easier to bear if Hollingshead had chewed his ass, Chapel thought. Hollingshead had the same ability Chapel’s father had had, the ability to make you feel guilty while still sounding supportive. The ability to let you know just how badly you’d screwed up without actually saying so.
“Thank you, sir. I’m sorry. I’m . . . just . . .”
“I won’t listen to your apology. Angel tells me you’re hurt. I want you to go get some medical attention, son. I want you healed up. There’s going to be plenty of work for both of us now, cleaning this up.”
“Sir. I understand. There’s just one thing.”
“Oh?”
“Just a question, sir. If you don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” Hollingshead said. “I never mind listening to a question. As long as you don’t mind if I can’t answer it because it’s a secret.”
“Understood, sir. But I think this one will be okay. I just need to know. When Favorov tried to take me hostage, I fully expected you to sacrifice me. To let him kill me rather than allowing him to get away. But you didn’t. You seemed to think I was too valuable to let die.”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
Chapel closed his eyes. In some ways it would be easier to work for a boss who he didn’t like so much. Especially in this business. “I’m an intelligence operative, sir. A soldier, too. I expect to be expendable. That’s how our kind of work goes.”
Hollingshead didn’t speak for quite a while. “Chapel, you must have guessed—there was no way I was going to let Favorov go. If he tried to walk out of that place with a gun to your head, I was going to have a marksman take him down. Whatever he thought was going to happen, it wasn’t going to end with him as a free man. But I played along because I trusted you. I knew you would get free, and I hoped you would get him. It didn’t work out that way.”
“Maybe if you had sent somebody else, somebody better at negotiation,” Chapel suggested.
Hollingshead wouldn’t hear of it. “I have plenty of people who know how to eat soup, Jim. I had a feeling this would come to blows. If anybody had a chance of going into that lion’s den and bringing back what we needed, I knew it would be you.”
Chapel grabbed the bridge of his nose and squeezed. “Maybe I could have . . . I don’t know. If I had just played along, too, let him use me as a human shield—”
“You can’t start second-guessing how this might have ended.”
Which was the one thing Chapel couldn’t not do, of course.
“Sir. Director Hollingshead. I’d like to—”
He didn’t get to finish his sentence. A car horn blared off to Chapel’s left, and he turned involuntarily to look. SWAT troopers started shouting over there and grabbing for weapons they’d already secured, because a car was racing toward them at speed, making no attempt to turn aside. Chapel looked up and saw it wasn’t a police car.
The silver Bentley pulled up next to Chapel in a spray of gravel.
“Get in,” Fiona said.
32.
“I ’ll have to get back to you, sir,” Chapel said. He heard the director signing off, and Angel coming back on the line, but all of his attention was focused on Favorov’s wife.
Chapel didn’t think Fiona was armed. She wasn’t going to get anywhere in that car, either. At the least she was a witness to crimes committed in the house, at worst an accessory—and that didn’t even include the fact she’d struck a federal agent (assault and battery with a potentially deadly weapon, to wit, a bottle of wine to the back of the head). There were way too many people who still wanted to talk to her, who would want her in a cell where they could keep an eye on her.
“Get in,” she said again. “We don’t have much time.”
Even while she sat there gunning her engine, waiting for Chapel to respond, a legion of cops were descending on the Bentley, weapons drawn. Overhead a helicopter chewed up the air, its spotlight drooping toward
“Thank you, sir. I’m sorry. I’m . . . just . . .”
“I won’t listen to your apology. Angel tells me you’re hurt. I want you to go get some medical attention, son. I want you healed up. There’s going to be plenty of work for both of us now, cleaning this up.”
“Sir. I understand. There’s just one thing.”
“Oh?”
“Just a question, sir. If you don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” Hollingshead said. “I never mind listening to a question. As long as you don’t mind if I can’t answer it because it’s a secret.”
“Understood, sir. But I think this one will be okay. I just need to know. When Favorov tried to take me hostage, I fully expected you to sacrifice me. To let him kill me rather than allowing him to get away. But you didn’t. You seemed to think I was too valuable to let die.”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
Chapel closed his eyes. In some ways it would be easier to work for a boss who he didn’t like so much. Especially in this business. “I’m an intelligence operative, sir. A soldier, too. I expect to be expendable. That’s how our kind of work goes.”
Hollingshead didn’t speak for quite a while. “Chapel, you must have guessed—there was no way I was going to let Favorov go. If he tried to walk out of that place with a gun to your head, I was going to have a marksman take him down. Whatever he thought was going to happen, it wasn’t going to end with him as a free man. But I played along because I trusted you. I knew you would get free, and I hoped you would get him. It didn’t work out that way.”
“Maybe if you had sent somebody else, somebody better at negotiation,” Chapel suggested.
Hollingshead wouldn’t hear of it. “I have plenty of people who know how to eat soup, Jim. I had a feeling this would come to blows. If anybody had a chance of going into that lion’s den and bringing back what we needed, I knew it would be you.”
Chapel grabbed the bridge of his nose and squeezed. “Maybe I could have . . . I don’t know. If I had just played along, too, let him use me as a human shield—”
“You can’t start second-guessing how this might have ended.”
Which was the one thing Chapel couldn’t not do, of course.
“Sir. Director Hollingshead. I’d like to—”
He didn’t get to finish his sentence. A car horn blared off to Chapel’s left, and he turned involuntarily to look. SWAT troopers started shouting over there and grabbing for weapons they’d already secured, because a car was racing toward them at speed, making no attempt to turn aside. Chapel looked up and saw it wasn’t a police car.
The silver Bentley pulled up next to Chapel in a spray of gravel.
“Get in,” Fiona said.
32.
“I ’ll have to get back to you, sir,” Chapel said. He heard the director signing off, and Angel coming back on the line, but all of his attention was focused on Favorov’s wife.
Chapel didn’t think Fiona was armed. She wasn’t going to get anywhere in that car, either. At the least she was a witness to crimes committed in the house, at worst an accessory—and that didn’t even include the fact she’d struck a federal agent (assault and battery with a potentially deadly weapon, to wit, a bottle of wine to the back of the head). There were way too many people who still wanted to talk to her, who would want her in a cell where they could keep an eye on her.
“Get in,” she said again. “We don’t have much time.”
Even while she sat there gunning her engine, waiting for Chapel to respond, a legion of cops were descending on the Bentley, weapons drawn. Overhead a helicopter chewed up the air, its spotlight drooping toward
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