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“That’s impossible.”
“Make it possible,” Jeremy says, “or your rogue operation will be made known.”
Horace says, “Do you really think you can leave here and do that?”
Jeremy twists Declan’s hair, making the man squeal for a second. “I got in, didn’t I?”
Horace looks into the determined eyes of Jeremy and the frightened eyes of Declan, then nods. “All right.”
Jeremy says, “But a price must be paid.”
Reluctantly, Horace says, “Agreed.”
With one quick slash, Jeremy drops his hand and Declan cries out, raising his fingers to the blood on his throat. Jeremy strides out of Horace’s office. Horace approaches Declan, who is sobbing, then slaps his hand away and examines his throat.
“Stop your blubbering,” Horace says. “The wound’s not deep. Go put a sticking plaster on it and then come back here.”
Declan stands up, and Horace gazes at his prized photos hanging on the wall: Churchill and the young Queen.
“We still have much work to do,” Horace says.
Chapter128
ERNEST HOLLISTERof the CIA enters his small tidy home in a deluxe enclave of suburban Arlington, Virginia, and sees Amy Cornwall sitting at his round oak dining-room table just off the entryway, a pistol set before her. Her hair is cut short. She is wearing a black jacket, a white turtleneck, and black slacks. On her lapel is a small American-flag pin.
How patriotic.
He says, “Good job getting past the alarms, especially the one that contacts a security force to respond to a break-in at my house. I suppose I should email the Technical Services Division folks tomorrow to file a complaint.”
Amy picks up the pistol, a 9mm Beretta. “If you’re alive tomorrow, that might be a good idea.”
Ernest says, “May I sit?”
“You may not,” she says. Amy looks like she’s aged twenty years since he last saw her, back in Britain.
“All right,” he says. “What are you looking for?”
“A few answers,” she says. “Speak quickly and truthfully, and if I like what I hear, Technical Services just might hear from you tomorrow.Might.”
“Go ahead,” he says. “Make it quick. I need to make my dinner.”
Amy says, voice trembling, “Make your dinner?You know I have no one left to make dinner for.”
He pauses, sees the anger and imminent violence in her eyes, softens his tone. “My condolences, Amy. We’ve had our differences—obviously—but I wouldn’t wish that kind of pain on you. I truly am sorry.”
“To hell with your condolences,” she says. “Why was I smoked? And don’t say,You know why.I want to hear it fresh from your twisted mouth.”
Ernest says, “You went rogue. You disobeyed orders.”
“That’s what we do in Special Activities.”
He says, “No, that’s what our men do in Special Activities. Having women in the field is a huge mistake. Women don’t have the upper-body strength, the stamina, the inner hardness to do what must be done. You were the first in Special Activities. I was going to make sure you were the last.”
“That’s all 1950s chauvinistic bullshit,” she snaps.
“No, that’s current wishful social-justice thinking,” Ernest replies. “Amy…you did your job. You’re an outlier, someone who could be in Special Activities. You were a trailblazer…but we couldn’t afford to have other women follow your trail. Corners will eventually be cut, requirements lowered, our people killed. I saw that firsthand on the ground in Iraq. Just because there were a handful of women who could do the dirty, nasty job of killing others doesn’t mean they all can do it.”
“But smoking me…leaving me in the field with no support? Thousands could have died in Manhattan.”
