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10 |Hugh Reading Residence Whitehall, London, England
Interpol Agent Hugh Reading had been glued to his television for most of the past 24 hours, with only occasional breaks for catnaps, bathroom breaks, and food deliveries. And updates from his partner, Michelle Humphrey.
For he was on forced vacation.
What an idiotic rule!
He had too many accumulated vacation days, and his boss had forced him to take a week off to burn the excess.
“Policy.”
“It’s a bullshit policy.”
“I agree.”
“Then why are you making me take them?”
“Because it’s policy, and I have no choice but to follow policy.”
Reading had slammed a fist on her desk. “If I ever get promoted to a position where I have to follow policy, shoot me.”
She had laughed. “Hugh, I don’t think you ever have to worry about that.”
It had taken him aback for a moment, slightly hurt she felt he would never be worthy of promotion, then he had remembered he didn’t give a shit. He was filling his time with something to do in his final years before he’d be put out of the game permanently.
And now, policy had him on a couch, watching the news reports about the unfolding aftermath of the poisoning in Salisbury.
What I would give to be on the ground for this one.
He had left Scotland Yard several years ago after an incident with those Triarii bastards that had made his face a little too public for his bosses’ liking, so he had taken the job offer at Interpol to at least stay in the game.
And had regretted it since.
Though he had no choice, if he rationally thought about it.
He just missed the game.
He missed Martin.
He sighed, his eyes drifting up to the heavens.
Why, God, did you have to take him?
His chest tightened, and the too frequent burn threatened to overwhelm him once again. It had been a couple of years, but he still wasn’t over the death of his best friend and partner. And he wasn’t sure he ever would be.
Thank God for Jim.
James Acton was his best friend now, despite the fact they lived on opposite sides of the pond. They saw each other fairly frequently, however, and often spoke, thanks to his wife’s incredible wealth inherited from her late brother, an Internet tycoon who had sold his company before things went bust.
I wonder what Jim would think of this.
Acton was always one for a good conspiracy theory, and right now, the prevailing one among the news channels’ talking heads was that it was the Russian government behind it.
And he had to agree.
Initial testing suggested it was a nerve agent, and you couldn’t whip that together in the average jihadi apartment. No, this was something different. These people were targeted, or at least one of them was. Everyone else sick were first responders who were obviously exposed after the fact.
According to the update sent to him by his partner, the victims had been identified as Igor and Anna Kulick. Kulick was Russian, now a British citizen, as was his daughter. His wife was deceased, and he lived alone in his small house where they had been found. There was little on his background, though apparently there was a code on the file that the mere viewing of it triggered both MI5 and MI6 alerts, Michelle already receiving visits.
If Kulick was of interest to them, and for both agencies wanting to be notified of anyone looking into him, he clearly was, it suggested he was a former spy, or perhaps even an active one. MI5 handled domestic operations, MI6 foreign, and that meant trouble.
It has to be the Russians.
His phone vibrated on the tabletop and he flinched before grabbing it.
Jim?
He smiled, swiping his thumb. “Hey, Jim, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I wish it was a personal call, but something’s come up. Something, umm, weird.”
Reading frowned, muting his television. Acton and his wife had a propensity for getting themselves into terrifying situations, and too often needed his help to bail them out. But they had returned the favor on more than one occasion, and he would never turn his back on a friend, especially a close one. “What have you got yourselves into this time?”
Acton chuckled. “Hey, this time it has absolutely nothing to do with me, with Laura, or, I think, with anyone we know.”
Reading’s eyes narrowed as he reached for his notebook, flipping it open to a fresh page and readying his pen. “Thank God for small miracles. If you’re not up to your neck in it, then who is?”
“A friend of ours came and asked me to call you. He needs a favor.”
Reading flipped through the narrow list of mutual friends then stopped. And his heart hammered a little quicker at the implications if he were right, his eyes drifting to the television still showing the unfolding events in the country he called home. “If it’s who I’m thinking of, why didn’t he contact me himself?”
“This is off-the-books. They need someone on the ground in the UK, outside of the normal loop.”
Reading leaned back in his chair, his lips pursed. “So, they don’t know who they can trust.”
“That’s the impression I got.”
“Okay, what does he need me to do?”
“Listen, Hugh, it could be dangerous.”
Reading grunted. “No more dangerous than anything you two put me through too many times each year.”
Acton laughed. “We are rather prolific in our travails, aren’t we?”
“Indeed.”
“He said if you were willing, contact him through the app on your phone, and he’ll send you the details.”
Reading gripped the phone in question a little tighter. “I’ll do it as soon as I hang up.” He drew a deep breath. “So, when am I going to see you two again?”
“Hopefully soon. Laura is heading for London in a couple of weeks, so I’m sure at least you two will tag up. Me, I’m not so sure, but if you want, I could create an international incident somehow and call you for help. Only if you’re lonely.”
“Bugger off.”
Acton roared with laughter. “Listen, gotta go, we have company. Let me know how it works out.”
“Will do. Take care of yourself.”
“You too.” Acton became serious. “I mean it. I got the sense our friend was nervous.”
Reading frowned. “If you can’t trust your own people, then I don’t blame him. Talk to you soon.”
He ended the call and activated the secure app Kane had given him if he needed to contact him. He entered his unique code then thumbprint, then typed a quick message.
I’m in.
Then waited, wondering what he had gotten himself into that a CIA spy couldn’t trust his own agency with.