Page 81 of Undercover Infidel
The next dayspassed in a blur of medical updates and debriefings. Con improved steadily, his natural resilience accelerating his recovery. Mrs. Thorne arrived regularly with both clothing for me and meals for the two of us.
“I don’t understand how anyone can recover while eating that ghastly muck they call food around here,” she said as she sneaked containers into the room, then served our food on the china she’d brought with her.
I divided my time between his bedside and meetings with MI6 and Unit 23 representatives, piecing together the aftermath of our mission.
Three days after the explosion, Con was scheduled for release when Viper and Typhon arrived for whatthey called a “comprehensive debrief.” The presence of both agency heads in the same room spoke volumes about the significance of what had occurred.
“Orlov survived surgery,” Viper reported, her usually composed demeanor showing signs of strain. “So far, he’s unable to communicate. However, we have received intel confirming the demonstration was meant to showcase Labyrinth’s capabilities to potential buyers.”
“Representatives from six nations,” Typhon added. “Most unaware of the system’s full destructive potential.”
Con, sitting up in bed and looking more like himself each hour, frowned. “How did McLaren and Bennett become involved in all this? And why in the bloody hell weren’t we briefed on Bennett’s Estonia connection to Orlov?”
Viper and Typhon exchanged glances.
“That information was compartmentalized at the highest levels,” Typhon admitted. “Bennett’s mission in Estonia occurred during a critical period in Russian-Western relations. The details—including hisconnection to Orlov—were sealed by both governments to prevent a diplomatic fallout.”
“So you sent us in blind,” I said, anger flaring. “You knew Bennett had history with Orlov but didn’t think that warranted disclosure?”
“We did not, Lex. I promise you that,” said Viper.
“Unit 23 didn’t, either,” Typhon added.
“We knew he had expertise,” Viper countered, “but the full extent of his involvement with Orlov’s research was buried in classified files that even I couldn’t access without triggering diplomatic alerts.”
“As for Dr. McLaren,” Typhon continued, “her role in the original neural interface research was equally obscured. She was recruited for a black-budget project twenty years ago, before either of us held our current positions.”
Con’s expression remained skeptical. “And they both managed to maintain their covers all this time?”
“Compartmentalization works both ways,” Viper replied. “McLaren was a brilliant researcher, whose contributions to AI ethics were genuine. Her other work remained hidden because no one knew to look for it.”
The explanation left me unsatisfied, but arguments wouldn’t change what had happened. McLaren’s betrayal had permanently altered my worldview, forcing me to question relationships and motivations I’d once taken for granted.
Yet amid this darkness, something unexpected had blossomed. I looked at Con, his strength returning visibly with each passing hour, and recognized that despite everything—or perhaps because of it—I’d found something precious.
“When can we return to Blackmoor?” Con asked, clearly eager to leave the hospital.
“Transport is arranged for this afternoon,” Typhon replied. “Assuming the doctor approves your release.”
“He will,” Con stated with such certainty that even Viper smiled.
After they left, the doctor came in, confirming Con could go home. I helped him dress, ever mindful of his bandaged torso.
“Ready?” I asked, steadying him as he stood.
He looked at me, his eyes searching mine. “Are you coming with me?”
“If you’ll have me,” I replied, suddenly feeling vulnerable. “I’ve requested leave from MI6. Viper approved it without question.”
Mindful of his wound, Con drew me closer. “I want you at Blackmoor. Not just for a visit.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” I rested my head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “I’m not ready to be anywhere you’re not.”
The nurse arrived with the discharge papers and instructions for Con’s recovery—demands for rest that I knew he’d ignore as soon as he was back on his feet. By afternoon, we were in a private car, headed to Inverness airport, where Con’s pilot waited with the helicopter.
“Good to see you in one piece, sir,” Callum greeted us, his Scottish accent more pronounced than most.
“Mostly in one piece,” Con replied with a wry smile, his arm around my waist for support as we boarded.
