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“I’ve run the name through every database there is, and nothing has come up. Surprising, given I would’ve anticipated several hits on a name like that rather than none.”
“Think, Z. Who knows Syria, Iraq, and Turkey better than anyone else in the world? Given the ME believes all victims were either Syrian or Iraqi, this container has to originate from one of those three countries. Nothing else makes sense.”
“I have one idea, Wren. I’ll do my best, but I can’t make any promises.”
“Who?”
“Oleander.”
“We need her desperately, Dad, and by that, I mean within twenty-four hours.”
If there was any agent in the world whose mysticism rivaled that of Kennedy King’s, it was the woman whose code name Z had just uttered.
Jennifer Smith was believed to have retired from MI6 five years ago. Instead, she’d transitioned to the most covert of SIS’ ultra-secretive entities—Unit 23. The paramilitary unit was made up of former SAS—Special Air Service—intelligence officers, whose required skill set included high-level surveillance, close-combat fighting, and hostage rescue. Becoming part of Unit 23, however, required an additional level of expertise—assassination.
Reaching her, or anyone within Unit 23, on demand was nearly impossible. However, if Z could manage it, Oleander fit Wren’s bill better than anyone else. No one knew the Eastern Mediterranean region like she did.
Even after the call ended, Wren’s eyes and mine remained fixated. Neither of us moved. I had no doubt we were both saying a silent prayer that Z would be successful.
“What’s going on?” asked Wilder, coming in from the other room.
“Z is attempting to make contact with Oleander.”
Wilder’s eyes opened wide. “Blimey,” he said under his breath.
After several minutes, I swung by the solarium to see how Tank was progressing. Rather than finding him alone, he and the other four men—Atticus, Blackjack, Magnet, and Zeppelin—all had their noses buried in their laptops.
“Any update?” Tank asked when he noticed me walk in.
“Marchand is convening an emergency meeting tomorrow morning regarding the Bulgarian raid. No update on the Eastern Mediterranean front. You?”
“It’s like the damn thing materialized out of nowhere,” he said. I didn’t need him to clarify he meant the container.
I nodded and returned to the now-empty dining room before sitting at the table where I’d moved my files and computer after Ares left. Working in the library only made me miss him more when, really, I wasn’t supposed to be missing him at all.
I’d losttrack of how long I was in there when Atticus walked by.
“I just got a message from Kodiak. He says the Felixstowe team will be back tomorrow.”
“Did he say when?” I asked.
“Late but no other specifics.”
I stretched my arms over my head and checked the time. I hadn’t gotten much sleep the last few nights, so while the sun had barely set, I felt exhausted.
“What’s that you’re singing?” asked Wren, coming into the kitchen a few minutes later.
“Singing? I wasn’t singing.”
“Yes, you were.”
“I wasn’t,” I insisted.
She started to hum, then added words. “‘If you wonder how long I’ll be faithful, I’ll be happy to tell you again…’”
I recognized it. It was the bloody song Ares and I had danced to. Had I really been singing it without realizing it? If I hadn’t, how would Wren have known the words?
She sat in the chair beside me. “Tell me what’s going on.”
