in.”
“When I get back from Montreal, we'll do a preliminary report and the Wise Men can tell us which of the two alternatives looks more likely.” The Wise Men were a committee who oversaw the activities of the CIA's Plans Division, the “wet” end of the Agency, without whose permission no meaningful operation could be initiated.
Morton was still not convinced. “But why would you want to solo? Why not arrange for full back-up from the word go?”
“Jim, I don't much care what happens to me anymore, not career–wise, not any–wise. If I solo, and I call the shots wrong, they'll can me and disown me. They'll be in a position, and so will you for that matter, to deny any connection between me and the Agency. Rogue agent rises from the dead, hell-bent on revenge, demented with grief and rage, that sort of thing.”
Morton felt awkward. “Are you telling me you'd be willing to lay your career on the line for this? That you're—”
“What career, for God's sake? I'm at a dead end and have been for years, and I'm very happy about it. I've been eligible for retirement for a long time. I've stuck around because I've got nothing better to do.”
“That the only reason?” Morton asked softly.
Lonsdale looked away. “At the beginning there was this desire to revenge my wife's murder, but even that faded after a while.”
A decade earlier, almost to the day, Lonsdale had been in a Montreal hospital under guard, recovering from a bullet wound in his shoulder, the result of an Islamic terrorist's failed assassination attempt.
It had started to snow early that day and, by evening, a full-blown storm raged outside the windows of the Royal Victoria Hospital. Lonsdale—his name had been Bernard Lands in those days—had eaten dinner with his wife, Andrea, and they had turned in early, he in his hospital bed, she in the room adjacent.
He had been restless, tossing and turning until he dozed off around two, and had slept fitfully for about an hour and a half, awakening in a cold sweat, trembling. His spare pillow and bedcovers were on the floor, the bed sheets all rumpled. He looked at his watch: three thirty-eight in the morning and, from what he could see, a blinding snowstorm still blowing outside. He got up awkwardly, favoring his wounded shoulder, picked up the pillow and bedclothes with his good arm, and threw them onto the bed. He walked over to the window and looked out; the storm was so bad that all he could see was a white glow: the diffusion of the parking lot lights off the sheet of snow in front of his window.
He trotted over to the bathroom to relieve himself then wiped his face and neck with a wet towel. It was at that moment that he heard a noise, as if someone had thrown a snowball against the mosquito screen covering the window.
He thought it was the wind. But then he heard the noise again and looked over to the window. An immense shadow was sliding into view from above. His instinct and training alerted him right away to what was happening, but he was powerless to defend himself. His pistol and walkie-talkie were on the night table beside the bed. He screamed for help.
The window exploded into a thousand splinters of glass. Bullets and the smell of cordite filled the room. He crouched down between the toilet bowl and the bathtub, and watched, frozen in place, as the assassin's weapon raked his bed with long bursts of gunfire. The good Lord must have been looking after him, because he did not as much as get nicked by flying glass or the ricocheting bullets. The firing stopped as abruptly as it had started, and he knew very well what would come next: the familiar thud and rolling noise. He screamed “Grenade” at the top of his voice and dived into the bathtub.
And that's where they found him, temporarily deaf, stunned, and with a nose bleed from the concussion. His head and injured shoulder were aflame with pain, but otherwise he was all right.
Pandemonium had spread across the fifth floor of
“When I get back from Montreal, we'll do a preliminary report and the Wise Men can tell us which of the two alternatives looks more likely.” The Wise Men were a committee who oversaw the activities of the CIA's Plans Division, the “wet” end of the Agency, without whose permission no meaningful operation could be initiated.
Morton was still not convinced. “But why would you want to solo? Why not arrange for full back-up from the word go?”
“Jim, I don't much care what happens to me anymore, not career–wise, not any–wise. If I solo, and I call the shots wrong, they'll can me and disown me. They'll be in a position, and so will you for that matter, to deny any connection between me and the Agency. Rogue agent rises from the dead, hell-bent on revenge, demented with grief and rage, that sort of thing.”
Morton felt awkward. “Are you telling me you'd be willing to lay your career on the line for this? That you're—”
“What career, for God's sake? I'm at a dead end and have been for years, and I'm very happy about it. I've been eligible for retirement for a long time. I've stuck around because I've got nothing better to do.”
“That the only reason?” Morton asked softly.
Lonsdale looked away. “At the beginning there was this desire to revenge my wife's murder, but even that faded after a while.”
A decade earlier, almost to the day, Lonsdale had been in a Montreal hospital under guard, recovering from a bullet wound in his shoulder, the result of an Islamic terrorist's failed assassination attempt.
It had started to snow early that day and, by evening, a full-blown storm raged outside the windows of the Royal Victoria Hospital. Lonsdale—his name had been Bernard Lands in those days—had eaten dinner with his wife, Andrea, and they had turned in early, he in his hospital bed, she in the room adjacent.
He had been restless, tossing and turning until he dozed off around two, and had slept fitfully for about an hour and a half, awakening in a cold sweat, trembling. His spare pillow and bedcovers were on the floor, the bed sheets all rumpled. He looked at his watch: three thirty-eight in the morning and, from what he could see, a blinding snowstorm still blowing outside. He got up awkwardly, favoring his wounded shoulder, picked up the pillow and bedclothes with his good arm, and threw them onto the bed. He walked over to the window and looked out; the storm was so bad that all he could see was a white glow: the diffusion of the parking lot lights off the sheet of snow in front of his window.
He trotted over to the bathroom to relieve himself then wiped his face and neck with a wet towel. It was at that moment that he heard a noise, as if someone had thrown a snowball against the mosquito screen covering the window.
He thought it was the wind. But then he heard the noise again and looked over to the window. An immense shadow was sliding into view from above. His instinct and training alerted him right away to what was happening, but he was powerless to defend himself. His pistol and walkie-talkie were on the night table beside the bed. He screamed for help.
The window exploded into a thousand splinters of glass. Bullets and the smell of cordite filled the room. He crouched down between the toilet bowl and the bathtub, and watched, frozen in place, as the assassin's weapon raked his bed with long bursts of gunfire. The good Lord must have been looking after him, because he did not as much as get nicked by flying glass or the ricocheting bullets. The firing stopped as abruptly as it had started, and he knew very well what would come next: the familiar thud and rolling noise. He screamed “Grenade” at the top of his voice and dived into the bathtub.
And that's where they found him, temporarily deaf, stunned, and with a nose bleed from the concussion. His head and injured shoulder were aflame with pain, but otherwise he was all right.
Pandemonium had spread across the fifth floor of
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