eyes in disdain when Charles or Jellicoe would be barking orders at her from the other side of the house, tell her that she’d lost ten pounds even though she hadn’t, and say that his wife Catherine sent her love and dearly hoped that Lindsay was fucking her way through the neighborhood just to spite her ungrateful bastard husband.
The difference between Catherine and Ed’s marriage and her own couldn’t have been more stark.
How times had changed since their days on the diplomatic circuit. Then she’d be at her husband’s side, wearing a ball gown and gorgeous perfume, looking radiant, and working the room to support her husband’s work for the CIA.
Now she was reduced to being treated with contempt and locked away from all things glamorous, interesting, and intelligent.
God, she wished she could turn back the clock and undo some of the things that had happened. Too late now. She was condemned to this life.
TWELVE
A listair and Patrick knew for a fact that if they stood side by side they’d be the exact same width as Bo Haupman, because they were standing next to each other and were in front of the FBI director in Marsha Gage’s ops room.
As usual, Alistair was immaculately dressed, though on this occasion he’d opted to turn up wearing a three-piece tweed suit that, together with his slicked-back blond hair and good cheekbones, made the MI6 controller look like an early-twentieth-century royal who’d decided that a weekend in the Scottish Highlands was in order.
It was a deliberate look—one that played up to the English gentleman stereotype but also unsettled the established norm of bland attire within the FBI HQ.
Patrick’s image was also chosen with care. His suit jacket was off, slung over his shoulder and held in place by one sinewy finger; his shirtsleeves were rolled up and his tie was loosened. The CIA officer looked like he was about to administer rough justice to a terrorist in a top-secret Agency facility in Southeast Asia.
Haupman gestured toward Marsha. “This is Marsha Gage. She’s running things.”
Alistair stepped forward, smiled, and held out his hand. “Delighted to meet you, young lady.”
Marsha placed her hand in his and didn’t know what to think when Alistair lifted it and kissed the back of her hand. “Ain’t been young for a while, sir, nor called a lady for as long as I can remember.” She turned to Patrick.
No kiss from him, instead a firm handshake, a wink, and the comment, “Bet you’re delighted that you got three dinosaurs assigned to your team.”
Haupman said to Marsha, “Let me know what you need.” He smiled. “And don’t let these spooks do their Jedi mind games on you.”
After Haupman left the ops room, Marsha placed her hands on her hips and nodded toward two desks that were facing each other in the middle of the room. “These are yours. Sheridan’s desk is over there, and I hope you appreciate that I didn’t sit you next to him. Thankfully, he’s not here right now.”
Alistair rubbed his hands and faked enthusiasm. “Wonderful. So what do you want us to do?”
Marsha frowned. “Help.”
“To do what?”
“Catch your boy.”
Patrick asked, “How long we gotta be here playing cops and robbers?”
“Until the robber’s captured.”
Alistair glanced at Patrick with a faint smile on his face before returning his attention to Marsha. “Considering that we could be here for a while, can we request some things?”
Marsha shrugged. “Sure. Whatever equipment or data you need.”
“Excellent.”
Both men whipped out pens and paper and wrote lists. They handed the sheets to Marsha.
Marsha tried to keep her expression neutral as she read the notes, though she desperately wanted to smile. She looked at the two men before her, spies who she’d been advised had been two of the more powerful individuals in Western intelligence, before they’d recently had their horns removed. But now they just seemed to be a joke, particularly
The difference between Catherine and Ed’s marriage and her own couldn’t have been more stark.
How times had changed since their days on the diplomatic circuit. Then she’d be at her husband’s side, wearing a ball gown and gorgeous perfume, looking radiant, and working the room to support her husband’s work for the CIA.
Now she was reduced to being treated with contempt and locked away from all things glamorous, interesting, and intelligent.
God, she wished she could turn back the clock and undo some of the things that had happened. Too late now. She was condemned to this life.
TWELVE
A listair and Patrick knew for a fact that if they stood side by side they’d be the exact same width as Bo Haupman, because they were standing next to each other and were in front of the FBI director in Marsha Gage’s ops room.
As usual, Alistair was immaculately dressed, though on this occasion he’d opted to turn up wearing a three-piece tweed suit that, together with his slicked-back blond hair and good cheekbones, made the MI6 controller look like an early-twentieth-century royal who’d decided that a weekend in the Scottish Highlands was in order.
It was a deliberate look—one that played up to the English gentleman stereotype but also unsettled the established norm of bland attire within the FBI HQ.
Patrick’s image was also chosen with care. His suit jacket was off, slung over his shoulder and held in place by one sinewy finger; his shirtsleeves were rolled up and his tie was loosened. The CIA officer looked like he was about to administer rough justice to a terrorist in a top-secret Agency facility in Southeast Asia.
Haupman gestured toward Marsha. “This is Marsha Gage. She’s running things.”
Alistair stepped forward, smiled, and held out his hand. “Delighted to meet you, young lady.”
Marsha placed her hand in his and didn’t know what to think when Alistair lifted it and kissed the back of her hand. “Ain’t been young for a while, sir, nor called a lady for as long as I can remember.” She turned to Patrick.
No kiss from him, instead a firm handshake, a wink, and the comment, “Bet you’re delighted that you got three dinosaurs assigned to your team.”
Haupman said to Marsha, “Let me know what you need.” He smiled. “And don’t let these spooks do their Jedi mind games on you.”
After Haupman left the ops room, Marsha placed her hands on her hips and nodded toward two desks that were facing each other in the middle of the room. “These are yours. Sheridan’s desk is over there, and I hope you appreciate that I didn’t sit you next to him. Thankfully, he’s not here right now.”
Alistair rubbed his hands and faked enthusiasm. “Wonderful. So what do you want us to do?”
Marsha frowned. “Help.”
“To do what?”
“Catch your boy.”
Patrick asked, “How long we gotta be here playing cops and robbers?”
“Until the robber’s captured.”
Alistair glanced at Patrick with a faint smile on his face before returning his attention to Marsha. “Considering that we could be here for a while, can we request some things?”
Marsha shrugged. “Sure. Whatever equipment or data you need.”
“Excellent.”
Both men whipped out pens and paper and wrote lists. They handed the sheets to Marsha.
Marsha tried to keep her expression neutral as she read the notes, though she desperately wanted to smile. She looked at the two men before her, spies who she’d been advised had been two of the more powerful individuals in Western intelligence, before they’d recently had their horns removed. But now they just seemed to be a joke, particularly
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