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AT LINDSAYHall in Britain, Horace Evans of MI6 enters his office after a long meeting at Vauxhall Cross in London, surprised to find his assistant, Declan Ainsworth, seated behind his desk.
Declan is usually discreet and differential, but on this late afternoon he sits at Horace’s station like he belongs there. Horace can’t be too upset with the lad, though: Jeremy Windsor is standing behind Declan, holding a combat knife to his throat.
Horace gently puts his briefcase on the floor. “Jeremy,” he says. “It’s been a while. Good to see you.”
“The same,” Jeremy says. His MI6 operative looks worn, tired, like he’s not had a good sleep in ages, and Horace recognizes that appearance.
“I take it we’re going to have a talk?”
Declan’s eyes are very wide and Jeremy has a firm grasp on his hair, tugging his head back just enough to reveal his exposed throat.
Jeremy says, “Seems like that’s all I’ve been doing lately—talking. It started with a long conversation with Rashad Hussain after I shot him in New York last week. He tried to keep quiet, but it’s easy to get information from a fellow after you’ve shot him in the leg. All you need to do is stomp on the open wound a few times.”
A slight moan from Declan. Jeremy says, “I knew this op wasn’t sanctioned. But I never realized how out of bounds you were, Horace.”
“I would have told you,” Horace says. “Eventually.”
Jeremy says, “Rashad told me of the support he was getting from MI6. Little news tips, hints, information that allowed him to stay one step ahead of me for many, many months. Even recommending a Polish supplier of explosives and computerized proximity fuses. Were you directing him in his activities?”
Horace shakes his head. “More like guidance.”
Jeremy says, “Rashad told me he didn’t know who was doing the work for him. Just a contact that was handsomely paid. After a frank and candid exchange of views—along with a little nudge here and there—Declan told me he had been Rashad’s source. Even showed me his overseas bank accounts. Under your authority. True?”
Horace says, “All of it.”
“Why?”
Horace says, “Why do you think? We’re at war. Hard decisions must be made. Sacrifices must be offered. And above all, we need to get the Americans back in the game.”
“Go on,” Jeremy says, voice tight and hard.
“It’s been more than two decades since their 9/11,” Horace says. “An entirely new generation has grown up knowing that day only as history. And their president and their Congress have turned inward. They no longer care about us…about Europe…about treaties. We needed to break them out of their isolation, and Rashad was our tool. His assistant Marcel was ours as well, making sure our tool did the job we wanted him to. And yes, on my own, I was determined to use him. There was no way this type of operation would be sanctioned. We couldn’t repeat the mistakes of their 9/11: heads in the sand, ignoring the real world and wishing for the best.”
“The explosives that didn’t work…your Polish supplier sabotaged them?”
“That they did,” Horace says. “I knew there would be casualties, but nothing as much as Rashad wished for or planned.”
“That’s pretty damn coldhearted.”
Horace sighs. “Don’t you see what we face, Jeremy? Rashad represents the new wave of danger. Not East versus West, capitalism versus communism, Islam against what’s left of Christianity. No, what we’re up against is anarchy versus civilization.
“Rashad was an anarchist, wanting to destroy for destruction’s sake. And he was able to recruit discontents whose only religion was revenge against those who had done them harm. Last century, these people…ignored, misfits, fools. Now? With the internet and a connected world? They can be brought together, and using the tools of civilization, they can destroy it. We were lucky this time, driving Rashad where we wanted him to go.”
“Innocents died,” Jeremy says. “Including the husband and daughter of Amy Cornwall.”
Horace sighs. “That was unpleasant. I truly am sorry.”
“Others died as well. Namely Ollie.”
“Who?”
Jeremy’s eyes narrow, his lips purse in anger. “Oliver Davies. SAS trooper, detached here, one of the finest men I’ve ever served with. And because of Rashad, he died on his knees, in the dirt of some forgotten village in Lebanon, decapitated because of you.”
Horace waits. Declan swallows hard, his eyes pleading with his boss.
“What now?” Horace asks.
“I want the Faroe order canceled,” Jeremy says. “I want back in…but in another section, not yours.”
