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Her landlady brusquely pushes by her, starts speaking rapidly: “You said, ‘some little pieces of laboratory equipment’…this can’t continue…I will call my son and have him start pulling—”
Nadia picks up the small hammer she used to bend pieces of the ventilation equipment, gets right behind Madame Therien, and hits her in the back of her head. The first blow seems to stun her—she turns her head in surprise—then Nadia hits her again, and again, and again.
At some point Nadia stands, breathing hard, her right hand warm and sticky. Madame Therien lies dead on the cellar floor.
Nadia wipes at her face with her other hand, looks to the collection of carefully constructed and placed envelopes in their trays.
One death.
And here, before her, made from her own hands, enough weaponized anthrax to kill tens of thousands, if properly spread and distributed in an urban environment.
Nadia looks down at her sweet dead landlady, blood pooling about her battered head on the concrete floor.
So what will one more death matter?
It won’t.
Chapter26
HORACE EVANSof MI6 works late this day and decides to take another long stroll along the grounds of Lindsay Hall before going home.
Ten minutes into his walk he sees his assistant, Declan Ainsworth, coming toward him, and he’s pleased the boy isn’t running, isn’t huffing and puffing in his desire to meet up with Horace. Such things simply are not done.
Horace clasps his hands behind him and turns down another gently paved path. After a few measured paces with Declan at his side, he asks, “Have we received any news about our Jeremy and Oliver?”
“Yes, sir, we have,” Declan says. “Davies and Windsor were captured and taken to a farmhouse used by militants in the area. I’m afraid Davies was killed—beheaded, in fact.”
Horace sighs. One more death in the field that will never, ever be fully told or revealed, save in red-bordered file folders held and seen only by a fortunate and burdened few.
“Damn,” Horace says. “Damn these barbarians.”
The path they’re on is now under a spreading grove of oak trees, and the suspicious part of Horace is pleased he can’t be viewed by overhead assets, either satellites or drones controlled by those damnable Russians.
“Go on,” he says. “What about Jeremy?”
He listens as Declan briefs him on the complicated resolution that saw two Americans eventually exfilled by a BP helicopter, with Jeremy and the American woman pressing on alone.
“And where are they now?”
“They hiked to a village, where they met up with an asset of ours who provided them transportation to Beirut.”
Jeremy,he thinks with pride and pleasure, my dear boy.
“Do we know why he’s headed to Beirut?”
“Not officially, no.”
“Then tell me unofficially.”
“I checked with General Communications for any traffic intercepts in that area. They managed to locate a short cellphone conversation with that Lebanese asset. He briefly mentioned a Brit and an American and how they were looking for someone named Rashad.”
Horace halts. “You’re sure of that?”
“Quite, sir, and after a records check…it would appear the man is our Rashad Hussain. That is quite the—”
Horace cuts him off. “Enough.” He resumes his walk.Will the American woman contact her superiors and tell them about Rashad?
Horace resumes his walk. The buildings of Lindsay Hall are coming into view, and this section has buildings open to the public. There are vehicles and tour buses parked to the left, and a long line of tourists ready to go inside.
