“He hardly looks worthy of the fuss,” Director McIntosh said.
The screen on the wall showed Ethan’s cell. It held a bed of moulded plastic, unable to be broken down for weapons, and a similarly constructed table with two chairs. There were two buttons on the wall: one to dispense water, the other to reveal the toilet. The walls were pale grey, the floor one solid expanse of pressure padding, and the lighting soft, no exposed bulbs. The door was a smooth panel that retracted into the wall—nothing to grip and use to pry it open.
The assassin sat on the bed, head cradled in his hands, shoulders slumped. The sedative had knocked him around badly, the dosage set to ensure he didn’t wake up en route. While unconscious, he’d been stripped, searched, washed, and dressed in blue scrubs. Any sign he was going to use the garments as weapons would initiate release of a tranq gas into the room.
Ethan’s naturally pale skin looked sallow, his hair lank after being washed and left to drip dry. Out of the tailored suit and in the loose scrubs, he looked like a kid playing dress-up. His feet were bare, which had to be bothering him. Ethan didn’t like bare feet. He kept scrunching them on the floor, a peculiarly endearing action, as if he had to keep reminding himself where he was. As if he’d realised he’d made a big mistake. There was a bruise on the side of his neck, where Jack had injected the sedative. He hadn’t said a word since waking.
“I know.” Jack leaned against the wall, weary now the mad panic and rush was over. “Believe me, it’s required.”
Those far-too-comprehending blue eyes turned on him. “It wasn’t just one night you were with him.”
Jack couldn’t meet her gaze for more than a second at a time.
“Jack. Is anything in that report real?”
“Sure. Sheila. The homestead. The bit with the dingoes.”
“But he was with you for those things?”
“Yes. About ten days total. The rest of the month I spent . . . working out how to get home.”
McIntosh spun away from the screen. “What am I supposed to tell Director In Charge Lund? That an operative spent ten days careening around the desert with one of the most notorious killers in the world? You don’t need to worry about whether or not I’ll ever trust you again. Be concerned for your own neck, Jack.” McIntosh crossed her arms, turning back to look at Ethan. “You met him for the first time that night?”
“Yes.”
McIntosh regarded him closely. “You’ll have to make new statements to reflect the added information. They’ll come part and parcel of more restrictions on your activities on behalf of the Office until the conduct and disciplinary hearings about your actions are finalised. If you don’t agree to them, you will be charged with conspiracy against the Meta-State, interfering with an ongoing investigation, and aiding and abetting a known criminal. Do you understand?”
Here he was again. His life could go one of two ways, all for a decision he had to make in the next thirty seconds. Delaying would only convince her of his guilt. There is always a choice, Ethan had said, and now Jack felt as if he understood the sadness in his voice.
The whole fiasco in the desert had been like a psych eval—layers within layers within layers. He’d given McIntosh the top layer upon his return. Now he’d given her another. Anything more and Jack might as well lock himself in the cell with Ethan.
“Yes.”
“Good.” Though it sounded anything but. “You’ll be assigned a security detail and confined to the building until otherwise notified.”
Great. A shadow with orders to take him down if he so much as sneezed suspiciously. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ll have that paperwork started. Then I’m going to talk to your friend in there. Feel free to observe.”
She left then. After five minutes of not watching Ethan, Jack took the stairs from the sublevels to the eighth floor. Most of the office was empty. Only one operations room was lit up, where Lewis’s team was keeping a twenty-four-seven watch on Alpha Subject. Jack avoided them and sat at his desk, contemplating the few personal items he’d brought in.
A photo of Sherlock, a goofy German Shepard with a floppy ear, dead of snake bite while Jack had been on deployment in India. A police-dog school dropout, he’d proven better therapy than most of the psychiatrists Jack had seen over the years.
A birthday card made by his niece, Matilda, when she was four. Dear Uncle Jack, Happy Birthday, Luv Tilly! She was sixteen now and hadn’t sent a card for twelve years, not since her mother had decided she didn’t agree with Australia’s involvement in the conflict in Afghanistan. Even after his discharge, his sister hadn’t wanted anything to do with him.
A frame with his service medals, kept here because he didn’t think his apartment was secure enough and he couldn’t imagine losing them. He’d been prepared to throw them, once, but his father had convinced him not to. One day, Dad had said, Jack might have kids of his own who’d like to know what their father had done to keep them safe. Or maybe Matilda would come to her own conclusions about her uncle’s actions. So, he kept them.
A life in two frames and a piece of paper smeared with finger painting. Would Matilda ever reconsider if she learned about Ethan Blade?
Wish you were here?
“Reardon.”
Groaning, Jack leaned back in his chair and eyed Maxwell, who’d come to parade rest beside his desk. “You drew the short straw, huh?”
“Not many wanted the job of taking down an ex-Special Forces.” The HoS paused. “If required.”
Hoping it was a good, I-don’t-believe-you’d-betray-us pause, Jack forced a smile. “Hungry? There’s cake in the tearoom.” If Maxwell was going to be his personal bad smell, best to at least try to be civil.
Maxwell grunted and nodded. With the HoS trailing him at optimum tackling range, Jack went to the tearoom.
His cake was still on the table. About half of it was missing, a stack of plates covered in cream in the sink. The sight stopped him dead. If his colleagues were willing to touch a cake meant in celebration of him, then they hadn’t written him off just yet.
He and Maxwell had just sat down with coffee and cake when Maria Dioli burst in. She had been Jack’s handler during the Valadian operation, and since his return, she and a couple of analysts had been wading through the intelligence Jack had discovered in the desert. Their main task was to find out why Valadian had gathered an army in central Australia. Jack and Maria had spent a lot of time together after his return, while she scoured him for every shred of information he’d had regarding Valadian. He hadn’t exactly lied to her, but definitely hadn’t told her everything.
She didn’t look particularly angry with him at the moment. Rather, she seemed a trifle distracted, running hands through her unruly dark hair as she looked from him to the cake before doing a startled double take at Maxwell.
“Gerard,” she said, her tone sternly neutral.
“Maria,” he returned just as dryly.
That done, she sank into a chair next to Jack and ran a finger through the cream on the cake. “So, I got a call from McIntosh,” she began, focused on Jack.
Jack braced for impact. “And?”
“Apparently I can expect some new statements from you regarding the Valadian op. That true?”
Here it came. He’d seen Maria go ballistic over incompetent work and had a good laugh at the hapless person in the line of fire. Karma certainly knew when to deliver a bitch slap.
“Yeah. Sorry.”
Her dark eyes narrowed. Then she sucked the cream off her finger and went for seconds. “Because of Ethan Blade?”
Nodding, he dug a fork into his piece of cake, scooping out layers of sponge, jam, and cream. It tasted like cardboard. No. It was dry and gritty, like a mouthful of sand from the desert.
“Ethan Blade,” she repeated, musingly. Then, “Ethan Blade. Shit, Jack, you must have balls the size of watermelons to bring in Blade.”
Across the table, Maxwell snorted into his coffee and pushed his wedge of cake around the plate.
“I didn’t bring him in,” Jack told her. “He came in on his own.”
“Because of something you did. I watched the footage from the foyer. He just stood there, let you pat him down and then inject him. I mean, shit!”
Maria’s awe didn’t make him feel any less rotten.
“From the tone of McIntosh’s message, I guess she came down on you like the proverbial?” There was a dollop of cream on the corner of Maria’s mouth.
Jack pointed to the offending smudge of white. “Two tonne.”
“Shit.” Maria swiped her tongue across the cream. “For what it’s worth, no one on the floor thinks you’re capable of a disloyal thought, let alone conspiring with someone like Blade.” She carefully didn’t look at Maxwell, though it was clear her statement was as much for his benefit as it was for Jack’s.
A mouthful of cake stopped him from laughing madly. “Thanks,” he finally managed. “And thanks for not being shitty with me for keeping it from you.”
“Hey, I get it. If I had someone like Blade telling me to shut up or else, you wouldn’t hear a peep from me about anything. Of course,” Maria added, taking another scoop of cream as she stood, “if, when I read those new statements, I find something that could have finished this godawful operation six months ago, I’ll be coming for you.” She licked her finger clean, winked, and left.
Jack pushed away his plate, unable to stomach any more.
Maxwell mimicked his move. “Yeah, it’s a bit too sweet.”
The cake or Maria’s support? If Jack hadn’t rebuffed Maxwell all those years ago, would he be a bit more supportive now?
Jack eyed Maxwell. Regardless of the past, the man was all Jack had to work with.
“I don’t mind the sweetness, actually,” he said. “It’s just not what I’m craving.”
Taking a sip of coffee, Maxwell arched an inquisitive brow.
“There’s this French patisserie called Gigi’s on George Street. They do this salted caramel fudge I love. That’s what I’d really like right now.” Outright flirting would be laughed at, and deservedly. “I’d owe you.”
Maxwell regarded him over the lip of his mug, expression guarded, then grunted. “It’s that good?”
“It’s that good.”
“You will owe me,” Maxwell promised.
Coffee finished, they headed down to the sublevels to observe McIntosh’s interview with Ethan. On the way, Maxwell arranged for someone to get the fudge.
McIntosh and Ethan sat at the table in his cell, a plastic cup of clear liquid between them. It didn’t look as if it had been touched.
“Aren’t you thirsty, Mr. Blade?” McIntosh asked, tone politely enquiring.
He didn’t answer.
“I promise it’s not dosed with anything.”
No response.
“All right. I’ll leave it here in case you change your mind. Would you like to tell me why you came here today?”
Silence.
Jack winced. Ethan wasn’t helping himself by playing mute. He had to know cooperation would be better than the alternative.
“I’m sure you’re aware of the list of allegations against you, Mr. Blade. Not only here in Australia. We have extradition agreements with many of the countries where you’ve been indicated in various crimes.”
If this bothered him, he didn’t show it.
“Something made you decide to come in. Volunteering your surrender is a good start, Mr. Blade. It’ll help us protect you. But only if you have something of worth for us.” She gave him a suitable space to fill, which he didn’t. “A man in your position is likely to have access to a lot of sensitive information. Is this why you surrendered yourself? Do you have something you wish us to know? Is it about Samuel Valadian?”
The questioning went on in this manner for another half an hour. McIntosh talked herself hoarse to no effect. All the while, Jack worried about Ethan’s motives and, to a lesser extent, his mental state. He’d seemed all right in the foyer, but that was before Jack had destroyed whatever trust had been between them. Still, Ethan had known what would happen if he ever came face-to-face with Jack again. Could Jack be blamed for doing what he promised he would?
Finally, McIntosh changed tactics.
“Okay, Mr. Blade. How about you tell me what you want to get out of this? Protection? A pardon? Money?”
Ethan finally looked at McIntosh and smiled. The strangely innocent smile didn’t reach his eyes, making the colourless orbs with their too-wide pupils all the more disturbing.
“Jack knows what I want.”
McIntosh’s shoulders tensed, only a fraction, but Jack saw it, which meant Ethan did as well.
“Jack’s busy at the moment, so I can’t ask him. Can you tell me what it is?”
“No. He’ll get it for me.” That smile again. “I trust him.”