Page 102 of Sinful Beauty

I don’t have any ties to the land. But my family has spent the last couple of weeks at this estate on holiday before Lucia returns to work. She’s at the end of her maternity leave with Interpol. I told her she doesn’t have to return to work, but she gave me a look that informed me a wise man wouldn’t repeat that offer. I understand her. Her mother stopped working, and when her father became indisposed, she viewed her best option as sending her daughter away. As my wife, she’ll never want for any material item again, she needs the fulfillment and empowerment her own work brings. She loves her work at Interpol, and by my estimation, she’s on a path to becoming another invaluable Penny.

He follows me to a decaying picnic table set off to the side of the woods. The owners were big skeet shooter, and they apparently loved to shoot over the meadow.

“It’s peaceful here.”

The scent of pine carries over on a slight breeze and a clear, blue sky promises a steady afternoon. I inhale, and listen.

There are no horns or combustion engines purring along. Peace is an apt description.

“Do you get out in nature often?”

I don’t often ask him details. It’s not a good practice. But as the years pass, my concern for his mental health grows. He’s on all the time, and I worry for his soul.

“More than you might think.”

His facial expression remains passive, his eyes hidden by shades, but his chest rises on an inhale and he shoves a hand into his jacket pocket. He places a burner mobile on the table.

“Two files,” he says. “Link in notes app. Passcode what is truth?, all lower case, with the question mark.”

“Got it.” I scan the woods, out of habit. A doe emerges from a copse, and quickly disappears. “I suppose you saw the news. The ship we busted was valued at over a million euros.”

“Yeah. I saw. We’re starting to get their attention. This here, it’s enough for two more busts, but space them out, hear? Suspicions are high they’ve got a leak.”

“More drug busts?”

“No.” He jerks his chin in the direction of the cheap burner. A mobile anyone would assume is solely used for calls. Only Saint uses a utility feature no one else would read. “There’s the information you need to bust a chain of laudromats that launder more than clothes throughout France, Switzerland, Italy and Belgium. The other file has the locations of fourteen servers around the world owned by an international cybercrime group. If you observe the locations, you’ll get everything you know to take them out.”

“Anyone looking your way?”

“You mean, does anyone suspect me?”

I nod.

“No. They see me as the American arms dealer. Very few have any idea how much information I’m privy to.”

If he needs out, he’s go the escape plan. We don’t need to review it. “How many more years you think you got in you?”

“Believe it or not, it’s not a bad life.” He’s introspective for a moment, and I expect him to share more, but he blinks, slams his palm down on the splintered wood, and says, “I’ve got to get going. An Italian sunset awaits.”

“Don’t you get tired of being alone?” I can’t quite believe I asked the question, but now I view the world through a married lens.

“Who says I’m alone?” The grin he gives is one that reminds me he once served in the military.

“The Watson girl, the younger one, she’s expecting.” It’s an update I almost forgot to give, and he stumbles but catches himself.

“Keep me updated.” He turns, steps to his vehicle, and pauses. “Have you got any photos?”

“None that haven’t been uploaded.”

There’s a fleeting glimpse of something that could pass for regret, and then he’s gone.

I’m not his only contact to his real world, but it’s my understanding he keeps his communications to a minimum for the safety of all.

Back at the estate house, I push open the heavy centuries old wooden door and listen. Silence. That’s not what I was expecting.

I don’t bother removing my shoes, and hurry through the vestibule. If someone entered the gate, I should have been alerted. As quickly has my heartrate lifts, it slows.

I’m brought to a halt by the sight before me. My daughter, a wobbly, toddling terror, is curled up in her mum’s arms, blessedly asleep. Her plump cheeks ruddy and her dark curls askew. My wife smiles at me and presses her lips together, shushing me.

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