local sorting office. No surprises there. Professionals didn’t give away clues like that. He’d find them though. It was just a matter of when. It would probably take him longer than usual. He’d been out of the game too long. All his contacts were like him, propping up retirement communities around the country. But he’d get there—old dogs could learn new tricks as long as they liked the reward.
Mack placed the bagged foot inside a larger plastic bag to protect any forensic evidence. It was unlikely there was anything for forensics to find, but luck might be on the side of the angels for a change. He popped the bag in the freezer compartment above the fridge.
He needed information. He needed to know who else knew about this and how far it stretched.
To the Bat Phone, he thought. Just like Batman, Mack had a direct line to Gotham City. Except, commissioner Gordon wouldn’t be answering the call. His line was the dinosaur line. A crisis number for the nearly- deads to call in times of trouble, like when their marbles went missing or their colostomy bag needed changing. Today, MI6 would have something to do. Mack dialed.
“Yes,” a young man’s voice answered.
“It’s the Headmaster.”
“Oh, yes, Headmaster and what is today’s lesson?”
“History.”
“One moment, Headmaster.”
Mack listened to the rattle of a keyboard being worked.
“What can I do for you, Headmaster?”
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Headmaster.”
Mack huffed. “Don’t play silly buggers. How far does it go? Who else has received a package?”
“We all receive packages, Headmaster. I’m sure it’s a lovely present. Is it your birthday, Headmaster? Many happy returns, sir.”
“Shut up, you idiot!” Mack took a moment. “I don’t need the bromide treatment. I’m not a dribbling imbecile. I have received a severed foot in the post. I want to know who and why. I want a sit down, before next post. I’ll be expecting your call.”
Mack slammed the phone down, not waiting for a reply. He hoped it was enough to light a fire under their backsides.
But he wasn’t about to sit on his arse until military intelligence came calling. He’d been sent a calling card. He doubted it was the last or that a personal visit was out of the question. If anyone arrived unexpectedly, he wasn’t about to be caught off guard. He couldn’t make his home a fortress, but he was going to have bloody good go.
He hid eggshells under the welcome mats at the front and back doors. Paper tabs were placed on the top of doorways, set to fall if a visitor came calling. He stuck a strip of tape across every window, set to break if opened. Thimbles filled with ink were tied to every interior door handle. Someone might second-guess some of his countermeasures but not all of them.
Mack was in the middle of checking a wall socket for a listening device when second post flopped through the letterbox. No packages. It was the usual jumble of junk mail and bills, except for one. It was a love letter in a fancy pink envelope. He knew without opening the envelope that there would be no note. The scent told him where his sit down was to occur. Chanel No. 5—Harrods’ food hall. The time was in the misspelling of his address. The seventh letter of the word Middlesex had been capitalized. His meeting was to take place at seven.
***
Mack wandered the food hall for twenty minutes not seeing anyone he recognized—friend or foe—until he spotted Ben Harker at the Sushi Bar. Harker was one of Mack’s protégés and a damned good operative. Mack was glad to have him as a case officer. He tapped his apprentice on the shoulder.
“Mack, good to see you,” he warbled through a mouthful of food. “Can I get you something?”
The sushi chef looked attentive.
Mack smiled politely. “No, I don’t think so. I
Mack placed the bagged foot inside a larger plastic bag to protect any forensic evidence. It was unlikely there was anything for forensics to find, but luck might be on the side of the angels for a change. He popped the bag in the freezer compartment above the fridge.
He needed information. He needed to know who else knew about this and how far it stretched.
To the Bat Phone, he thought. Just like Batman, Mack had a direct line to Gotham City. Except, commissioner Gordon wouldn’t be answering the call. His line was the dinosaur line. A crisis number for the nearly- deads to call in times of trouble, like when their marbles went missing or their colostomy bag needed changing. Today, MI6 would have something to do. Mack dialed.
“Yes,” a young man’s voice answered.
“It’s the Headmaster.”
“Oh, yes, Headmaster and what is today’s lesson?”
“History.”
“One moment, Headmaster.”
Mack listened to the rattle of a keyboard being worked.
“What can I do for you, Headmaster?”
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Headmaster.”
Mack huffed. “Don’t play silly buggers. How far does it go? Who else has received a package?”
“We all receive packages, Headmaster. I’m sure it’s a lovely present. Is it your birthday, Headmaster? Many happy returns, sir.”
“Shut up, you idiot!” Mack took a moment. “I don’t need the bromide treatment. I’m not a dribbling imbecile. I have received a severed foot in the post. I want to know who and why. I want a sit down, before next post. I’ll be expecting your call.”
Mack slammed the phone down, not waiting for a reply. He hoped it was enough to light a fire under their backsides.
But he wasn’t about to sit on his arse until military intelligence came calling. He’d been sent a calling card. He doubted it was the last or that a personal visit was out of the question. If anyone arrived unexpectedly, he wasn’t about to be caught off guard. He couldn’t make his home a fortress, but he was going to have bloody good go.
He hid eggshells under the welcome mats at the front and back doors. Paper tabs were placed on the top of doorways, set to fall if a visitor came calling. He stuck a strip of tape across every window, set to break if opened. Thimbles filled with ink were tied to every interior door handle. Someone might second-guess some of his countermeasures but not all of them.
Mack was in the middle of checking a wall socket for a listening device when second post flopped through the letterbox. No packages. It was the usual jumble of junk mail and bills, except for one. It was a love letter in a fancy pink envelope. He knew without opening the envelope that there would be no note. The scent told him where his sit down was to occur. Chanel No. 5—Harrods’ food hall. The time was in the misspelling of his address. The seventh letter of the word Middlesex had been capitalized. His meeting was to take place at seven.
***
Mack wandered the food hall for twenty minutes not seeing anyone he recognized—friend or foe—until he spotted Ben Harker at the Sushi Bar. Harker was one of Mack’s protégés and a damned good operative. Mack was glad to have him as a case officer. He tapped his apprentice on the shoulder.
“Mack, good to see you,” he warbled through a mouthful of food. “Can I get you something?”
The sushi chef looked attentive.
Mack smiled politely. “No, I don’t think so. I
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