Gibson gave no sign that he heard Derek’s question or whether he’d been there long enough to hear Derek’s first question to himself about being in a relationship with Abby.
His attention was most of the way back to watching Abby—which he realized he could do just as well from the far drier refuge of the open hangar—before Gibson spoke.
“There is another option.”
Derek pictured Emily saying that this Miss Watson woman must be recovered at any cost. That phrase meant that standard safety protocols were of little concern in this extraction. And he pictured Dilya’s beseeching look when she declared, we need to get her back.
He closed his eyes but answered, “Yes, there is another option.” He and Misty were top snipers even among Delta. They were both expert with weapons that could kill out past two kilometers. Gibson would be as well.
If needed, he’d just been given clearance to exercise the ultimate solution to protect the woman’s secrets. A sniper was often said to be the most personal of hunters. Not only did they hunt a specific person and see the target clearly as they shot, but they often studied their habits in detail to ensure proper identification at extreme distances. He’d never been part of an assassination squad, though he’d fought in war zones where he’d hunted other snipers.
But Miss Watson was someone that the people around him knew and deeply respected—even loved. Would they ever forgive him if he had to shoot her to keep her knowledge out of others’ hands? Would Abby?
Colonel Gibson no longer stood beside him to answer these questions.
42
The drugs were a warm blanket, familiar in their weight upon her thoughts and the soft foggy cocoon they wrapped around her. She’d been trained in many of these types of scenarios. Imagined a myriad of others over the years as mental exercises. Still, over sixty years of spycraft should have prepared her better for this moment.
Or, better yet, avoided it to begin with; she’d turned lazy in her dotage.
The North Vietnamese had never known how deeply she’d infiltrated their territory, for all the good it hadn’t done during the American War, as the Vietnamese called it. The Soviets hadn’t existed for thirty years and to their knowledge she’d been blown up five years before their fall—yet their former KGB’s throttlehold on Russia was worse than ever before.
She’d later arranged to die so that even the CIA lost her trail when they’d decided she knew too much, had outlived her usefulness, and needed removal for security reasons. And then, after years of protecting the residents of the White House, foolish old woman that she was, she’d thought that quitting and retiring to Montana had been a sufficient final covering of her trail.
She supposed it had been. The long roster of enemies she’d confronted were gone. But instead of fading away, the list of new nation-states with a grudge against America had multiplied like the Hydra, sprouting two heads for each cut off. And she’d been no Hercules with goddess-given swords and poison-tipped arrows to defeat the beast.
Yes, she’d guarded herself sufficiently against enemies both foreign and domestic. What she hadn’t done well enough was protect herself against allies.
The English.
She supposed it was both the best and worst that could have happened. Mossad would have already given up and killed her by now. The French DGSE would at least have fed her decently. The English were going to polite her to death. All understated. All apologetic. They were going to kill her with deep regrets and far too much hesitancy.
There was only one hope.
Please let them have hidden their trail well enough that Dilya did not come looking for her. The girl had such gifts. They must be saved for the future. Dilya didn’t know her own powers yet. But she had the basis now; she would grow into them on her own. The US was swinging the wrong way and it was only people like herself and Dilya who had a chance of swinging it back.
People like Dilya anyway.
Her own dance might not last out the day.
43
“Howdy, Fay. What has you out and about at this early hour?”
Emily turned to see a tall brunette climbing down from her vehicle. It was hard to see more until she circled clear of her Land Rover’s headlights. She wore standard camouflage in the UK’s multi-terrain pattern. The rank pennant revealed at the front of her blouse by her unzipped jacket bore the four thin blue stripes over wider black stripes of a group captain. Definitely the commander of RAF Brize Norton.
“This certainly looks like a Yankee invasion.”
“We aren’t invading, Fay. Honest. And you know about me, I hail from half of everywhere, but Yankee isn’t on that list. You’ll find me in Montana these days.”
“Except you aren’t in Montana. Neither are you over to Credenhill.” Fay squared off in front of him.
“How’s your dad?”
“Retired,” she relaxed a little. “And hating it. Otherwise he’s fine. How’s yours?”
“Retired and appears to be enjoying himself. If yours likes horses, he should come visit the ranch.”
