“Not the last time I saw him.”
“When was that?”
“A few hours ago.”
There was no hiding Cavendish’s sudden unease. “They told me he was eliminated in France.”
Nash rocked on the chair. “Seems your people lied to you, buddy. I wonder what else they’re not telling you?”
It was obvious Cavendish was deeply troubled—was it because Pinchot was alive, or because members of his own organisation had deceived him? Either way, his unflappable persona had just been flapped. Nash was satisfied that even in his compromised position he could still ruffle Cavendish’s well-groomed feathers.
The older man brushed non-existent lint from his lapel and appeared eager move on to another subject. Any other subject. “I live in a different world to you…”
“If only that were true.”
“…where we provide the modern intelligence community what they so desperately need: intelligence. And I mean that in every sense of the word.”
“At a profit.” Nash tried to cross his arms but the chains on the handcuffs only got him partway there.
“Ask the Soviets how living without that went.”
Nash shook his head. “Spies aren’t meant to make a profit. It’s not their function, no more than a park or a hospital bed or the Prime Minister’s nose-hair trimmer should make a profit.”
“Does the PM have a nose-hair trimmer? Well, I never.” In an instant, Cavendish’s face turned deadly serious, with an emphasis on the former. “You and your little band will end your pitiful crusade here and now. You’ll give the location of your team, including my wayward son, here and now and I’ll let them live—you too. I’m sick of fighting you, Mason. We shouldn’t be on opposite sides.”
“We’re not fighting you,” Nash said with the innocence of a used car salesman. “We just happen to always be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Take today, for example. I was at the mall buying a pair of cargo pants and wouldn’t you know it, there was a terrorist right in front of me. Quite the coincidence, don’t you think?”
Cavendish gave a tired sigh. “You’re rather tiresome.” He thumped a fist on the table, redness flaring in his face. “Tell me where they are!”
“Lilliput.” Nash waited a beat, then shook his head. “No, they moved. Gotham City, or was it Metropolis?”
“Tell me the truth!”
“Okay, but you’re not going to like it.”
“Tell me!”
“Fine. Almost all the hands you’ve shaken have had a dick in them.”
If Cavendish could have flipped the table he would have. Clenching his fists in fury, he paced the white room in a white-hot rage.
“You think you’re playing with me, you pathetic cretin? All you’re doing is wasting my time. I’m embarking on the most crucial undertaking of the twenty-first century and you’re throwing pathetic juvenile taunts about.”
“You are.”
Managing to stem the tide of anger, Cavendish clenched his teeth before going on. “What is it you and your team are trying to achieve, Mason? Do you really want to expose every intelligence organisation in the world? How they utterly failed to halt our infiltration? Do you have any idea how that will decimate their reputation for the next century? Do you really want to wreak that much havoc, that much chaos? You claim to be protecting your MI6, my beloved MI6, but in reality you’ll be gutting them. You’ll be giving every self-righteous ignorant politician the ammunition they need to tear out the pitiful funding they have to beg for. They’ll be fighting foreign interests, crazed nationalists and violent extremists with nothing more than three graduates, a ten-year-old laptop and a fucking paperclip. You’re not saving them, you’re condemning them to the grave.”
Quiet for a moment, Nash said, “So, what you’re asking, if I have this correct, is now that you’ve compromised every intelligence agency for your own purposes with a private business that has no oversight and is not beholden to any government, you want me to, what, just leave it? Don’t worry about it? Let you carry out your own twisted agenda?”
“We are the good guys. We are here to do good.”
“Said every bad guy ever.” Nash stared up at the stained white ceiling, fluorescent lights and sprinkler heads. “Last time I checked, the good guys don’t go around killing innocent people to cover their tracks or selling illicit drugs for a bit of extra cash.”
Cavendish’s thin lips grew even thinner. “We’re here to bring stability to the world. Share intelligence to stop real world threats. Act where government can’t. We’ll guide the major intelligence agencies to build a better world by showing them how.”
“But that’s exactly my point. Tartarus’s motivations are led by frail and susceptible humans. The very concept of a private spy agency is abhorrent for that very reason: human beings are imperfect and weak. Pinchot proved the point better than I possibly could have. Tartarus is only as good as its leadership and I have to say, Ramsay old boy, so far it’s come up very short.”
“We’ve learned from our mistakes. We won’t let that happen again.”
Nash grimaced, not buying what Cavendish was shovelling and wondering how even the shoveller could. “Let’s face it. You’re going to lose.” Nash leaned forward. “And I’m going to do an MC Hammer dance when you go down.”
“A what?”
“You know the MC Hammer dance?” In spite of the restraints, Nash did his best to perform the moves from “U Can’t Touch This”. Lack of applause aside, he thought he did a reasonable job of it.
Cavendish glared at him for several moments. Nash wasn’t sure if it was because he had no more counterpoints or had finally realised he couldn’t persuade Nash with words.
“Why are you here, Cavendish? It’s not about gloating, is it? That would just be gauche,” Nash snarled. “I’m sure you’ll spin events to try to win your coveted legitimacy for Tartarus.” Nash put on a deliberate whiny voice. “See, I told you there was going to be a nasty wasty terrorist attack. Now invite me to the big boys’ table, pwease.”
“Will you give up the location of my son and the rest of them?”
“I’d sooner let you shave my scrotum with Freddy Krueger gloves.” Nash rested for a moment before adding, “It’s a no, in case that was unclear.”
Unlike the news about Pinchot’s not pushing up daisies, there was no reaction on Cavendish’s face. The very definition of a poker face. It was then Nash understood why Cavendish was here. They were alone, no witnesses. The man was here to kill him. He’d get information if he could, but killing Nash was the real aim. It was the only explanation that made sense. If he was telling the truth about Harry’s herculean effort to prove his innocence, logic dictated that the authorities would ask why Nash was actually there saving the day when he was supposedly a wanted fugitive. Cavendish couldn’t have him sprouting the truth, as there was a chance someone would take him at his word. Even with all the resources at his disposal to bend the truth, there was a chance Cavendish would slip up and the real truth would out. Unconsciously, Nash glanced towards the door. Cavendish caught it.
“No one’s coming, in case you still carried hope.” Cavendish pulled up a chair and sat on it backwards like some cool kid from an ’80s movie. “Let’s discuss where you’ve been getting your intelligence. I must say, you’ve vexed us tremendously.”
Cavendish wanted to know what Nash knew. He was playing with his food before the kill. Nash wasn’t about to play along. In fact, he had no intention of following any rules whatsoever.
