Page 57 of Undercover Infidel
“You seem to know the compound exceptionally well,” I observed.
Bennett barely looked up. “I’ve studied similar Orlov facilities. They follow predictable patterns.”
“Even down to the guard rotation schedules?” Con asked, pointing to the handwritten notes in the margins.
“Educated guesses, based on field reports,” Bennett replied, but something in his tone felt defensive. “We’ll verify once we’re operational.”
Throughout the afternoon, I noticed Bennett making brief calls from the hallway, speaking too quietly to overhear. Twice, he disappeared entirely for fifteen-minute intervals, returning with no explanation. When questioned about a camera blind spot, he provided information that hadn’t been in our briefing packets.
“We should eat,”Bennett announced when evening approached. “I’ve arranged for local catering.”
The dining table had been set with surprising formality—polished silver, crystal glasses, and candles casting a warm glow over white linen. Bennett poured amber whiskey into tumblers with the solemnity of a religious ritual.
“Single malt from a distillery just north of here,” he explained. “Family-owned for eleven generations.”
As we ate Highland specialties—smoked salmon, venison with juniper berries, and tatties—Bennett revealed unexpected personal details. He spoke passionately about the region’s history, his knowledge extending far beyond what his career would require.
“My grandmother was born in a cottage not twenty miles from here,” he said, his voice softening. “She used to tell me stories about kelpies that would scare me senseless.”
“You’ve never mentioned your Scottish heritage,” Dr. McLaren remarked.
Something flashed in Bennett’s eyes—a momentary sharpness quickly concealed. “There are many things we don’t discuss, Evelyn.”
Con steered the conversation toward lighter territory. “I was unaware of this particular safe house.”
“I purchased it fifteen years ago,” Bennett replied. “It was originally a standard MI6 property, but I’ve…personalized it over time. Few people know of its existence.”
“It feels more like a home than an operational base,” I observed.
Bennett smiled faintly. “Perhaps that’s intentional. The best cover is often domesticity.”
The conversation remained professional until Bennett, on his third glass of whiskey, began discussing Orlov with an intensity that hadn’t been present earlier.
“He’s methodical to the point of obsession,” Bennett said, his knuckles white around his glass. “Leaves nothing to chance and trusts no one. Breaking into his operation isn’t just about technology—it’s about understanding how he thinks.”
“You sound like you’ve studied him closely,” I remarked.
Bennett’s eyes flashed. “Our paths crossed years ago. Classified operation in Estonia. Let’s just say I have personal reasons for ensuring he doesn’t succeed with this neural tech.”
The revelation cast a shadow over our planning. This wasn’t just another assignment for Bennett—it was personal. More puzzling was Dr. McLaren’s reaction. The more Malcolm spoke, the more uncomfortable she appeared, to the point of anger. Apparently, Con had picked up on it and attempted to change the subject.
“What led to your interest in joining SIS?” he asked.
My father,” Bennett said, resting against his chair. “He served during the Cold War—Berlin Station, then Moscow. Some of my earliest memories are of him discussing operational security with me at the breakfast table.”
“How fascinating, so you followed in his footsteps, then?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“Partly.” For the first time, Bennett’s expression softened slightly. “But more because I witnessed firsthand how Russian intelligence operates. The methods, the mindset, the patience. I wanted to be the counterbalance.”
Con studied him with new interest. “Were you always focused solely on Russian operations?”
“For most of my career, yes.” Bennett’s voice took on a sharper edge. “I’ve tracked numerous GRU andFSB operations across Europe. Including, at one point, Viktor Orlov’s research.”
His redirect back to Orlov piqued my curiosity. “Before his supposed death?”
“That’s right. He was on our watch list due to his connections with military research facilities. Nothing concrete enough for action, but concerning, nonetheless.”
After dinner, we returned to finalizing the preparations for tomorrow’s fieldwork. As the night grew late, Bennett and Dr. McLaren eventually retired to their rooms, leaving Con and me alone in the command center.
