14
The old man hung up, annoyed. “How stupid. Damned
Americans!” he said to himself, getting up from the sofa with the
help of his cane, and hobbling over to the small bar cabinet. He
dropped two ice cubes in a glass and poured himself a drink. The
death of an American agent about to complete his job brought to
mind all sorts of questions, besides problems of logistics. Who
knew about the previously and secretly planned proceedings? How did
he know to arrive in time to save the victim? An unexpected
participant had joined the game. From this, a second scenario
arose. Who’s trying to interfere with our business? How did they
get advance information on our plans? The two questions might have
a single answer: an infiltrator. A traitor belonging to the CIA,
the agency now responsible for the business of old Albion.
No doubt the best way to resolve this situation was
to call in the Guard, his organization’s group with a well-earned
reputation for never failing. Given the present circumstances, he
should activate this select cadre and have Geoffrey Barnes stand
by, pending new instructions from general headquarters, his Italian
villa.
The old man had always favored direct action and
quick decisions, but lately he preferred to consult with his
assistant, though informally, at critical moments. All his life
he’d chosen his collaborators well, but this assistant was a real
find. The man was diligent, competent, persistent, and willing to
be at his service 24/7, year-round. The old man, having no children
and no relatives, felt reassured to know he could count on this
man, down the line. When his own time came to abandon this world,
there would be someone to shepherd his organization. His right-hand
man was his natural successor, sharing his vision of the
organization’s future.
His assistant would be coming to the villa within
an hour by private plane. Although both of them had access to
satellite phones, even in flight, there was no need to consult him
about the present case. There was no doubt the assistant would
agree with his decision. Besides, a call now from the old man might
be interpreted as a sign of weakness, like begging for advice. If
they were both already at the villa, things would be different. He
would start a casual conversation and easily find out what his
assistant thought about the situation.
Old age is a curse, he mused. For many years, he
alone had made all the important decisions, but now the simple
objective of doing away with one woman disconcerted him. Under
normal conditions, he had to admit, she would have been dead by
now. But a mole presented a serious problem. The Guard would
resolve this problem in less than an hour. As for the infiltrator,
he would take this up with Barnes once the target was
neutralized.
His glass was now practically empty. He put it on
the table and picked up the phone. It was time to start moving the
pieces.
“Jack, the Yankees dropped the ball. We’ll have to
solve the situation ourselves.” He brought the whiskey to wet his
lips. “Rub her out!”