Page 59 of Taming Achilles

“I understand.” I interrupted. It was uncharacteristic of me, but I had had enough of Victor’s shit.

There was a pause. A small one.

“We’re giving you 48 hours to fix the situation.”

Two days. Rather less generous than I anticipated.

My fists clenched as I took in a deep breath.

“You know the rules,” he said. “There are no exceptions.”

“Not even for me?” I asked, tapping my finger on the desk, feeling the anxiety and hurt coursing through my spine. “Did you ever …”

My voice trailed off as I clenched my hands into a fist, digging my nails into my palm until I felt the slickness of blood coming to my palm.

“What, Pegasus?” he asked, his voice detached.

“Well, it might seem like a silly question, but …” I took a moment to gain my strength for what I would ask, and the answer I knew was coming. “Did you ever care about me?” I faltered. “Did you ever love me?”

There was a staticky, thick silence before his voice came through again. He had been silent for so long that I thought we had been disconnected, but the green light on the app told me that the signal was crystal clear.

“It is better to be feared than loved,” Victor finally answered. “And I couldn’t be both.”

I clenched my fists harder, fighting the sting that threatened to pour water from my eyes. He had given me a Machiavelli quote. Cold, calculated. A crystal clear signal that there were no exceptions. Especially not for me.

MI6 agents drawing the wrong attention to themselves was something Victor was known for getting ahead of. His minions weren’t the run-of-the-mill spies. We were elites. More quiet, more deadly. And the price of our expertise? A more fragile mortal coil.

The sword of Damocles was always swinging over our heads. Everything threatened that delicate string. The missions. The enemy. And even our own colleagues and handlers. The very people who tugged at our strings like we were marionettes.

If there was any suspicion that I was involved with the suicide of Alex Baas, or the pursuit of Jason Rhodes, then I’d find myself disappearing forever, probably in a tragic yachting accident. They’d no doubt find alcohol in my system. I’d be deemed a beautiful tragedy.

All for King and Country.

“I have a request,” I finally said, knowing that it was so likely that maybe this would be the only time I’d be able to ask.

“Yes?” said Victor’s jumbled voice.

“Drown me in cold water.” I was too proud to let Victor hear any feeling in my voice.

One night, long ago in the dorms of St. Michael’s, we watched a Lion in Winter, starring Katherine Hepburn and Peter O’Toole. They had gotten to the point where three sons huddled together, waiting for their execution. One tried to rally his brothers, cajoling them to have some dignity. When a brother asked why it mattered how a man falls down, the proudest said: “When the fall is all there is, it matters a great deal.”

That line had always stayed with me. It felt like the fall was all I had left, and at least I could choose. I could choose not to be strangled to death, not to be drugged, not to be battered. Not to be shot in the back of the head, where my spine met my skull.

But to drown in cold water. It’d be too much to ask to be put on the shores of Lake Geneva with rocks in my pockets. But that would be the way I’d want to go. In the frigid water, by the Chateau de Chillon.

“Is that an official preference?” he asked. “Or are you being sarcastic?”

“A bit of both, but let’s make it official, shall we? Thanks.” For once, I chose to disconnect from him. It was liberating.

I closed the laptop, disconnected the satellite and went outside to where Ajax and Brett were lounging at a white, folding table. The acoustics of the metal building added an eerie echo to their movements: My footsteps. The movements of the wheels on their rolling chairs. The clacking of keyboards. The slight hum of an air conditioner, pushing cool air through the metal, overhead vents.

Ajax lifted his head, the dark, tight curls of his onyx hair were closely cut to his head. His white smile was bright against his dark skin as he waved me over.

“Here’s what we’ve got, Pipsqueak,” Ajax said, swivelling on his seat. “Jason Rhodes was photographed with several people in positions of power, including on the International Criminal Court, and in humanitarian aid.”

“He’s lobbying,” Brett said. “There’s been an exchange of money, but nothing outside of what can be considered a donation.”

Ajax pensively looked at the photos on his screen. “We’ll have to question them to know if they were just taking donations, or if something more was going on there.”

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