so obvious Chris felt both insulted and disappointed), and was back to sitting in the waiting room on the Thursday, the third day after the bombing.
Bored and fed up with his status as a pariah, Quarrel headed out into the hallway and started to wander. He poked his head into offices, rounded corners where he’d never been. When he saw an unfamiliar face he tried to act like he belonged there, and when he saw someone who knew him he pretended that he was just getting some coffee.
“Twelve hours to the deadline and you still don’t have it?” The voice came from inside an office on the third floor.
“It’s an entire country. At this point any analysis would be more guesswork than science.”
“I’ve got to give the Brits something. Triple-Eight won’t last much longer. They expect an answer within a half hour.”
Quarrel stood in the doorway and looked inside. The office was more like a classroom, with papers and maps stuck to bulletin boards along the walls. The centre center of the room was a large table covered in papers, laptops, and coffee cups. Three men, plainly bookworms, sat at the table, looking like they hadn’t slept in days. All three wore rumpled clothing, and the room smelled like they’d been there too long. The demanding one wore glasses, the others didn’t. All three had their backs to Quarrel, focused on a map pinned to the wall. It was a map of France, with pins stuck in three places. One was obviously Paris, one a little southeast was likely Lyon, and one on the Mediterranean coast might have been Cannes or even Monaco.
“What are you looking for?” Quarrel asked.
They turned. “Who the hell are you?” asked the one with glasses. Before Quarrel could answer, he continued with “This is restricted information. Stick to your security level.”
But Quarrel was starting to remember that corner of paper Carol had been holding. What was the title? R
E
:888. And the man had just said something about triple-eight.
Quarrel ignored him, walked through the room and approached the map on the wall. He fought to remember the email he had seen in Carol’s hand. He had gone through training for this sort of thing, speed-reading, visual recall, and so on. The pin on the Med coast wasn’t stabbed in either Cannes or Monaco, but between them.
“How did you narrow the cities down?”
“Who the hell—” stammered Glasses.
“I work in an office that you don’t know about, and never will because it blew up on Monday. Now tell me what the hell I’m looking at.”
“These are the only French cities where Sidorov is known to control properties.”
Quarrel had no idea who this Sidorov was, but Carol’s email had been very clear about what to say next. Quarrel jabbed his hand at the pin on the Med.
“Nice. Definitely Nice.”
“Because some random guy walks in—”
“Tell them CSIS-2 confirmed it. Definitely Nice.”
Quarrel walked out, leaving the three men to gape at each other. When he was back out in the hallway, one of them shouted, “There’s a CSI S tw o ?”
#
William Thorpe had not slept in three days. He had spent all three of those days naked, tied to a chair in a warehouse. He could tell he was in France, but otherwise he didn’t know where he was.
Sidorov liked torture. He lived for the prospect of maiming and killing his enemies. And Thorpe had been his enemy for a long time. However, they hadn’t hurt him as much as he expected. Sidorov had a reputation for making tortures last up to a month, often resuscitating his victims so he could kill them again later.
What was it he had threatened ? “Tarred and feathered or drawn and quartered. ” Thorpe expected that sometime soon, Sidorov would make good on that promise. While he had trained himself to resist any torture, to never let his spirit break, a small voice inside hoped that Sidorov would at least leave his body somewhere his country could find it. He wanted to be buried in England, to spend eternity
Bored and fed up with his status as a pariah, Quarrel headed out into the hallway and started to wander. He poked his head into offices, rounded corners where he’d never been. When he saw an unfamiliar face he tried to act like he belonged there, and when he saw someone who knew him he pretended that he was just getting some coffee.
“Twelve hours to the deadline and you still don’t have it?” The voice came from inside an office on the third floor.
“It’s an entire country. At this point any analysis would be more guesswork than science.”
“I’ve got to give the Brits something. Triple-Eight won’t last much longer. They expect an answer within a half hour.”
Quarrel stood in the doorway and looked inside. The office was more like a classroom, with papers and maps stuck to bulletin boards along the walls. The centre center of the room was a large table covered in papers, laptops, and coffee cups. Three men, plainly bookworms, sat at the table, looking like they hadn’t slept in days. All three wore rumpled clothing, and the room smelled like they’d been there too long. The demanding one wore glasses, the others didn’t. All three had their backs to Quarrel, focused on a map pinned to the wall. It was a map of France, with pins stuck in three places. One was obviously Paris, one a little southeast was likely Lyon, and one on the Mediterranean coast might have been Cannes or even Monaco.
“What are you looking for?” Quarrel asked.
They turned. “Who the hell are you?” asked the one with glasses. Before Quarrel could answer, he continued with “This is restricted information. Stick to your security level.”
But Quarrel was starting to remember that corner of paper Carol had been holding. What was the title? R
E
:888. And the man had just said something about triple-eight.
Quarrel ignored him, walked through the room and approached the map on the wall. He fought to remember the email he had seen in Carol’s hand. He had gone through training for this sort of thing, speed-reading, visual recall, and so on. The pin on the Med coast wasn’t stabbed in either Cannes or Monaco, but between them.
“How did you narrow the cities down?”
“Who the hell—” stammered Glasses.
“I work in an office that you don’t know about, and never will because it blew up on Monday. Now tell me what the hell I’m looking at.”
“These are the only French cities where Sidorov is known to control properties.”
Quarrel had no idea who this Sidorov was, but Carol’s email had been very clear about what to say next. Quarrel jabbed his hand at the pin on the Med.
“Nice. Definitely Nice.”
“Because some random guy walks in—”
“Tell them CSIS-2 confirmed it. Definitely Nice.”
Quarrel walked out, leaving the three men to gape at each other. When he was back out in the hallway, one of them shouted, “There’s a CSI S tw o ?”
#
William Thorpe had not slept in three days. He had spent all three of those days naked, tied to a chair in a warehouse. He could tell he was in France, but otherwise he didn’t know where he was.
Sidorov liked torture. He lived for the prospect of maiming and killing his enemies. And Thorpe had been his enemy for a long time. However, they hadn’t hurt him as much as he expected. Sidorov had a reputation for making tortures last up to a month, often resuscitating his victims so he could kill them again later.
What was it he had threatened ? “Tarred and feathered or drawn and quartered. ” Thorpe expected that sometime soon, Sidorov would make good on that promise. While he had trained himself to resist any torture, to never let his spirit break, a small voice inside hoped that Sidorov would at least leave his body somewhere his country could find it. He wanted to be buried in England, to spend eternity
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