I don’t know what to say. This is more vulnerability than my father has shown me in years—maybe ever. The man I grew up with was all clinical detachment and careful distance, emotions locked away behind a wall of British reserve.
“Mank told me you used to work together,” I say, steering us toward safer ground. “Back in the MI6 days.”
My father nods, raising his glasses off his face and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Roger and I were partners for a while. Good man. Stubborn as a mule, but good.”
“Do you miss it? Being a spy?” Something I’ve always wondered but never wanted to ask, never wanted to look like I cared.
He considers the question. “Sometimes. The work, the purpose, the feeling that what you’re doing actually matters. I think I live vicariously through you now, reading your mission reports, imagining myself back in the field.” He gives me a small smile. “But I’m happy here. The research, the quiet, the distance from all the politics and backstabbing. It suits me.”
“Even though the Madrona Foundation that you work for is corrupt?” The words come out sharp. “Even though they’re unethical, have done all sort of shady deals? I know they’ve been at the forefront of biological research for decades, but they don’t have a great track record.”
My father doesn’t flinch. “If you think MI6 is above corruption, you have no idea how the world actually works.”
“SOE isn’t?—”
“SOE is idealistic. Even their motto is: Reap What You SOE. You and your friends, you believe in the mission, in doing what’s right. And that’s admirable.” He meets my eyes. “But the people above you aren’t idealists, Mia. They’re politicians and bureaucrats and intelligence officers who’ve made compromises you can’t bloody imagine. I wouldn’t put too much trust in them.”
I narrow my eyes, my gut feeling like ice. “What do you mean?”
“Call it instinct. Call it experience. Never trust the government, even a British one.”
The warning settles over me like a chill. I think about Bayo, about Kat, about the missions I’ve run and the orders I’ve followed without question. I think about Cal. Have I been naive? Have I been a pawn in someone else’s game this whole time?
But the thought leads somewhere else. Somewhere darker.
“Dad.” I set down my tea, turning to face him fully. “Were Oliver and Mum killed on purpose? Were they targeted by someone?”
He goes very still.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve asked me that,” he eventually says.
“Because I never believed your answer.”
The silence stretches between us. Through the glass, the scanner continues its work, and Nate is oblivious to the weight of what’s being said in this little room.
“Oliver was like you,” my father finally says. His voice is barely above a whisper. “Enhanced. Modified. We did it to him first, before we really understood what we were doing.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. I suspected—I always suspected—but hearing it confirmed is something else entirely.
“Did what?” I ask, my voice rising. “What did you do to him?”
My father stops. Takes off his glasses. Presses the heels of his hands against his eyes.
“Dad?” I say, voice trembling.
When he looks up again, there are tears streaming down his face, the kind of tears that break my heart while making me angry, because I know he’s the cause for them.
“I think…I worry…I knowthat he was killed because of me,” he says, his voice cracking. “Because of what I made him. Someone found out what he could do, what he was, and decided he was too valuable to leave alone.” He swallows hard. “It’s why we moved here. I thought—I thought if they’d come for him, they might come for you next. I had to keep you safe. I had to?—”
“Dad.” I reach out, taking his hand. His fingers are cold and trembling. “What did you do?”
He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. Licks his lips.
A series of beeps cuts through the room, sharp and insistent. My father’s head snaps up toward the monitors, and I watch his face transform—confusion, then concentration, then something that looks almost like shock.
“What the dickens,” he breathes.
“What is it?”
