27
Geoffrey Barnes continued talking on the phone.
This time, his commanding tone, in English, made it clear he was
not talking to a superior. Not on the red phone, with the president
of the United States, or on the one he used to talk to the Italian
man, but rather on the one reserved for giving orders and
controlling his operations. Twenty-seven years of service and a
spotless record gained him certain privileges. His work was still
his primary passion. Beyond a doubt, one of the great advantages of
his position was not having to be out in the field, but to
manipulate the pieces as he pleased from an air-conditioned
location, without major risks.
He was talking with his chief of operations about
the progress and set-backs of the ongoing operation.
“He disappeared?” Barnes couldn’t reveal his
jitters to his agents, but this entire operation now seemed like a
useless endeavor. The woman vanished while his agents were pursuing
her in one of the most frequented squares in London—very
surprising. The old man had ordered him to hold back his men while
the special cadre neutralized the target. Certainly the failure to
do this would have its consequences, and even worse, cast doubt on
the surefire reputation of his agents.
“An infiltrator? A double agent?” Holy shit, he
thought. “Right, keep on searching. They couldn’t have become
invisible.”
He hung up and leaned back in his chair, fingers
interlaced behind his head. If they aren’t found, we’re screwed, he
thought.
“Sir?” said Staughton, rushing into the
office.
“Yes, Staughton.”
“Sir, are we still on hold, or do we have authority
to act?”
Barnes considered this briefly, just for a moment,
not wanting to appear indecisive. Here, nothing escaped
interpretation, even silence.
“At this point we both hold the rod. Let the first
one to spot the fish do the fishing.”
“Understood,” Staughton answered. “We intercepted
an interesting phone call from the British Museum to the local
police.”