“Fine,” Nash replied. “I haven’t been able to check my messages,” he turned to Bishop, “wi-fi is out. What did I miss?”
Uncharacteristically, neither Eva nor Bishop answered immediately. In fact, Nash detected a certain level of dread in their features. An unusual state for them both.
Leaning in, Nash asked, “What’s going on?”
Fidgeting, Eva rubbed her palms on her jeans. “Just when we thought Tartarus couldn’t get more douchbaggerly they go and out douchebag themselves by, like, a factor of a million douchebags.”
She was stalling, Nash wasn’t entirely sure why. Eva was the one who’d brought it up. “What aren’t you telling me?”
The two exchanged glances and leaned in conspiratorially. Bishop spoke in a hushed tone.
“We have a lead, of sorts. Harry dug around Tartarus’s servers, the ones she hacked into with Pinchot’s credentials, and created background admin accounts before Pinchot’s access was removed. She used them last night and uncovered what she’s sure is a lead on the so-called grand scheme.”
Nash let out a whistle. The grand scheme was what former MI6 Director Ramsay Cavendish—Paul’s father—had referred to mid-gloat, believing Nash was about to die. It had been clear he fervently believed this grand scheme would bring back old-school statecraft and manipulate governments on a scale that hadn’t occurred since the Cold War. He was adamant he’d found a way to bring back old-fashioned espionage to manipulate the world as he saw fit. Nash still felt a chill of fear thinking about it. It wasn’t necessarily the words Cavendish had sprouted, more the unwavering fervour in his eyes. He was a zealot. Worse, he was a zealot with means.
“What did Harry find out?”
“There’s a file, I shit you not, called ‘Ultimate Sacrifice’.”
Nash gave a groan. “Cavendish isn’t fucking around, is he? Subtle is not in this man’s vocabulary.”
Bishop went on. “The subtly named ‘Ultimate Sacrifice’ mentions finding a terrorist cell and fooling them into believing they’re doing their organisation’s good work and giving the bad guys the means to carry it out. Everything would be completely real. Bombs, terrorists, taking innocent lives. Tartarus would warn the legitimate spy agencies ahead of time. If they believed Tartarus, they’d hand over all their supposed intel and take all the credit.”
“And if not?” Nash suspected the answer but dreaded hearing it.
Eva placed her hands on her knees. “Tartarus will let the terrorists explode a massive bomb, killing potentially thousands, all in the name of legitimising Tartarus on the world stage. They’ll spin it that Tartarus could have prevented the carnage if only the old inept and decrepit agencies had listened. The ultimate I fucken’ told you so. They’ll milk it, and manipulate public opinion in their favour.” Her shoulders slumped despondently. “Harry’s going to contact us if she discovers more.”
Nash leaned back. “Jesus Christ.”
The couple remained silent, not about to argue. Bishop spoke first.
“Harry’s evidence is vague but significant. It kind of fits with what Cavendish was describing, doesn’t it? Creating an event to afford them legitimacy. Thwarting a terrorist plot and saving the day fits his goals.”
“Did you just use ‘thwarting’ in a sentence?” Eva raised an eyebrow. “You’ve changed.”
They halted their conversation as the waiter arrived and dispensed their drinks and nibbles with a heavy hand. The glasses were filled generously. Nash assumed it must be the Australian way, they even served wine boisterously.
His head spun. He knew Cavendish was evil, but murdering thousands to unironically be perceived as the good guys? The man was truly twisted. Nash would review all Harry had and try to make sense of it. Bishop was right, it fit exactly what Cavendish had outlined as his grand scheme. It was a chilling turn of events.
Nash motioned to the faces opposite him. “Speaking of uncovering truths, you have your wine, now tell me how the hell you sustained these injuries?”
Eva took a gulp of wine. “As a bit of an indulgence we’d booked one of those over the water cabins at this luxury resort. The ones where you can literally roll out of bed and into the ocean. It was glorious. Well, it was, until it wasn’t. We were, uh, enjoying our last night in the Maldives when it happened.”
Bishop playfully elbowed her. “I was certainly enjoying myself.”
Giving her man a wrinkle of her nose, she turned to Nash. “We were having sex.”
Nash crinkled his forehead. “Is this really relevant to the story?”
In unison, they both answered, “Yes.”
Eva went on. “We were having a lovely old time when from my vantage point I saw a shadow pass by the window.”
“I’m probably going to regret asking this,” Nash winced, “but ‘vantage point’?”
Eva thrust one horizontal palm in the air. “Bishop.” The other she placed above it, vertically. “Me. Got it?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Eva went on. “We were at the far end of the resort, there was no reason for anyone to be there that late at night. So I paused activities while we grabbed our pistols from under our pillows.”
“You both keep guns under your pillows?”
Bishop took a sip of wine. “Doesn’t everyone?”
Ignoring him, Eva continued her tale. “Three seconds later two men burst in, guns blazing. Luckily they had no idea where in the room we were, so their bullets were indiscriminate.” Her face was uncharacteristically serious. “Ours weren’t. We took them out with minimal fuss.”
“Efficient work. But it doesn’t explain the…” Nash motioned around his face.
“Getting to that. Once we’d dressed, packed and searched the bodies we discovered two more goons at the end of the pier. They put up more of a fight. Once we eliminated them we bugged out as soon as we could. We bribed airport staff to keep us hidden and they let us board at the last possible second. We haven’t slept since.”
She waved her empty glass at the waiter, gesturing for another. Bishop did the same; Nash was still nursing his drink.
“Did you learn anything?” Nash asked.
“Yes,” Bishop said earnestly.
“What’s that?”
