"Europe's drug crisis is our ticket into the Mediterranean security architecture." Victor said, "Congo's Eastern European network is a time bomb for the future; we need to lay the wiring in advance. Scotland, we free-range for now. Wait until he figures it out himself."
He turned and walked toward the main entrance of the lab building.
He walked a few steps, then stopped.
"Tell Gals," Victor said without looking back, "that 'Black Sea Wolf' Hendrick—try to take him alive. He's seen a lot of people he shouldn't have seen, and what he's carrying in his head is worth more than Congo's cobalt mines."
24 October 1997, Edinburgh, Holyrood Palace.
The whisky was a 25-year Glenfiddich, amber, like melted honey under the lights.
Sarah Kent took a sip.
She wasn't a whisky person. The glass in her hand was more for warmth—Edinburgh's night wind was even colder than Liverpool's, slipping through the gaps in stone walls built centuries ago and seeping into this side reception room.
