“We believe he is in Mauritania, Sir,” Michael offered, drawing upon from the intelligence that an aircraft belonging to one of the companies Wasir was linked had flown out of Bristol airport two hours after the attack with a passenger that looked like the ringleader onboard.
It had taken them a week to find out that the aircraft had flown first to Madeira then changed it flight plan mid-flight by taking a detour to Mauritania instead of Eritrea.
“Really?”
“Is that confirmed?” asked the DG, looking for a bone for the Foreign Secretary, his immediate superior, to gnaw on.
“Yes, the Americans confirmed it for us,” Rebecca answered. Something she had only just found out about, when to her surprise an English sounding voice had called her back a couple of days before in response to having asked Langley if it were case due to the fact they had assets on the ground. The voice confirmed the inquiry and then followed up with an email attaching surveillance footage to confirm it.
“Mmm so do you have a plan?” asked the DG, hoping it didn’t include an expensive Special Forces assault as he was already over budget.
“Yes we do,” Michael answered looking towards Rebecca.
The man that greeted Rebecca was not the same man of several months ago at his annual party. Although he was smartly dressed and his face sported a neatly trimmed full beard, his eyes told a somewhat different story.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Rebecca said shaking his hand first then just as everybody else had since Nara’s death offering her sympathy and condolences.
“I have something for you,” she said giving him the envelope.
“Where were these photos taken?” he asked after he pulled them out.
“Mauritania,” Rebecca answered simply.
“Thank you. I owe you one,” he said understanding why she was giving him the photos.
“No, you don’t,” she replied before explaining the link that bound them. Once she finished, Thomas took her hand lifted it to his lips and gently kissed her fingers looking her straight in the eyes. Not a word said between them.
Composing herself, Rebecca got up and made to leave the conference room, but when she reached the door she stopped and turned back towards to Thomas.
“Got shtroft! der mentsh iz zich noikem!” she said in Yiddish.
Thomas’s reply to her statement was a mere nod. No translation was necessary; he understood the meaning completely.
Picking up the phone on the conference table, Thomas dialed the personal number for Sergei Andreyevich Petrov who like everybody else when he picked up offered his own set of condolences.
The painful account of ‘thank you’s’ out of the way, Thomas set about explaining what information Rebecca had just given him, if not the source of information.
Once completed, the Head of Zaslon replied he would send Igor and his team to assist him following up on the directive made by the Mayor that all efforts would be made to find the man that had almost taken Russia and America to the brink of war.
* * *
Awake at seven. Thomas gently moved his sleeping daughter by the side of him. He got up and went into his bathroom, showered, trimmed his beard and brushed his teeth before returning to the bedroom. Taking a moment, he sat down by the side of Victoria and gently stroked her hair, seeing Nara in her features brought him a sense of peace if only for just a moment.
“Time to get dressed Plum,” he said using her nickname gently as he woke her. Opening her eyes again, he found Nara staring right back at him as if haunting him through their daughter. She still hadn’t spoken since that fateful day. Knowing his daughter was traumatized, initially Thomas had hoped that eventually she would just start naturally talking again but as of yet that still hadn’t happened. Instead, she would just nod and hug everybody she knew when was asked something.
“She needs help!” offered Hannah, firmly backed up by Tania in turn, when they confronted him in the study of the Holland Park house.
“They are right, Thomas,” Mikhail also offered to support his wife and Victoria’s grandmother.
“I’ll think about it,” Thomas had responded, unimpressed with their proposal yet understanding why they were pushing him.
It wasn’t though until Pritchard offered his opinion when bringing him some coffee in the afternoon that he actually took notice.
“Sir, may I have a minute?” asked the butler putting down the tray with the silver coffee pot.
“Of course Pritchard,” Thomas answered, turning off the television he was watching before turning towards him.
“You’re bloody fool, Sir!” Pritchard blurted out when their eyes met.
“Pardon!” Thomas replied absolutely shocked.
“Sir! That little girl needs help! And you’re an arrogant bugger if you think she doesn’t,” he said. “You and she are the nearest thing I have to a family! So please I am begging you, don’t allow her to be lost to the demons of her soul like your mother!” he said going for the killer blow.
Looking at Pritchard who was actually shaking from the emotional courage he had used to create a stand on behalf of Victoria, Thomas reflected first on his statements then acknowledged within seconds that his old charge was right, and it took the mention of his mother’s demons to terrify the hell out of him to recognize it.
“Thank you Stephen,” he said taking his arm to put him at ease as his mind took on board the possibility that his little girl might end up the same way if he didn’t act. “I will make the call,” he continued as Stephen went about pouring the coffee his hand still shaking.
“Blast!” Pritchard said, having spilt coffee in the saucer and not wanting to embarrass him Thomas said nothing having recognizing the courage it took to confront him in the first place.
Awake, Victoria hugged him first, got up with the sleep still in her eyes and left the bedroom, to return to her own room; still not a word muttered by her. Thomas’s eyes never lost sight of her until she closed the bedroom door behind her.
“Soon,” he thought almost as if he were talking to Nara. His mind lost to the demons of vengeance.
Walking into the dressing room that still smelled of Nara’s perfume, Thomas faced up to the possibility that, after the funeral today and when the time was right and he left to revenge Victoria’s mother, his little girl could lose him as well.
He reflected for a moment as he tied his black tie.
“You have no choice,” his mind concluded in reference to the conversation that he now knew he need to have. A conversation with the one person in the world he swore he would never ask for support.
Arriving at the Litchfield House estate they were greeted by a whole volley of flashes from to the cameras outside the gates from journalists that had massed to record the funeral. Keeping his eyes ahead with Victoria tucked under his arm Thomas ignored them. Instead he focused his gaze on the road ahead that led to his father’s mansion.
Admired by all since it was established in the 1880s as a country retreat on a grand scale for its magnificent gardens, the house had once been the glittering hub of society; visited by virtually every British Monarch and home to Litchfield’s since the early twentieth century and just as infamous for its exclusive parties and political gatherings.
Yet, because his mother hated it she had rarely visited it during her lifetime, preferring the party set of London, that’s why he had always found it ironic that she had chosen it as her final place. Of course, he knew why. It was his mother’s twisted way of punishing Rufus and telling his young wife that one day he would come back to her.
* * *
Despite his mother’s tormented last laugh on his father Thomas however, thought the house was lovely, but because it would have meant interacting with his Father he had never visited his mother’s grave.
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