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“Amy!” he yells, holding his rifle, face to the scope. “We got a situation!”
Chapter6
IN Aluxurious yet poorly heated and maintained country estate about thirty miles northwest of London, Horace Evans of MI6 is sitting at his desk, slowly sipping his second cup of coffee—he gave up tea years ago after working for a year at the British Embassy in Ankara—looking over his day’s paperwork, neatly set in one pile in the center of his antique desk.
The office is small and suits him. He has been with MI6 for three decades, spanning two centuries, and has enough power and influence to set up his office here, instead of in that ziggurat monstrosity at Vauxhall Cross in London, the butt of many a well-deserved joke and an obscenely explicit target to every sort of enemy overture imaginable, from rocket-propelled grenades to overhead surveillance.
His office here in Lindsay Hall is cold, the radiator rattles, and parts of the roof leak. The entire four-story building with its various rooms and salons is under the control of the National Trust, save one part of the building that’s being renovated and is forbidden to tourists or other visitors.
Ever since Horace has been here, the renovations have been ongoing. God willing, they will never stop.
During World War II, Lindsay Hall was used as a training facility for the Special Operations Executive. Here exiled Poles, Norwegians, Frenchmen, and many others were trained in killing and sabotage, and were later parachuted into occupied Europe.
On the wood-paneled walls in his office Horace has a portrait of the Queen right after her coronation in 1953; a photo of Winnie standing among London bomb damage in 1940; and a framed photo of his younger self, standing on a balcony at some long-forgotten reception in Nairobi in the late 1960s. A representation of what was important in his life, and what was important to remember in his line of work.
There is a soft knock on the door. Horace calls out, “Enter!” and his assistant, Declan Ainsworth, comes in, wearing a frown on his plain yet schoolboyish face, even though the lad is approaching forty.
“Sorry to bother you, sir,” he says in a soft voice, “but it appears there’s been a bit of a muck-up with our Detachment Four.”
Declan is dressed in a dull gray Gieves & Hawkes suit with a white cuffed shirt and a striped Magdalen College necktie. His hair is brown, trimmed short, and he wears gold-rimmed spectacles. At an office party last year, one of his section’s secretaries said Horace and Declan looked so similar that they could be father and son, which had shocked him, true as it was.
“Oh, damn,” he says softly. “And how did this wonderful news reach us?”
“Through a listening station General Communications has on Cyprus.”
“I see.”
With Declan standing there expectantly, Horace thinks through a variety of questions and decides to start basic.
“What was their mission again?” he asks.
“Jeremy Windsor and another detachment member were paired with a CIA sniper squad. The one led by a woman.”
“Ah, yes, that woman. Go on.”
“They were sent into the Anti-Lebanon Mountains, northeast, near the Syrian border,” Declan says. “Their mission was to terminate two Abu Sayyaf leaders traveling into Syria for a meeting.”
“Was the mission a success?”
Declan nods. “Quite. Both men were removed from the board. The problem came later: as the teams were deploying to be retrieved, Jeremy and the other chap”—Declan looks at a sheet of paper— “Oliver Davies, were captured by local militiamen. We don’t know the status of our chaps or who the militiamen were.”
Horace thinks,Well done, Jeremy. Well done.
“I see. The Americans?”
“Well, sir, this is where it gets odd. Their transport out was from their Army’s aviation unit, the 160th Air Regiment. But they didn’t board the helicopter. They stayed behind.”
Damn,he thinks.That wasn’t part of the plan.
Horace stares at Declan for a moment, puzzling things out. His office is old-fashioned in many ways, with the only concession to modern times being the computer terminal and the keyboard below it. He rarely uses computers—doesn’t trust them at all.
He still relies on paper, and on human contact such as this little session with Declan. Among the reasons he distrusts computers is that they never delete anything permanently. But paper can be burned, shredded, altered, and conversations like this one can be forgotten, or misinterpreted, or even denied.
He says, “Well, thatisan odd little development, isn’t it? The Americans chose not to leave?”
Horace goes through his files, finds the one he wants. “This Amy Cornwall, a former Army captain. In military intelligence. Before she started working for our cousins, she was involved in a cross-country quest of sorts, trying to save her husband and daughter. Along the way she shot and killed at least four, possibly more, gunmen from a Mexican drug cartel.”
He closes the folder, looks up at Declan over his reading glasses. “I believe what happened is the American cowboy mentality came up at the right moment. Cavalry riding in to rescue the threatened Old West settlers, that sort of thing.”
