It was well established that Geoffrey Barnes generally moved the pieces out in the field from his office on the third floor of a building in central London. But a telephone call from a certain house in Rome, more precisely on Via Veneto, made him get his butt out of his chair considerably faster than usual. Actually he climbed into one of the agency cars, accompanied by three other vehicles, in order to meet with the agents who were already posted around the critical area.
“I’m leaving now,” the voice told him, “and I want this solved before I get there. See to it personally, or you won’t sit in that chair again. Get moving.”
Very few people could talk that way to him. Those who did had so much power that Barnes had no means to counter them. He confined himself to nodding, or to murmuring “Yes, sir,” in order to clarify his compliance with whatever the order was.
“You have carte blanche,” were the farewell words. He was authorized to do whatever seemed most effective, to move the pieces however he saw fit, in order to achieve checkmate posthaste.
That explained how Geoffrey Barnes found himself in the backseat of a powerful car, his service weapon in its holster, watching the lights outside. “How could an infiltrator reach such a high level?”
This is going to end badly, he thought. Then he attempted to banish the evil spirits. What needed to be done would be done. Neither a woman nor a double agent, no matter how dangerous the latter might be, would cause him to fail before his superiors. This certainly was going to end badly for the target, known as Sarah Monteiro, and just as badly for her savior. Damn you. How could you dare do something like this? he lamented in silence. Taking his radio transmitter, he leaned forward in the backseat. They were already approaching their destination, and this time it was necessary to manage the pieces correctly, including his own position.
“Stop the cars a good distance back. We mustn’t reveal our presence. Over.”
“Roger, over,” came back through the device.