Grafton narrowed his eyes, the slight curl of his upper lip broadcasting how irritated he was that Angel hadn’t been taken aback by the breadth of his knowledge. A second later, he shuttered his expression. “You’re sure this is the right bloke? For two bloody weeks you’ve been going on about how you couldn’t be certain.”
“For two weeks, he did not trust me enough to answer any of my questions. And without the answers to those questions, there was no way I could know if he was a legitimate seller or not.”
“And now you know?”
Angel nodded.
“How?”
“He finally admitted where his material comes from.”
“And where does it come from?”
“The same restricted Russian military installation where all the other samples I helped to remove from the black market originated.”
Grafton’s brow pinched. “So why didn’t you capture this source”—Grafton made air quotes—“before now?”
“I only became aware of his identity sixteen hours before you summoned me here.”
“It wasn’t a summons. It was an invitation.”
Angel indulged in a snort.
“Okay, so perhaps it was a summons.” Grafton rubbed his hands together. “And how fortunate for me you’d just become aware of a legitimate seller of the very materials I need.” Grafton glanced out over the lawn, eyes narrowed slightly as if something had caught his interest.
Had Angel had less confidence in his teammates, he might have worried Grafton had caught sight of them in the distance. As it was, he simply waited for Grafton to lose interest in whatever had snagged his attention and refocus on the conversation.
It didn’t take long. There was determination on Grafton’s face when he turned back to Angel. “Moldova, you say?” At Angel’s nod, he added, “Let me ring up a few folks, work out some details, then we’ll get your contact back on the sat phone and give him a date and time. I’ll pick the location.”
Instead of answering, Angel simply stared, not attempting to hide his contempt.
Grafton chuckled. “The quicker you come to terms with your new situation, Majid—”
“Everyone calls me Angel.”
“The better it will be.”
“For whom?” Angel narrowed his eyes. “You or me?”
“Both of us.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Grafton’s grin became a sneer. “Careful, Majid. Right now I need you, so it behooves me to keep you alive and in one piece. That might not always be the case, so you should do your best to make me bloody well like you.”
“Like I said”—Angel smiled—“go fuck yourself.”
The muscle in Grafton’s jaw gave another fitful tic before he turned and stomped into the house. Angel didn’t swivel around in the deck chair to watch him go. Instead, he thought about all the ways he could kill the bastard with his bare hands.
It was a truly gratifying mental exercise.
“Oh la vache. You really shouldn’t speak to him like that.”
Angel closed his eyes at the sound of her voice. It was still smooth and cultured. It still reminded him of hot chocolate. Oh la vache was French for holy cow, or at least that’s what she’d told him. That she cursed in languages other than the one she was speaking was a quirk that had made him smile. You know, way back when. Once upon a long, long time ago.
He wasn’t smiling now, of course. He simply grunted in response.
“I’m serious,” she insisted.
