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Why?
He feels something moist on his right hand.
Looks at it.
It’s bleeding from where he broke the photo frame.
Chapter89
IN HISdarkened office in Lindsay Hall, Horace Evans of MI6 waits, staring at the silent telephone on his desk. There’s a heavy rain outside and he feels that he should switch on more lights, but he’s content to stay here in the soft glow from his desk lamp.
Across from him is his assistant, Declan Ainsworth.
Declan is staying quiet. He looks concerned.
Horace says quietly, “There are those who say waiting—for men, women, and plans in motion—is the hardest part of any operation.”
Declan remains quiet.
Good.
Horace says, “But I always say it’s those few seconds that come at you when the phone finally rings, and you reach to pick it up, and in those few seconds…you’re almost dizzy with fatigue and anticipation, knowing it’s all been cast in stone, and now it’s just the learning what happens next.”
Declan says, “The news we have—that Jeremy is in the United States, in New Jersey—that should be a good sign.”
“It’s a sign,” Horace says, not taking his eyes off the telephone. “Nothing else. And we dare not do anything more to interpret it, lest the Americans find out and keep their vows to hurt us.”
Declan shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “This may be the wrong time to bring this up, sir, but my actions in this matter…I mean, I have confidence in you, but…”
His assistant’s voice dribbles off.
Horace sighs. “If you feel as such, you may tender your resignation from the service. Predate it to a week ago, if you’re so frightened that things will go awry and you’ll be left holding the proverbial bag.”
A brief second or two passes, then Declan says, “I’ll stay.”
“Good,” Horace says. “Then stay quiet.”
The phone remains silent.
“While we wait,” he says.
Aboard a Company-owned Gulfstream C-20, Ernest Hollister looks up as his assistant comes forward and sits down across from him in one of the luxurious leather seats. They are somewhere over the North Atlantic, approximately two hours away from landing at Dulles Airport in Virginia.
Tyler Pope leans forward and says, “We’ve received signals traffic from the Air Force that two RAF Typhoon fighter jets have made an unscheduled landing at McGuire in New Jersey. Two civilians, a woman and a bearded man—a Brit—left the jets and have departed the base. The RAF aircraft earlier departed from a base about forty minutes away from our site where Amy Cornwall had been held.”
Ernest says, “I thought Typhoons were single-seaters.”
Tyler says, “These two are from RAF 29 Squadron, used to train pilots. They have seating for two.”
Ernest thinks for a moment and says, “Any indication that Horace Evans or MI6 had a hand in their transportation?”
“None, sir.”
“How did they grab two Typhoons?”
“I can find out.”
Ernest shakes his head. “No. Waste of time. If they are in New Jersey, then they are there illegally. We can’t have that. Do we have a squad keeping eyes and ears on her husband?”
