it in his hand. He was more used to a hammer than a gun nowadays, and he preferred it that way. But someone had come after him, and he had no choice. And he was going to blow the son of a bitch’s head off, when he’d promised Chloe he would never kill again.
Shit, he’d broken that promise a few days ago when those men had invaded his house and threatened his family. And she hadn’t said a word of reproach. At this point she was probably ready to kill someone herself, but the least he could do was take care of it for her. She didn’t need the darkness on her soul that would never leave his.
“He’s still around, still a pain in the butt. He said Isobel and Serafin have a past, but he didn’t say anything about Serafin being CIA.”
Bastien set his coffee down, very slowly. “You know, I wonder why good men and women are being killed, and a piece of shit like Thomason gets to retire and live out his life in peace and luxury. Why don’t they go after the people who deserve to die?”
“Are you asking me a philosophical question?” Peter drawled. “Because I don’t think fate or God have much to do with it. I don’t believe in fate or God, or anything at all, and neither do you.”
“You spend a lot of time trying to convince yourself of that?” Bastien asked. “Give it up. We both know otherwise.” Before Peter could protest, he moved on. “And I’m not talking fate. I’m talking practicalities. Thomason’s made a hell of a lot of enemies over the years, including just about everyone who ever worked for him. Operatives are being picked off, one at a time, and no one’s going anywhere near Thomason. Why not?”
Peter slowly turned his head. “You think Thomason could be behind this? For God’s sake, why?”
“He’s not the kind of man who’d give up power easily. I was surprised he’d let Isobel take over.”
“He wasn’t given a choice in the matter.”
Bastien closed his eyes for a moment. “I think we need to pay Mr. Thomason a visit.”
“Sir Harry. He’s been knighted for his service to the crown.”
“Christ,” Bastien muttered. “You’re sure he doesn’t know about the secret room?”
“Only Isobel and I know about it. And now Reno and you.”
“And no one’s realized that these offices only fill up half the floor?”
“Not even Harry.”
“Then we’re going to need to inform him. And find out exactly what he’s been doing and who he’s been talking to during the last few years.”
“It’s not Thomason,” Peter said, not sounding convinced. “It can’t be.”
“We’ll find out soon enough. In the meantime, do we need to check on Isobel? Make sure she and Killian haven’t killed each other?”
“Why would they?”
“You tell me. I haven’t seen her in three years.”
Peter grimaced. “I admit she’s been having a hard time recently. You know what this job does to people. I’ve been worried about her.”
A brief grin flashed across Bastien’s face. “I never thought you’d be worried about anything but your own ass.”
“And my wife’s ass,” Peter reminded him.
