“Mank wants you,” she says, her accent still carrying traces of Moscow despite fifteen years in London, though she can make it disappear at will.
My stomach drops. “The briefing isn’t for another two hours.”
“Did I say briefing?” Her dark eyes give nothing away. “He wants you. His office. Now.”
My face flushes as I stand, smoothing my hands on my trousers to hide the fact that they’ve gone clammy. Bayo gives me an encouraging nod. Cal watches from the kitchen doorway, his mug frozen halfway to his lips.
As I cross the room, I pass Fi, who’s emerging from the storage closet we generously call the archives. Fiona Chen—the newest and youngest member of our team—has dust on her cheek, her dark hair escaping from its bun. She’s got delicate features that make her look younger than her twenty-four years: high cheekbones, wide, dark eyes, a mouth that’s perpetually quirked in private amusement. Socially awkward and unassuming, she was recruited straight out of SOAS witha gift for languages and an improv background that makes her dangerously good at thinking on her feet. It certainly helped at the gala.
Like me, Fi is enhanced in her own special way. She was also engineered by my father, in a program I try not to think about too much. We don’t talk about it much either, but there’s an understanding between us, a shared weight. She’s the only other person I know who was made into something before she had any say in the matter.
She catches my eye as I pass and gives me a thumbs up, though with her, I can’t tell if it’s sarcastic or genuine. I take it as the latter.
I knock twice on Mank’s door and take a deep breath.
Here goes nothing.
CHAPTER 4
MIA
Roger Mank is standingbehind his desk, in a dark suit silhouetted against the grey London light filtering through a window he never opens. At seventy, he’s still striking in a way that suggests he was devastating in his youth, with silver hair swept back from a face that belongs on currency. Tabby likes to say he was the inspiration for James Bond, even though he was born decades after Fleming released the books. Still, I think Mank takes it to heart, just a little. He dresses immaculately, and he truly does love martinis and fast cars.
“Mia.” He says my name like a statement. I can’t get a read on him at all, which does nothing to ease my racing heart.
“Sir.”
“Close the door.”
I do, and the sounds of the office fade. Mank gestures to the chair across from his desk—real leather, the only comfortable seat in the building. I’ve sat in it exactly four times in eight years. Three were for commendations. The fourth was after Minsk.
I sit. He doesn’t.
There’s a photograph on his desk of him shaking hands with two different prime ministers. Next to it, a picture of his wifeSelma and teenage son Theo. It took a few years before I had the nerve to ask who they were, since he never once mentioned being married, being a father, or having a family. He still doesn’t talk about them much, probably an old habit from years of being a ghost.
“I heard from Van Veen’s people this morning,” he says.
My heart stumbles in my chest. “And?”
“And.” He lets the word hang there, the bloody bastard. Then, the corner of his mouth twitches—the closest Roger Mank ever gets to a smile. “Pack your bags, Baxter. You’re going to New York City.”
For a moment, I can’t breathe. “They approved it?”
“Conditional approval. Van Veen pushed it through personally—apparently, your proposal impressed her. Marsh had reservations, but she overruled him. And Elron, well, I don’t think anyone asks him anything anymore, thank the lord.” He pauses. “Vanguard himself signed off this morning.”
I think of him at the gala, the moment his eyes found mine across the courtyard. He saw me. Maybe he saw more than I intended. What made him change his mind? My wit? Or the fact that I looked good in that dress?
Don’t flatter yourself. This just proves what a puppet he is.
“When do I leave?”
“End of the week. But this isn’t a solo op. We can’t take any risks. Bayo will run tech from a safehouse nearby. Kat’s on the ground for support. You’ll be journalist Mia Baxter, staying in a nice, but not too nice, hotel, but they’ll both have new covers.” He pauses. “We’re calling it Operation Gold Standard, because I like to think I still have a sense of humor.”
I nod, trying to process.
This is everything I wanted.
Something loosens in my chest—a knot I didn’t realize I’d been carrying since Dmitri Olkov’s daughter smiled at me from a phone screen. My hands want to shake, but I don’t let them.
