Geoffrey Barnes continued talking on the phone. This time, his commanding tone, in English, made it clear he was not talking to a superior. Not on the red phone, with the president of the United States, or on the one he used to talk to the Italian man, but rather on the one reserved for giving orders and controlling his operations. Twenty-seven years of service and a spotless record gained him certain privileges. His work was still his primary passion. Beyond a doubt, one of the great advantages of his position was not having to be out in the field, but to manipulate the pieces as he pleased from an air-conditioned location, without major risks.
He was talking with his chief of operations about the progress and set-backs of the ongoing operation.
“He disappeared?” Barnes couldn’t reveal his jitters to his agents, but this entire operation now seemed like a useless endeavor. The woman vanished while his agents were pursuing her in one of the most frequented squares in London -very surprising. The old man had ordered him to hold back his men while the special cadre neutralized the target. Certainly the failure to do this would have its consequences, and even worse, cast doubt on the surefire reputation of his agents.
“An infiltrator? A double agent?” Holy shit, he thought. “Right, keep on searching. They couldn’t have become invisible.”
He hung up and leaned back in his chair, fingers interlaced behind his head. If they aren’t found, we’re screwed, he thought.
“Sir?” said Staughton, rushing into the office.
“Yes, Staughton.”
“Sir, are we still on hold, or do we have authority to act?”
Barnes considered this briefly, just for a moment, not wanting to appear indecisive. Here, nothing escaped interpretation, even silence.
“At this point we both hold the rod. Let the first one to spot the fish do the fishing.”
“Understood,” Staughton answered. “We intercepted an interesting phone call from the British Museum to the local police.”