The Sixth Day (A Brit in the FBI #5)(63)

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE


MI5 Headquarters, Home Office

Thames House

12 Millbank

Westminster, London

Harry Drummond was packing his briefcase to head to Clapton House, the flat he kept in Bayswater, when a knock sounded on his door, and an old friend’s face appeared.

“Harry, how are you? Do you have a moment?”

“Corry, I’m fine. How are you? How is June?”

“She’s bursting with health, as always. In Cornwall, at the manse. Mitzie?”

“At home, as well. Say, you look a bit peaked, are you coming down with something?”

“No, no, all’s well. What a few days. Terry Alexander, Chappy Donovan? Who would have thought they were capable of getting on the bad side of someone? Now Hemmler I never liked, he was a bad man, so I hear. But Alexander and Donovan? Ah, it’s scary times we live in, Harry.”

“And now Paulina Vittorini was killed up in Scotland, in Glasgow, at her shipyard—”

“What?”

Harry grabbed Corry Jones’s arm. “You hadn’t heard? So you knew her?”

“Yes, of course, most of us knew Paulina. This is horrible, Harry. Was it a drone, like the others?”

Harry still held his friend’s arm. “We believe so. Was she a friend of your family?”

Corinthian Jones, Lord Barstow, slowly shook his head. He made his hands tremble, his face pale. He wanted to send his fist to the heavens. Another down, another 150 million pounds for him. It was too easy manipulating Ardelean. He was so bloody predictable, so eager to kill when he believed he’d been betrayed.

Would Ardelean decide to cut his losses and kill him next? What if June were his next kill? No, he would decide how to get the drones to Africa, he would decide how to eliminate Ardelean before he figured out he’d been scammed. Maybe he would give Ardelean some of what he considered to be his own money, get him to turn over the drones, then he could kill him. He’d figure something out, something better. He always did. He thought again of his magnificent idea, an idea to make his ancestors proud, one to make him the most heroic, not to mention, the richest of them all.

He looked at his supposed friend, made his hands tremble a bit more, the older man so upset he couldn’t control himself. How he’d resented Harry Drummond all their lives, since they’d been boys at Eton. Smart, liked by everyone, the apple of his father’s eye, the sod. Tall, trim, good-looking, and holding up well.

Ah, remember what you’ve accomplished. You’re far more impressive than Harry Drummond. And smarter than the vaunted Roman Ardelean.

Barstow said finally, shaking his head, as if dazed, fully aware Harry Drummond was staring at him, “It’s simply too much, Harry, too much. I don’t know how much more of this insanity I can take. It’s simply so shocking. And all the terrorist attacks, the bombings, cars plowing into crowds, and now drones assassinating people—it doesn’t stop, doesn’t stop.” He fell silent, the picture of a man trying to pull himself together.

Harry cocked his head to one side. Certainly Corry was shocked, to be expected, but this? The look on his face, it was somehow too much. What was going on here?

Barstow drew a deep breath. “Well, I’ve worried you, I see. I was coming by simply to tell you I’ve put in for leave. I thought I’d take June to Italy. She’s been after me for months to take a break, says I’m working too hard.”

Harry nodded, searching his old friend’s face. “Perhaps she’s right. Perhaps a change of scene would be good for you. I know personally I’m working harder now as a consultant than I did as an employee of the Crown. It appears you are, as well.”

“I’d wondered why you came back, Harry.”

“The PM convinced me I was needed, supposedly to relieve some of the pressure on the home secretary, help with the fallout from Brexit and the new terror norms. But that has taken a back burner. Turns out our systems have all been hacked—”

“I wondered about the sudden blackout. You know what happened?”

Harry shook his head. “I know it’s fixed now, my son and one of his team, both computer geniuses, sorted it. There’s so much more, but it needn’t concern you. How are things in MI6 now?”

“As insane as they are here, of course. Speaking of, I should be on my way.” Barstow stopped at the doorway. “It’s good to see you, Harry. We should do lunch sometime soon. Or you could come out to Cornwall, bring Mitzie. She and June could rattle around, and we could go fishing. It’s been too long.”

“Yes, it has. When things calm down, I’ll be in touch.”

“Good, good.”

But he lingered, and Harry watched him for a few moments. He’d been pale, upset, but now he looked once again a man in charge. Barstow went out the door, his step quick and firm, shoulders straight, and disappeared into the hallway.

What was that all about? Harry’s phone began to ring. He recognized the extension. The home secretary.

“Drummond, there’s been a bombing in Kent. Near the Folkestone station. Apparently, the train had just left the station when the bomb went off.”

No, surely not— “It was heading into the Channel Tunnel?”

“We don’t know yet, still assessing, no way to get figures without someone on-site. I’ve activated the emergency network. I trust you’ll know more shortly. The first responders are on site. Terrible few days.”