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I pull on my jacket and call out to the receptionist as I rush out the door, “Have a meeting. Tell JL I’ll be back in an hour or less.”
Bloody bad timing, considering the bombshell that hit us. I need to prepare to video conference with my team. Meeting Allan was not on my agenda for today. Our tensions go all the way back to school. He was with me when I found my roommate, Preston St. John Matthews, had hanged himself after some boys spread the word that his father was a famous swindler.
I race across Trafalgar Square with barely a nod at Nelson’s Column, run up the main staircase. My shoes click along the floor, announcing my presence. Allan sits on a long wooden bench near the altarpiece, facing away from the entryway. As I walk up to him, he stands and holds out his hand. Our shake is perfunctory, not much more than a touch of fingers.
His receding hairline accentuates the prominence of his sloping forehead and his thin, gray hair. He seems older than forty. Hard to believe this was the fresh-faced, angular youth I went to school with. Collar-length brown hair that curled at the ends and guileless blue eyes, now enlarged by contact lenses, once gave him a cherubic, chorister mien that has decayed into a disappointed, dissatisfied air.
A flash from the past hits me like a tidal wave. When, as a sixth former, I came back from rugby practice to find Preston, my roommate, hanging from the rafters, Allan had been the one to fetch the prefect and the housemaster while my sixteen-year-old-self stood immobilized. I imagine he despised me for my inaction. That moment of cowardice can still shame me all these years later.
MI6 recruited us together, but my career seemed to be fast-tracked. The first time I received an assignment he coveted, autumn coolness became early winter frost. As they rewarded my successes, they pushed him to the middle of the pack. And he was the obvious choice for promotion when the sidelong looks and mumbled conversations after my breakdown took their toll, convincing me that my days as a field operative were over.
I might have come back to a job in cybersecurity after I took my doctoral degree, but the few times I went to MI6 headquarters were like stepping into a polar vortex. Clay’s offer of the CISO position at GSU was a lifeline I was eager to grab. Signing on with GSU is one of the best choices I’ve ever made.
As we stand next to the painting, his eyes shoot flames. He’d incinerate me if he could. His lips are so compressed that they are a barely visible chalk-white line. A tic in his cheek signals his desire to be elsewhere.
“Welcome back to London, Max.” His laser gaze assesses me, checking for the weakness he saw when I was released from the clinic. Sending him to assess me had been one of many cuts the service inflicted before I finally took very early retirement. “You look a lot better these days.” His jaw is so tight he can barely speak.
“Thanks.” I plant my feet, arms folded, as I stare back at him.
“I’m sure you’ve heard all the news from the Americans.”
“Roundabout, but yes. The NSA is a bit more forthcoming than my old mates.”
He huffs. “We gave them the goods to pass on.”
A portable altarpiece, the Wilton Diptych, as the name shows, is two panels, connected by hinges that allow it to be closed. We’re standing behind the panels, which are on a stand so that the viewer can see both sides—the White Hart, neck encircled by a chained crown, and Richard II’s coat of arms. Created before the spread of oil paints, the unknown artist prepared Baltic oak panels with a gold background and created the painting in egg tempera and glazes.
“Do you understand all the symbolism?” Allan leans forward and peers at the shield.
“Only what’s in the description. My partner would probably know more.”
Allan steps back from the display. He rubs his pointed chin and regards me speculatively. “Cressida Taylor…the author?” I incline my head slightly. “Have to say that was a turn up. Didn’t think you’d go for the brainy type. I seem to remember that the service used you as a honeytrap on occasion. Saw the inner fuckboy, perhaps?” His leer stings like falling into a patch of nettles.
I blink at the verbal slap, force my shoulders down from my ears, and unclench my fists.
“You wanted to talk about Faez?”
We move from the diptych to “The Man of Sorrows.” This room reminds me of a chapel, filled with thirteenth- and fourteenth-century Italian altarpieces and crosses, beautiful but uncomfortable for someone with little religious sensibility. The painting, highlighting the gore of Christ’s wounds in a way that is both stylized and graphic, makes me scratch my neck.
“Let’s move to Room 38.” I stride away, sure that Allan will follow. Heat from his glare hits my back like arrows as he rushes to catch me up.
He hisses, “The crowds around the Canaletto paintings will be much bigger.” With a twist of his lips, he pulls out his mobile and taps a few words on the screen.
I stop, turn, and lift a shoulder. “Too bad. All those altarpieces suck the air right out of the room. When did you become a Catholic?”
“I’m not, but I can appreciate the beauty in suffering.”
Suppressing a shudder, I remark, “I don’t consider suffering beautiful.”
His face is sour. “I knew you were still wet.”
Even though the room is practically empty, I pitch my voice to barely above a whisper. “Berk.”
Our footsteps echo on the hardwood floor as we reach the haven of Canaletto’s Venice and my chest loosens as I glimpse another empty gallery. “Guess Canaletto isn’t popular today.”
Allan grabs my arm and gestures to a bench. His gaze sweeps around the room. “I took care of it.” Then he shifts on the bench. We’re so close, our noses are practically touching, as he hisses into my face. “Lots of speculation on terror attacks here, but I’m not convinced that any of them are targeting you specifically. No signs of Faez or his group.”
I’d love to believe him, but I don’t. He’s standing uncomfortably close. Close enough that I can smell the fish and chips he had for lunch.
