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“Sir Mark,” Rashad replies. “A pleasure. Care to join us?”
“Oh, no, no, no, can’t do that,” he says, eyes flicking around the room. “Here for a brief meet with a writer fromJane’s.Really hate to waste the time but one does what one has to do.”
Marcel is now standing, and Rashad says, “Sir, if I may, my associate, Marcel Koussa. Marcel, this is Sir Mark Robathan, Minister of State for the Armed Forces.”
Marcel’s face grows pale as he shakes the man’s hand, and Robathan gestures for the two of them to sit down. “Well, I need to depart and wait for my guest. A delight meeting you like this, old boy, and you know, I still miss your father. What a grand fellow.”
Rashad says to Marcel, “They both attended Sandhurst.”
“Yes, yes,” Robathan says, now turning around. “Quite the time back then, quite the time. Well, must be off. Enjoy your tea. Will we see you later, at the society’s get-together?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Rashad says.
“Ah, wonderful,” Robathan says, and he adds, “A pleasure meeting you, Marshall.”
Rashad doesn’t correct him, and neither does Marcel. The old man turns and nearly bumps into a chair, and Rashad feels the gaze of the other two men upon him. They are tough-looking men with short haircuts, with earpieces and bulges under their jackets signifying weapons, and Rashad returns their hard stares.
They are the guard force for the minister, perhaps MI5 or officers from the Ministry of Defence Police. Like well-trained guard dogs—Dobermans or Belgian Malinois—they are taught to respond to emerging threats or danger, and Rashad knows that deep down these two men recognize him as a threat, as a danger, something to be immediately dispatched.
But all they can do is stare.
They have no proof, no evidence.
Smiling, Rashad stares right back, daring them to do something.
“Later,” Robathan says.
“Oh, yes,” Rashad says. “Later.”
Chapter57
NOW HEand Amy Cornwall are in a small, cramped office at the end of the hallway. There’s a metal desk, phone, four metal chairs, and another closed door. A photo of the current president of France is on the cracked plaster wall. A slim woman in black slacks and a white blouse is sitting at the right side of the desk, a thick black leather briefcase at her black high-heeled feet. Behind the desk is a short, plump man in a dark blue suit, with thin black hair and mournful eyes behind black-rimmed eyeglasses.
The moment Jeremy was escorted into this room by the four armed men and quickly and expertly disarmed—his weapons going into one paper sack, Amy’s 9mm pistol going into another—Jeremy recognized the man behind the desk. The man motions to the two empty chairs, and he and Amy sit down.
For all that’s going on, he’s thankful Amy is allowing him—at least for now—to take the lead.
“Sir,” he says. “This is unexpected.”
The man sighs, places his hands across his belly. In only slightly accented English, he says, “Jeremy, I have been talking to your boss. He is not a happy man.”
“Not many happy men in his line of work.”
The man turns his attention to Amy. “And you are Amy Cornwall, late of the American Army, and recently of the Central Intelligence Agency.”
Amy says, “Charmed, I’m sure…more if I knew who you were.”
Jeremy says, “Amy, this is Maurice Richard. Head of the DGSE.”
Amy says, “Based on what happened a few hours ago, I bet you’re not a very happy man either.”
He smiles. “Quite an observation.” Then his smile disappears. “Now. Jeremy, this morning’s matter at the runway…a very bad business, very bad all around.”
“How many did you lose?”
“Officially, four brave men of the DGSE died in a training accident today, with several others injured. No nuclear device, no Rashad Hussain. Quite the muck-up, was it not?”
“A shared muck-up,” Jeremy says, “between Victor and me. And Rashad was there. He just managed to get away.”
