Page 11 of Undercover Infidel
“Has anyone seen my book on Scottish architectural history?” he asked, seemingly unaware of the video call. His tweed jacket and knotted tie spoke of old-world elegance. “I left it somewhere yesterday, and now, I can’t—” He stopped, noticing us on the screen. “Oh. Good morning, Angus. Conrad.” His eyes, sharp despite his apparently scattered demeanor, assessed me with unexpected keenness.
Mairi Drummond, Gus’s mother and the head housekeeper at Ashcroft according to the files I’d reviewed, hurried in after him. There was something protective in her posture as she approached. “Ambrose, as I told you, Ash and Sullivan asked not to be disturbed,” she scolded with the familiar exasperation of someone who’d had this conversation many times before.
“It’s all right, Mairi,” David interjected with quiet reassurance.
I observed how the woman’s demeanor subtly shifted as she addressed the older man. She was polite but spoke in the same way one might with a child or a difficult relative—patient but with an underlying tension. She shook her head and sighed. “The book you’re looking for is in the front sitting room on the side table near the fireplace.”
“Ah, thank you, Mairi.” He wandered off again, seemingly lost in thought.
After exchanging a few more pleasantries and agreeing to share any new developments, the call ended, leaving the three of us in Con’s operations hub surrounded by the soft hum of advanced technology.
“That was Ambrose Ashcroft,” Gus explained, catching my questioning look. “David’s slightly eccentric uncle. He occasionally lives on the estate.” Something in his tone suggested there was more to it, but he offered nothing further.
The tunnel story continued to turn over in my mind. However, I couldn’t allow myself to get distracted by historical curiosities. We needed to follow up on Con’s source claiming Orlov was still alive, determinehis connection to the neural processor shipments, and establish whether any of this related to Labyrinth. The thought that he’d possibly survived the explosion gave me a chill—his neural research had been revolutionary but deeply controversial.
“If there’s nothing else we need to address now, I think I’ll head back to Ashcroft,” Gus announced.
Con stood, rubbing the back of his neck, where tension had clearly built during long hours of work. “We’ll pick this up tomorrow. Zero seven hundred?”
Gus raised a brow. “Let’s make it zero eight hundred since it’s New Year’s Day, ya old taskmaster.” He waved to both of us before departing, the hub’s doors sliding shut behind him with a soft hiss.
I was sure Con had forgotten it was a holiday, given I had too. However, in our line of work, there was no such thing as a day off in the midst of a mission.
Con turned to me, fatigue evident in the lines around his eyes despite his composed expression. In the artificial light of the operations hub, shadows accentuated the angles of his face. “Would you like to tour Blackmoor’s grounds? We could both use some fresh air.”
The invitation surprised me. I’d expected Carnegie to retreat to whatever private space he maintained in this ancestral fortress. I composed my features, not wanting to reveal my reaction. Perhaps a walk would clear my mind and help me understand my enigmatic colleague better. And maybe, just maybe, we could establish enough trust to work together effectively against the looming threat we faced.
That spending time with him unrelated to the mission held more appeal than I cared to admit was hard to acknowledge, even to myself.
5
CON
“Shall we?” I asked as we exited the ops hub. Fifteen hundred hours on the last day of the year, and instead of preparing for reconnaissance or running combat scenarios with my team, I was offering to show Lex the grounds of my ancestral home.
Her unexpected smile of agreement caught me off guard. Something about the woman continually surprised me, though I’d never admit it aloud.
“A walk would be welcome after being underground all morning,” she said, pulling on the coat that was part of the wardrobe ensemble I’d had Bastion and Mrs. Thorne acquire for her, reminding me she’d probably want to return to London later today or tomorrow. Perhaps there was even someone there she’d want to celebrate the holiday with. It troubled me that the thought left me bereft. Perhaps I was getting lonely now that I was over thirty. I rolled my eyes. Good God, who was I?
“Everything okay?” she asked as we reached the main level of the fortress that had suited my ancestors far more than it ever did me.
“Fine, fine,” I reassured her, resting my hand on the small of her back as we stepped outside, and I motioned to the stone path that wound around the eastern wall.
The winter sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the landscape that looked barren at this time of year. The bite of Highland winter filled my lungs, a welcome change from the recycled air of my underground workspace.
“The original structure dates back to the thirteenth century,” I explained. “The Carnegie name wasn’t attached to it until the late fifteenth century, when my ancestor, Charles Carnegie, was granted the land and title by James III of Scotland.”
Lex listened intently, her dark eyes scanning the stone battlements that rose against the sky. “And you’ve modernized it significantly, I assume? Beyond the technological additions.”
“Each generation added their mark. My father installed proper heating in the east wing, thankfully. I’ve focused on the infrastructure—wiring, plumbing, connectivity—without disturbing thehistorical elements.”
We rounded a corner toward the dormant western gardens, where a family of red deer grazed at the forest’s edge, untroubled by our presence.
“The estate borders are remarkable,” I continued. “Blackmoor shares boundaries with both Glenshadow and Ashcroft. The three properties form almost a triangle, with only a few miles separating each of the castles.”
“And that’s how you all became friends? The four of you—you, Ash, Tag, and Gus?”
I smiled, remembering the summers spent racing between the properties, exploring every inch of the combined territories. “Our families had connections going back generations. We were thrown together at various functions from the time we could walk. When we were around eight, our parents began allowing us more freedom to visit each other. We’d spend entire holidays together, rotating between the estates.”
