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Aidan arched a brow. “I’ve only got three years on you, Frogman. And I’ve got a kid to keep me young. So don’t get cocky.”
The good-natured Navy SEAL vs. Marine banter had been part of the brothers’ lives since their respective military careers had begun.
“Besides the fact that he’s one of your key guys and former MI6, what do I need to know about Philip?” Marc asked, his years at the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit compelling him to get as complete a picture of Philip as possible. He’d ask questions about Terri later. But Philip was first up.
“Before he was MI6, he was SAS,” Aidan replied, referring to the Special Air Service, one of the British Army’s Special Forces units. “He worked primarily in covert recon and hostage rescue.”
“Impressive. What about personally? What’s he like?”
Aidan considered the question, looking somewhat amused. “He’s not what you’re expecting.”
“I’m not expecting James Bond, if that’s what you mean. That’s why I’m asking you.”
“Fair enough. Philip is like two sides of a coin. When he’s entrenched in a Zermatt mission, he’s singularly focused. He works round-the-clock, is razor sharp, and won’t rest until we’ve brought things to a successful resolution. We call him the bloodhound—nothing and no one exists that he can’t hunt down. When there’s no mission to focus on, he’s settled comfortably into his new life as a dedicated retiree who loves life, wealthy, willing women, and more than a little fine wine and single malt whisky.”
“A kept man—nice.” A corner of Marc’s mouth lifted. “He sounds like a fascinating guy.”
“He thinks so.” Despite Aidan’s sarcasm, deep respect laced his tone. Philip’s personal life was immaterial. His commitment and skill when it came to Zermatt were all that mattered.
Marc didn’t ask any more questions—not then. The plane was about to land. And he was about to get his personal initiation into Zermatt’s way of doing things.
San Mateo, California
25 February
Sunday, 10:45 p.m. local time
The man left his California ranch-style home as he always did—through the side door—and walked up the brick driveway toward the mailbox. As per usual, his suburban neighborhood was all tucked in for the night, with just a few lights from bedroom windows filtering into the darkened street. He wasn’t worried about detection. Anyone seeing him would assume he was making his routine mail check. Given his line of work, late-night business dinners were the rule rather than the exception, and arriving home at this hour was standard operating procedure. None of his neighbors would bat an eye if they happened to spot him.
Reaching his destination, he pulled open the mailbox door, reaching inside to find the small box he’d been told to expect. He then retraced his steps, going in through the side door and locking it before heading out to the garage.
He hit the remote control on the garage door and lit a cigarette while it slid open. After climbing in the car, he turned the ignition and backed out, shutting the door behind him.
He drove to his customary spot—the diner that was a mile and a half away. He left his car only long enough to go around back and throw his old burner phone into the dumpster. He hesitated as he reached his car door and thought about grabbing a slice of pie and a cup of coffee. He’d wolfed down a sandwich three hours ago, but a shot of sugar and caffeine would be great about now. Nope. No time.
Sure enough, just as he settled himself in the driver’s seat, his package began to ring. He tore it open and removed the new burner phone.
He listened carefully to the instructions provided in perfect English.
7
Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten Kempinski Munich
26 February
Monday, 9:05 a.m. local time
Marc gave a dry chuckle as he and Aidan walked down the elegant hallway and approached Philip’s deluxe hotel room. “A five-star hotel,” he commented, stating the obvious. “Nice. Your guy has good taste.”
Aidan grimaced as he checked his iPhone—for the third time—to read Philip’s text so he could ensure they had the right room. “I told you. Philip is a connoisseur of fine… everything.”
With that, he walked up to the door and knocked. “It’s me,” he said just audibly enough for the occupant inside the room to hear.
A muffled burst of activity and a “hang on” was his response.
“Great,” Aidan muttered under his breath.
Two minutes later, the door opened partway and Marc had to bite back a smile as he realized the reason behind Aidan’s comment. The tall man leaning against the doorjamb—who actually did look like a fiftyish version of James Bond with his chiseled features, penetrating dark eyes, and hard-muscled body—was wearing nothing but a bath towel that was knotted loosely around his waist. His dark hair had droplets of water clinging to it, and rather than apologetic, he looked distinctly annoyed.
