A reference to when Nazis killed many of their German political opponents in a purge in 1934.
Will moved his hands onto the metal table, causing the chain between them to rattle against the surface and the guards to take a step toward him.
But Will held the palms of his hands up and smiled. “Now, Agent Gage: I can forgive you for accusing a gentleman like me of murder. However, tut tut: Comparing me to a Nazi? My grandfather and his brothers killed Nazis for a living.”
“I’m drawing a comparison to the event, not the personalities involved. Did you kill Sheridan, Jellicoe, and the twins?”
Will kept her gaze, his eyes unblinking. “Has Ellie Hallowes been laid to rest?”
Marsha nodded. “In a grave next to her parents. The Director of the CIA personally placed the Distinguished Intelligence Cross in Ellie’s hands before the casket was sealed.”
The Distinguished Intelligence Cross was the Agency’s highest decoration, awarded for extraordinary heroism. Only a handful of officers had received the medal since the creation of the Agency in 1947.
The act touched Will deeply, though he wondered if Ellie cared about medals. He thought about the jewelry box he’d returned to her, wishing he’d been able to place it in her hands. “You went out of your way to help me.”
“Not help you, but help get to the truth behind Ferryman.”
“Fair enough, but nevertheless it was help that you didn’t need to give and could have prompted severe repercussions against you if it hadn’t paid off. So, I’m going to give you something in return. If you choose to ask your question about the deaths of Jellicoe, Sheridan, and the twins one more time…”
The guards placed their hands on the butts of their pistols.
“… I promise you that I will answer your question truthfully.”
Patrick and Alistair frowned.
Marsha stared back at Will, oblivious to everyone else in the room. “The truth?”
“The truth.”
The room was silent. Everyone was motionless.
It seemed like minutes later that Marsha broke her gaze on Will and put her finger on the white envelope. “In here is a joint letter from the president of the United States of America and the prime minister of Canada. They’ve signed it, and it’s stamped with the seals of their offices. The letter has been witnessed and countersigned by the U.S. attorney general and the chief justice of Canada. It says that, due to your outstanding devotion to Western national security, you are pardoned of all crimes known to be committed by you in their countries. But there’s a catch. Both premiers have told me not to give the letter to you if there are other crimes you’ve committed that they don’t know about and that would need to be investigated, particularly if those crimes involve murder.”
Will nodded slowly. “I respect their position, and I respect your authority. I’m prepared to give you the truth, no matter what the consequences.”
“Why?”
Will sighed. “Because I of all people know that the truth matters. I’ve spent the last two weeks thinking about nothing else.”
All eyes were on Marsha.
Nobody spoke.
Finally, she said, “There’s only one witness to one of the incidents, and her description of the man who broke into her home doesn’t match yours.” Marsha’s eyes flickered.
Will knew Marsha didn’t believe Lindsay Sheridan’s version of events.
But she thrust the envelope across the table. “So that’s case closed as far as you’re concerned.” She looked at the guards. “Get him out of these darn shackles. This man’s saved the States from a shit storm and deserves to be treated better than this.” The guards tried to object, but Marsha barked, “Do it, or you’re messing with an executive order from the president.”
After he was liberated from his cuffs, Marsha stood and held out her hand.
Will got to his feet and placed his scarred hand in hers.
She shook his hand firmly, turned, and walked out of the room while calling out, “If you come to my jurisdiction again and cause trouble, I’ll be the first one to put you back in here.”
Will smiled.
“Sit down, Will.” Alistair intertwined his fingers and looked at the guards. “Leave us.” When the guards were gone, Alistair said, “Task Force S has been shut down. There’s no future for you in MI6 or the CIA.”
Will shrugged. “Up to a moment ago, I thought I was facing life imprisonment or the needle. Thoughts about my future career were the least of my worries.”
Alistair studied him. “Patrick and I still carry a lot of power in our agencies. Plus, no one can touch the rather healthy slush fund that we’ve tucked away for a rainy day.” He smiled at the inadvertent poetry. “You’re unemployable in the normal world, and the secret world can’t afford to lose someone of your capabilities. So here’s what we’re thinking: you become self-employed but we’re your only clients. When we want a deniable job done, we pay you one-third up front, the balance on results. But we won’t want to know how you get those results.”
“And you’ll stand in a court of law and deny any association with me if things go wrong?”
“Correct.”
Will looked around the room. “Rather strange place to be conducting a job interview.”
Alistair had a genteel smile on his face. “Will, I think this is probably the least strange thing that has happened to you.”
Will thought Alistair had a point. “Have you established how Catherine Parker communicated with Antaeus?”
Patrick answered, “We have. Cell phone calls to set up meetings. And encrypted bursts between two covert comms transmitters, for use when they couldn’t meet but intelligence needed to be relayed.”
“You got Parker’s transmitter and her key code to operate the system?”
“Yep. Doesn’t help us, though.”
“What’s going to happen to Parker?”
“Life imprisonment. No chance of parole.” Patrick sighed. “Her daughter’s been put into temporary foster care. Reckon she’ll be moved from family to family, rather than staying put somewhere permanent, ’cause not many parents want to adopt the child of a traitor.” His expression steeled. “After what he nearly pulled off, I just wish we’d got Antaeus. Maybe that’ll be the first job we give you: get the bastard.”
Will shook his head. “He was merely doing his job. In any case, last time I tried to kill him, I lost, Antaeus lost, and his family lost. Do you have a pen and paper?”
Alistair withdrew his fountain pen and a notepad. “What are you thinking?”
Will wrote carefully on a sheet of paper and put the note in front of the men. “This.”
Alistair read the note before handing the paper to Patrick, who frowned.
Will asked, “Do you think you can pull this off?”
Patrick laughed. “I’ll move heaven and earth to get this done. Will, this is brilliant.”
“I don’t care about brilliance.” Will looked at Alistair. He’d been through so much with this man, who meant more to him than just being a high-ranking colleague. Sometimes Alistair was a pain in the ass, other times a pompous mandarin whose superb intellect could think in Latin, French, Arabic, and a host of other languages; and then there were his eccentricities, including his love of falconry during his retreats to his Scottish mansion, where he fed his beloved kestrels with dead baby chicks that he, and any other foolish guest who stupidly dared to come and stay for the weekend, had to spend evenings peeling the skin off before feeding them to the birds of prey. God had broken the mold after creating Alistair.
But he was so much more than what you saw on the surface.
To Will, he was a surrogate father.
And Patrick was Will’s surrogate uncle.