“We can’t afford to take him with us,” Eva growled in a low voice. “He’s a loose cannon. The way that twat’s wound up, he’d sacrifice hundreds of lives just for the chance to shoot Ramsay Cavendish in the dick.”
Sophia blinked at Eva’s choice of words. “Quite.”
If Nash was to hazard a guess, he’d say Sophia was more open to the idea of taking Pinchot along than Eva. He had to admit, their options were limited.
“I will add,” Bishop’s voice was an unusually measured timbre, “we now have no evidence, no intelligence, apart from what’s stored in the dark recesses of that man’s mind. He’s not going to give it up freely. He’s an intelligent man, he knows what leverage he possesses.” Bishop inspected his immaculate fingernails in faux casualness. “We could torture it out of him.”
Nash had flashbacks to when he’d done exactly that to Pinchot, and it wasn’t a pleasant memory. The event haunted him still, a none-too-subtle reminder of how quickly he could slide into the brutal man he’d once been. Thankfully, Sophia spoke before he could.
“No torture. He’s a US citizen on US soil. I don’t intend on spending the rest of my career on trial for him. I don’t think we have much choice.”
The lack of counterarguments reinforced the inevitability of their situation. They exchanged looks, hoping someone would come up with an alternative. No one did. Bishop finally verbalised what they all knew but didn’t want to acknowledge.
“I guess we’re making a deal with the devil.”
Chapter Nine
“They certainly picked a visible target.”
Sophia wasn’t wrong. The Vessel, the landmark attraction at NYC’s Hudson Yards, was visually striking, as well as supplying a fantastic view of the city. It was comprised of one hundred and fifty intricately interconnecting flights of stairs. Some called it Manhattan’s answer to the Eiffel Tower but Nash thought of it more as an M. C. Escher nightmare. It had been closed for a number of years due to a string of suicides, but it was open that day, for the first time since 2021, for a special once-off Presidents’ Day holiday event. The morning was the first bright and sunny day after a long cold winter. Those factors combined guaranteed one thing: it was going to be exceptionally busy. That equated to more victims.
No matter the threats, Pinchot wouldn’t give up where the terrorists were holed up. That, of course, would be too simple. Pinchot had only one target and it wasn’t Yemen terrorists.
The deal Nash and his team had struck with Pinchot was as simple as it was fraught with issues.
Pinchot had promised to reveal how to identify the terrorists in exchange for a chance to kill Cavendish. Nobody was sure if the deal would hold; on either side.
Due to Pinchot’s mishandling of Tartarus’s activities, Cavendish doubted his organisation’s ability to correctly carry out any operation without his direct oversight. According to Pinchot, Cavendish would observe the attack from close by, calling the shots to ensure their unwavering allegiance. As his entire play for acceptance depended on a flawless execution of his coveted “grand scheme”, it was no surprise that the one who’d manipulated Tartarus from day one would want to oversee it.
Pinchot insisted he wouldn’t tell them how to find the terrorists until he’d sighted Cavendish. That meant letting at least part of the terrorist’s plot play out, which made the situation increasingly dangerous. Nash’s mounting dread only multiplied with every passing minute.
Pinchot swore Cavendish would observe the terrorists on their way to The Vessel as they made their way through the adjacent Hudson Yards shopping mall. The terrorists were due at ten, which was two hours away, so it was assumed Cavendish could make his appearance at any time. Sophia’s team, minus one, were stationed around the entrances to the mall. Claude was riverside, keeping an eye on the main entrance, ready to alert the others via radio comms should Cavendish arrive. Alain did likewise, covering the delivery entrance on the street on 10th Avenue. Baptiste the not-waiter guarded their impromptu guest in a faux baker’s van parked on West 34th Street, while Sophia, Eva, Bishop and Nash stood outside the van in an awkward silence.
Everyone was wired, tense and over-tired. They’d checked and double-checked comms and weapons and had gone over the variations of the plan countless times. There was nothing left to do but wait, and the inaction put them even more on edge.
The lack of preparation combined with the countless unknowns would make any espionage team nervous, but given the stakes, it was bordering on untenable, even for these seasoned agents. The stress was palpable on each of their faces. Nash forced himself to unclench his muscles. He needed to be loose and ready for what was to come, whatever that might be. Everything depended on it. He’d never felt more like a cigarette in his life.
“We should have tortured him,” Bishop said, as casually as if he’d made a comment on the weather.
Sophia thrust her hands deeper into the pockets of her camel-hair coat. There was still a chill in the air. “I told you why it was a bad idea. Plus, we didn’t have time. The best torturer in the world would need ten times longer than we had to get the information out of him.”
“You’ve never seen me work. I can be quite motivating.”
Sophia’s lips curled into a smile until she saw that Bishop was deadly earnest. Nash’s edginess got the better of him and he opened the rear of the van. Baptiste’s gun flicked from Pinchot to Nash, and his gaze flicked to Sophia. When she gave the slightest of nods, Baptiste’s gun swivelled back to Pinchot. Sophia joined Nash inside the van and shut the door behind them.
Pinchot’s hands were cable tied to an anchor point on the floor of the van. Even with his hunched back he seemed casual, at least on the outside.
“How many?” Before the inevitable how many what?, Nash added, “Terrorists.”
Pinchot gave a theatrical drop of his bottom lip. “What’s the matter? Can’t keep up your end of the bargain?” He turned to Sophia. “Him not being able to keep it up must be so frustrating for you, no?”
Sophia was too much of a pro to show that the comment had any effect, though the moment Pinchot turned to Baptiste, her eyes darted to Nash. She was as concerned as he was. They were running out of time.
“How do we find them!” Nash screamed.
There was a knock from outside and Eva’s muffled voice asked, “Is everything okay in there?”
Pinchot shook his head. “No Cavendish, no terrorist spotting intel. That’s the deal.”
Sophia leaned forward. “People are going to die!”
“Only one people I care about.”
Nash clenched and unclenched his fists, and not at the bad grammar. “At least tell us how many there are so we can deploy the right number of teams.”
Pinchot considered this for a few moments. “Three.” There was a long pause. “I think.”
“You think? What the hell?”
“The plan I saw catered for four—two for carrying and detonating the bombs, two as a backup in case anyone couldn’t complete the mission for any particular reason. But the plan’s a month old now. Things could have changed, and we have no way of knowing. So, four, minus one, if my arithmetic serves me correctly, equals three.”
“Didn’t you torture the information out of poor Yousif to confirm?”
“He was a certified terrorist, I don’t think the moniker of ‘poor’ is particularly apt.” The glare from Nash reminded Pinchot he’d neglected to answer the question. “He confirmed three, but that was at the end of our time together and he wasn’t exactly what you’d categorise as lucid by then.”
For all his meditation, for all his self-discovery and supposed enlightenment, Nash had an urgent and all-encompassing urge to leap over and beat the shit out of Pinchot until he told them what they needed to know. The surge of violence coursing through his veins gave his vision a red tinge. He wanted to scream with rage. If Sophia and Baptiste weren’t there he was certain he’d have pummelled Pinchot, damn his pacifism to hell. Why would Pinchot hold back information that would save hundreds? Was he that far gone? Had hate consumed him that much?
Swallowing his mounting rage, Nash wondered just how different he and Pinchot really were. For all Nash’s enlightenment, it only took the slightest nudge to bring out the persona a past MI6 colleague had nicknamed The War Machine.
