free while the old agent fought the urge to sigh in relief.
“Where’s Sidorov?” one black-clad agent asked.
“Out buying pillows.”
“Anything you need, Triple-Eight?”
“I’ll start with my pants,” Thorpe said, “then a bloody large martini.”
7
A day later, still sequestered in the unfinished office, Quarrel was sitting with his feet up on the desk reading a magazine, when the phone rang. Quarrel was surprised the phone was even hooked up. It had never rung before, and he’d never had any reason to pick it up.
“Hello?”
“Speedy?”
Carol had assigned everyone at her CSIS-2 office both a number and a codename. The number was on file. While those in the field got low numbers, double-digits, Chris was number 4042. The names, however, were not on file. They were strictly in-house, memorized by those who needed to know. Chris had only known his own name and those of a few direct superiors, and Erica, the one person who worked under him. In a quirk that must have given her some private fun, Carol had named everyone for DC Comics superheroes. Carol herself was Wonder Woman, and others included Mr. Freeze and Black Canary. Chris had been named Speedy, after the sidekick of Green Arrow. He had been disappointed, after Wikipedia-ing the character, to find that modern-day Speedy was actually a girl. It suggested that Carol didn’t give the slightest thought to personalizing a cool codename. But that concern was childish even back then, and was absurdly petty now that Carol was gone.
In fact, everyone who had known that name was dead, weren’t they?
“This is Speedy.”
“My Name is Harry Milton. I work for the CIA. You’ll want to verify that, even though simply getting through to your phone is proof enough. So call your superior and ask about me. I’ll call back in five minutes. And you might want to take this seriously if you intend to learn about Takahashi.”
The man hung up. Chris did as he was told and called the head of the station. He asked about Harry Milton and if he was legitimate. The chief, a man called Brooks, was unhappy that he had to lower himself off his pedestal to talk to someone as useless as Chris, but the mention of Milton made him sigh loudly and confirm that Milton was for real. While he waited for Milton to call back, Quarrel tried not to focus on how much he hated dealing with his so-called colleagues and once again wished he could be deployed into a nice, faraway city somewhere. Somewhere alone. Man on a mission. None of this bureaucracy and politicking.
The phone rang again.
“Quarrel,”
“Speedy?” said the man on the phone.
“Yes. I checked you out.”
“Good,” said Milton. “I’m told that you’re the last person who ever talked to Carol Kimura.”
“Yes.”
“Wrong. I was. After you spoke to her about the letter you opened, she called me. An hour later she was dead. And we both know why. Theresa Takahashi.”
“I never told anybody th—”
“Never told a soul. I know. And that means you have good instincts. We have a leak, Quarrel. Someone’s got high-level information and they’re using it against us. Your co-workers were not the first to die. One of my deep-cover operatives was taken out the day before. Which means that you and I are the only people who know that something’s fishy in the community. My people are already booking your transfer to Langley.”
“Transfer, sir?” asked Chris.
“You’ve just been called up to the big leagues.”
#
Chris Quarrel approached the customer service desk at a bank in suburban Virginia.
“How can I help you, sir?” asked the woman at the desk.
“I’d like a loan to buy a Jet Ski,” said Quarrel.
“Do you have collateral?”
“Only my father’s watch.”
“Follow me.”
The woman led Quarrel to an office at the back of the building, told him to sit, and left. She closed the door behind her, and Quarrel heard it lock.
“Where’s Sidorov?” one black-clad agent asked.
“Out buying pillows.”
“Anything you need, Triple-Eight?”
“I’ll start with my pants,” Thorpe said, “then a bloody large martini.”
7
A day later, still sequestered in the unfinished office, Quarrel was sitting with his feet up on the desk reading a magazine, when the phone rang. Quarrel was surprised the phone was even hooked up. It had never rung before, and he’d never had any reason to pick it up.
“Hello?”
“Speedy?”
Carol had assigned everyone at her CSIS-2 office both a number and a codename. The number was on file. While those in the field got low numbers, double-digits, Chris was number 4042. The names, however, were not on file. They were strictly in-house, memorized by those who needed to know. Chris had only known his own name and those of a few direct superiors, and Erica, the one person who worked under him. In a quirk that must have given her some private fun, Carol had named everyone for DC Comics superheroes. Carol herself was Wonder Woman, and others included Mr. Freeze and Black Canary. Chris had been named Speedy, after the sidekick of Green Arrow. He had been disappointed, after Wikipedia-ing the character, to find that modern-day Speedy was actually a girl. It suggested that Carol didn’t give the slightest thought to personalizing a cool codename. But that concern was childish even back then, and was absurdly petty now that Carol was gone.
In fact, everyone who had known that name was dead, weren’t they?
“This is Speedy.”
“My Name is Harry Milton. I work for the CIA. You’ll want to verify that, even though simply getting through to your phone is proof enough. So call your superior and ask about me. I’ll call back in five minutes. And you might want to take this seriously if you intend to learn about Takahashi.”
The man hung up. Chris did as he was told and called the head of the station. He asked about Harry Milton and if he was legitimate. The chief, a man called Brooks, was unhappy that he had to lower himself off his pedestal to talk to someone as useless as Chris, but the mention of Milton made him sigh loudly and confirm that Milton was for real. While he waited for Milton to call back, Quarrel tried not to focus on how much he hated dealing with his so-called colleagues and once again wished he could be deployed into a nice, faraway city somewhere. Somewhere alone. Man on a mission. None of this bureaucracy and politicking.
The phone rang again.
“Quarrel,”
“Speedy?” said the man on the phone.
“Yes. I checked you out.”
“Good,” said Milton. “I’m told that you’re the last person who ever talked to Carol Kimura.”
“Yes.”
“Wrong. I was. After you spoke to her about the letter you opened, she called me. An hour later she was dead. And we both know why. Theresa Takahashi.”
“I never told anybody th—”
“Never told a soul. I know. And that means you have good instincts. We have a leak, Quarrel. Someone’s got high-level information and they’re using it against us. Your co-workers were not the first to die. One of my deep-cover operatives was taken out the day before. Which means that you and I are the only people who know that something’s fishy in the community. My people are already booking your transfer to Langley.”
“Transfer, sir?” asked Chris.
“You’ve just been called up to the big leagues.”
#
Chris Quarrel approached the customer service desk at a bank in suburban Virginia.
“How can I help you, sir?” asked the woman at the desk.
“I’d like a loan to buy a Jet Ski,” said Quarrel.
“Do you have collateral?”
“Only my father’s watch.”
“Follow me.”
The woman led Quarrel to an office at the back of the building, told him to sit, and left. She closed the door behind her, and Quarrel heard it lock.
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