Page 37 of Skotos
“Three prominent leaders were killed and replaced by conservative, pro-Moscow, or Moscow-neutral men?” I pointed out. “We have no idea who is doing this or what they want . . . or who might be next. Leaders across Europe are struggling to sleep with the threat of bullets or bombs or poison. I think that qualifies as shaking the world order, don’t you?”
“It certainly does,” the Baroness said, pushing herself up and out of her chair before smoothing out her gown. “But there will be no solving world crises without rest. Let me show you to your room. A good night’s sleep may help sort some of this mess.”
A short time later, Thomas and I lay on our overstuffed, oversized bed, each of us staring blankly into the darkness of the ceiling, boys looking upat stars that refused to show themselves. I couldn’t sleep. My mind whirled with possibilities and questions and fears, never settling on one before flitting to the next.
“This isn’t like any of our other missions,” I said, more to the darkness than to Thomas.
He turned onto his side to face me, tucking one arm under his pillow. “How do you mean?”
I stayed on my back staring up into nothing. “We’ve been sent to blow things up or disrupt an enemy’s plans. We’ve gone on rescue missions and fought hopeless battles. But this . . . we don’t even know who we’re fighting or hunting or whatever the hell we’re doing. I just . . . I feel so—”
“Blind?”
“Yeah, blind—like we’re stumbling around, flying from one place to the next, only the bad guys are totally hidden and one step ahead.”
“More like ten steps ahead. Hell, we don’t even know what game we’re playing.”
“Yeah, that,” I said, blowing out a sigh.
Thomas reached over and clasped my hand, interlacing our fingers and squeezing empathy into his touch.
“We aren’t investigators, Thomas. This isn’t what we do. It’s not what we’re good at.”
“I know,” he whispered, the quiet of his voice a near surrender.
“What are we even doing here?”
The room was still and utterly quiet for so long I wondered if Thomas had fallen asleep. Then, with the conviction of a former Naval officer on the bridge of his ship, he said, “We’re saving the world—together—and thatiswhat we do.”
19
Thomas
The next morning, Will and I dressed in silence, our movements slow, precise, and weighed with the heaviness of too many questions. We spoke in low tones as we knotted ties and buttoned collars, going over what we knew, which was very little when spoken aloud, and what we suspected, which was far too much.
The king inside his own home in Athens.
Petitpierre at a state dinner in Paris.
Now De Gasperi at his home—in his own car outside his home—in Rome.
Each was Western-leaning.
Each was dead.
The ancient spear etched on the bullet casing in France was our only lead, and none of the world’s collective intelligence services had a clue what it meant.
Those were sum total of our assembled facts.
Oh, and the fact that Will’s stomach was grumbling over the lavish breakfast we both knew would be missed by our immediate departure. Will’s perpetual hunger almost made me smile.
Almost.
We headed downstairs prepared to have the driver take us to the US Embassy straightaway, but the Baroness intercepted us in the foyer with a commanding raise of her chin. “You will sit. You will eat. You will pretend for five minutes that the world can wait—because it can. The PM will be no less dead if you have eggs,” she said.
She’d done far more than summon a simple morning meal.
The spread hauled out was lavish: silver trays of warm pastries, platters of cheese and cured meats, soft-boiled eggs in porcelain cups, steaming pots of coffee and tea, and an entire sideboard on the opposite end of the dining room filled with fruits, sauteed vegetables, and pastries representing the dessert end of the breakfast sword.
