this world, he acquiesced to Moira’s demands. Her focus, her energy, had to be harnessed and trained on the scope with no distractions. The kill had to be clean. The escape as well.
He envied her skill. His mind generated dozens of ideas a day, each one a labyrinth of details, possibilities and alternate outcomes. To keep up, his body was always in motion as well. There were far too many voices in his head to sit still and breathe like a yogi over the scope of a rifle. He preferred his statements to be loud, messy and a symbol of anarchy. A sniper kill was singular, perfect, clean.
Peter envied Moira her youth as well. Age was catching up with him, taunting him with mistakes and errors that would land him behind bars again. He would kill himself before he let it happen. The time had come to step back, return to his home, reinvent himself and his dedicated group into a legitimate political force. The idea, once repulsive, now tugged at his mind with ever-increasing demand.
This last hurrah should have been catastrophic. Instead it would be a simple exclamation point. O’Bern would be martyred and Peter would live to go on and rise as a popular figure in his place, undoing his years of peace-mongering with an effective campaign strategy to draw in youth who grew complacent and tired of peace. They were a selfish lot these days and ripe for growing seeds of dissension.
An image of Brigit’s face blipped across his mind. She was in town, no doubt to see Cormac. A traitor like his old friend, she deserved to die as well.
But a quick execution was too painless for her. She deserved to suffer for killing their mother, for trying to turn Tory against him. For pretending she wasn’t related to him, while at the same time following his path and trying to clean up or cover up the destruction he wrought.
She posed as an advisor, a psychiatrist. Whatever guise was needed to conceal her true past and buddy up to government officials and other power players. Peter knew all about who she really was and who she worked for. The Americans were as stupid as the British. While they watched over their shoulder for the enemy nipping at their heels, the real danger was standing in front of them, pretending to help.
After he was done with Cormac, Peter would think more about Brigit. She would be an impediment to his political career. Therefore, she would have to go.
In the bathroom, the girl stirred, and Peter turned his head to listen for a moment. Her fingernails scratched at the door like a dog. Again, Brigit’s face flashed through his mind. An idea came to him and he smiled.
There would be no exclamation point for her. Brigit deserved her own personal anarchy. His mind suddenly filled with possibilities.
Chapter Thirteen
The ride to Maryland in Michael Stone’s Navigator wasn’t as bad as Brigit envisioned. Even though she had to face him in the split rear seating, the deputy director spent most of the ride on his cell phone, coercing the FBI and other nameless entities to trust his judgment on the impending disaster.
As Brigit and Truman sat on the leather seat across from him listening to him make high-ranking officials believe the plan he was pulling together was really their idea, Brigit guessed that in the end, if all went well and the innocent public was no more the wiser, Michael would also let those other officials take the credit.
The ability to command, rather than demand, was the true essence of power. Few men or women understood the fundamental difference. Because Michael did, he and his advice were trusted and respected from the president on down. People wanted to believe the deputy director of Central Intelligence because they believed in him.
He never raised his voice, never argued. He presented the facts as he knew them and requested immediate assistance with the same calm demeanor Brigit had observed in his office. If doubt was raised, he overrode it with reassurance and a smile, which conveyed his
He envied her skill. His mind generated dozens of ideas a day, each one a labyrinth of details, possibilities and alternate outcomes. To keep up, his body was always in motion as well. There were far too many voices in his head to sit still and breathe like a yogi over the scope of a rifle. He preferred his statements to be loud, messy and a symbol of anarchy. A sniper kill was singular, perfect, clean.
Peter envied Moira her youth as well. Age was catching up with him, taunting him with mistakes and errors that would land him behind bars again. He would kill himself before he let it happen. The time had come to step back, return to his home, reinvent himself and his dedicated group into a legitimate political force. The idea, once repulsive, now tugged at his mind with ever-increasing demand.
This last hurrah should have been catastrophic. Instead it would be a simple exclamation point. O’Bern would be martyred and Peter would live to go on and rise as a popular figure in his place, undoing his years of peace-mongering with an effective campaign strategy to draw in youth who grew complacent and tired of peace. They were a selfish lot these days and ripe for growing seeds of dissension.
An image of Brigit’s face blipped across his mind. She was in town, no doubt to see Cormac. A traitor like his old friend, she deserved to die as well.
But a quick execution was too painless for her. She deserved to suffer for killing their mother, for trying to turn Tory against him. For pretending she wasn’t related to him, while at the same time following his path and trying to clean up or cover up the destruction he wrought.
She posed as an advisor, a psychiatrist. Whatever guise was needed to conceal her true past and buddy up to government officials and other power players. Peter knew all about who she really was and who she worked for. The Americans were as stupid as the British. While they watched over their shoulder for the enemy nipping at their heels, the real danger was standing in front of them, pretending to help.
After he was done with Cormac, Peter would think more about Brigit. She would be an impediment to his political career. Therefore, she would have to go.
In the bathroom, the girl stirred, and Peter turned his head to listen for a moment. Her fingernails scratched at the door like a dog. Again, Brigit’s face flashed through his mind. An idea came to him and he smiled.
There would be no exclamation point for her. Brigit deserved her own personal anarchy. His mind suddenly filled with possibilities.
Chapter Thirteen
The ride to Maryland in Michael Stone’s Navigator wasn’t as bad as Brigit envisioned. Even though she had to face him in the split rear seating, the deputy director spent most of the ride on his cell phone, coercing the FBI and other nameless entities to trust his judgment on the impending disaster.
As Brigit and Truman sat on the leather seat across from him listening to him make high-ranking officials believe the plan he was pulling together was really their idea, Brigit guessed that in the end, if all went well and the innocent public was no more the wiser, Michael would also let those other officials take the credit.
The ability to command, rather than demand, was the true essence of power. Few men or women understood the fundamental difference. Because Michael did, he and his advice were trusted and respected from the president on down. People wanted to believe the deputy director of Central Intelligence because they believed in him.
He never raised his voice, never argued. He presented the facts as he knew them and requested immediate assistance with the same calm demeanor Brigit had observed in his office. If doubt was raised, he overrode it with reassurance and a smile, which conveyed his
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