Page 88 of Undercover Infidel
“Handlers,” Ash suggested.
Tag agreed. “My assessment as well.”
He outlined areas where Nightingale might be headed, based on travel patterns and known safe houses. Throughout his presentation, I watched his face—the contained anguish, the determination.
“I’m proposing a search operation,” he concluded. “Small team, minimal footprint. We find her, assess her situation, and extract if needed.”
“I’m in,” Ash said immediately.
“Count me in for comms support,” Sullivan added.
Gus nodded. “I’ll handle the financial tracking and transport arrangements.”
Con and I exchanged glances, a silent communication that had become second nature.
“Blackmoor’s resources are at your disposal,” Con stated. “Aircraft, gear, funding—whatever you need. Including the two of us.”
“I’ll also coordinate with MI6 to ensure you have the proper clearances through the region,” I added. “No official involvement, but enough to keep you off watch lists.”
Tag’s shoulders lowered slightly—the closest he came to displaying relief. “Thank you.”
As the meeting progressed into logistical details, Con requested to review the last message supposedly sent from Nightingale. Something about it had troubled him since Tag first mentioned it.
“The wording is odd,” Tag explained, sending the text to our screens. “Not her usual syntax.”
Con studied it, his brow furrowing. “May I see the encrypted original? Before your systems decoded it?”
Tag transmitted the file. Con ran it through several analysis programs, his focus absolute.
After the team departed with plans to reconvene at Glenshadow the following day, Con remained at his workstation, lost in thought.
“What did you find?” I asked, breaking his concentration.
“Possibly nothing.” He highlighted sections of the code. “But there are elements in the encryption that match Kestrel’s protocols.”
“You think Kestrel sent it?” I studied the pattern-recognition results on the screen.
“Not necessarily.” Con leaned back, wincing slightly as he stretched. “But these signature markers are distinctive. Either Kestrel created this message, or…”
His voice trailed off, and I caught a fleeting expression I couldn’t quite identify.
“Or?” I prompted.
“Or Nightingale has access to those same methods.” Con’s eyes met mine, a question lurking in their depths.
I considered the implications. “The timing is curious. Nightingale disappears, then a message arrives with Kestrel’s digital fingerprints.”
“Coincidences rarely exist in our world,” Con murmured, almost to himself, before he switched screens. “It’s a loose thread, nothing more. But in our world?—”
“Loose threads unravel operations,” I finished.
He smiled, reaching for my hand. The simple contact still sent warmth through me. “Time to leave work behind, my love.”
“Do we ever?”
He chuckled. “Two peas from the same pod.”
We ascended to the main level of Blackmoor, walking in comfortable silence through corridors that had witnessed centuries of Carnegie history. The afternoon light cast long shadows across the Great Hall as we emerged.
