31

With every step Geoffrey Barnes wore out the blue carpet covering the floor. His imposing figure, the product of the good restaurants that abound in this part of Europe, contributed to this, as well as nervousness about a phone conversation he’d had with the White House not five minutes before. We ought to amend this last information, since the telephone the color of blood, or victory, was linked to the office of the president of the United States of America wherever he was, not just in the White House. This time, the red phone was on board Air Force One.

Barnes was furious with worry, not his usual reaction after speaking with the president in person, instead of his tame lackeys.

Staughton opened the door and felt the bad vibes coming from the chief. His curiosity would have to wait for a calmer time. It didn’t bode well, if the communication had left him in this state. But he needed to give him the message to avoid being called on the carpet.

“Chief, the guys at Langley want you to call them.” He braced himself for a scorching blast of words.

“What do those sons of bitches want?” This contemptuous reproach was uttered without raising his voice, but still showing irritation.

“It was Harvey Littel who called. He asked that you call him as soon as the call with the White House was over.”

“How did they know I was on the telephone with them?” Barnes raised his eyes to Staughton.

“He wanted me to pass you the telephone. I had to give him a reason.”

“You did well. You did well,” Barnes affirmed, sitting down in the chair and exhaling with relief. “I’ll call shortly. Let them wait. Fuck them.”

Theresa came in with the order. Double burger with cheese, pizza, and a cold Carlsberg. Just in time. Drench his disgust in beer and fill his belly with carbohydrates. Thompson came in behind her with a stack of papers in his hand.

“News?” Barnes asked, appraising the containers Theresa was putting on the desk.

“Big.” Thompson shook the papers.

“Is it going to ruin my appetite?” Barnes asked, sounding put out. “If so, you can wait outside.”

Thompson paid no attention to his boss’s words. They were typical explosions, nothing to interfere with the work. What he had was important information, and Barnes would thank him for it later. That’s the way it worked.

“Several hours ago there was an explosion in a house at Redcliff Gardens, near Earl’s Court,” Thompson began, as enthusiastically as a reporter with an exclusive story.

“An explosion?” Barnes inquired, just for the sake of asking a question, his mouth full of the double cheeseburger he was savagely chewing. Immediately he raised the neck of the Carlsberg to his mouth to help him swallow the mouthful.

“Anything else, Dr. Barnes?” Theresa asked from the door.

“No thanks, Theresa. I’m fine.”

She went out and left the three men alone in a silence broken only by the loud chewing and tenacious swallowing of enormous bites. In three tries, the burger disappeared. He moved on to the pizza.

“What about this explosion?” Barnes asked with his mouth full.

“The authorities are talking about a gas leak.”

“Then there’s no story,” Barnes concluded.

“No,” Staughton agreed.

“My men have been to the site and put together some information. It wasn’t a gas leak. It was a bomb,” Thompson threw out dryly, immediately capturing the attention of the other two. Barnes stopped chewing.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. And there’s more. MI6 is involved in the cover-up of everything.”

“Why? What do they gain from that?”

“I don’t know yet. But they know the way we are. We like to sniff around… and what have we discovered, off the record?”

Barnes and Staughton waited in suspense for him to finish his statement.

“They found a corpse in the debris. It belongs to Grigori Nestov. Do you know the name?”

“Grigori Nestov,” they repeated, searching their memory.

Staughton gave up. “I have no idea.”

“I’ve never heard the name,” Barnes said with certainty.

“Nor I,” Thompson finished with a triumphant smile. “But it turns out Nestov is part of a unit of the RSS.”

“Wow!” Staughton responded. “RSS?”

Barnes and Thompson looked at him reprovingly. What’s so special about being RSS when they were CIA?

“We have the RSS in the middle of an explosion. What does that mean?” Barnes wondered, raising the last piece of pizza to his mouth.

“But it gets better, and this will get you out of your seat,” Thompson anticipated.

“What?” Barnes asked expectantly.

“The house. It’s in the name of Sarah Monteiro. Does that tell you something?”

“What?” This question came in a deafening shout with Barnes on his feet leaning on the desk.

“Wow,” Staughton repeated. “Confirmed?”

“Completely confirmed,” Thompson clarified, holding out the papers and handing over the first page to Staughton so he could see with his own eyes.

“What bastards,” an enraged Barnes said. “Who are these English? Who do they think they are? They’re only good for wiping our asses, and now they want to leave us out of the picture? Assholes.”

“What’s happened to the girl?” Staughton asked, as he handed the paper to Barnes, who grabbed it roughly out of his assistant’s hand.

“Her location’s unknown. There’s one injured, checked into the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, but it’s not her.”

“Go there immediately,” Barnes ordered. “And I want her in front of me before the morning is over. Find out what a Russian agent was doing in her house. That’s top priority. Understood?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Of course he’d been understood. “Is there news about Jack?”

“On my part, nothing,” Thompson said with some frustration. “Payne is a stone in our shoe and knows how to irritate us.”

“Not much,” Staughton replied with some confidence. “We’ve located a reservation for a Mercedes Vito van rented out at Fiumicino and left at Schiphol.”

“Amsterdam,” Barnes said out loud to himself. He sat down again looking thoughtful.

“The reservation was made in the name of Rafael Santini,” Staughton continued.

“Rafael Santini?” Thompson asked. “Do you think that could be him?”

“It’s him,” Barnes affirmed with certainty. “His real name, it seems.” Anger rose in his voice.

“Why haven’t we discovered this before?” Thompson asked curiously. The individual had always caught his attention.

“Because he hasn’t wanted us to,” Barnes clarified. “A good double agent, infiltrated, a traitor, a son of a bitch, only reveals himself when it’s good for him.” He turned to Staughton. “Where is he?”

“We don’t know.” He looked down.

“We don’t know?”

“No. He’s been seen in Antwerp, Dunkirk, and we’ve lost all trace of him after that.”

Barnes raised his hand to his chin, thinking.

“He’s heading this way,” he said at last.

“What?”

“How?”

“He’s coming here,” Barnes repeated. “He picked up the van in Amsterdam, went for the bodies, was seen in Belgium and France. He’s coming here, and I want a welcoming committee to meet him when he arrives. No mistakes.”

“How can you be so sure?” the ever-calculating Staughton asked.

“Because of something we don’t have the luxury to fight at this time.”

“What?” his assistants wanted to know.

“The fact he’s scattered the clues so we can easily pick them up. That bothers me. He wants us to find him.” Barnes changed the subject. “Go to the hospital and see what condition the injured man is in. I want a thorough interrogation. His mouth can’t be injured. Make him spill everything. It’s time to satisfy Langley.”

“What about the White House? Anything worth mentioning?” Thompson asked. He had held that question back since he came into the office, waiting for the right moment… this one.