A R M E D A N D D A N G E R O U S
T H E L A S T T I M E A L E X had seen Mrs. Jones, she had been visiting him in a North London hospital. Then she had seemed unsure of herself, regretful, blaming herself for the security lapse that had left Alex close to death on the pavement outside the MI6 offices on Liverpool Street.
She had also been at her most human.
Now she was much more like the woman he had first met, dressed severely in a slate-colored jacket and dress with a single necklace that could have been silver or steel.
Her hair was tied back, and her face—with those night black eyes—was utterly serious. Mrs. Jones was not exactly attractive, but neither did she try to be. In a way, her looks exactly suited her work as head of MI6, Special Operations, one of the most secretive departments of the British secret service. They gave nothing away.
Once again she was sucking a peppermint. Alex wondered if she had given up smoking at some time. Or was the habit also related to her job? When Mrs. Jones spoke, people had a tendency to die. It wouldn’t surprise him if she felt the need to sweeten her breath.
The two of them were sitting in an office on the first floor of the building that stood directly behind Wat Ho. It was a very ordinary room with a wooden table and three
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leather chairs. Two large square windows looked out over the temple courtyard. Alex knew that all this could be de-ceptive. The glass was probably bulletproof. There would be hidden cameras and microphones. How many agents were there, mingling among the orange-robed monks?
When it came to MI6, nothing was ever quite what it seemed.
Ben Daniels, the man he had known as Fox, was also there. He was younger than Alex had first thought—no more than twenty-two or twenty-three, laid back and thoughtful. He was sitting next to Alex. The two of them were opposite Mrs. Jones, who had taken her place behind the table.
Alex had told her his story, from the time he had splashed down off the Australian coast to his recruitment by ASIS, his meeting with Ash in Bangkok, and his first encounter with the snakehead. He noticed that she had reacted sharply at the mention of Ash. But then, of course, she must have known him. She had been there when his father went undercover, working for Scorpia. She might even have been involved in the operation in Malta that had brought him safely home.
“Well, Ethan Brooke certainly has nerve,” she remarked when he had finished. “Recruiting you without so much as a by-your-leave! He could have talked to us first.”
“I don’t work for you,” Alex said.
“I know you don’t, Alex. But that’s not the point. At the very least you’re a British citizen, and if a foreign gov-A r m e d a n d D a n g e r o u s
ernment is going to use you, they might as well ask.” She softened slightly. “For that matter, whatever prompted you to go back into the field? I thought you’d had enough of all this.”
“I wanted to meet Ash,” Alex said. Another thought occurred to him. “Why did you never tell me about him?” he asked.
“Why should I have?” Mrs. Jones replied. “I haven’t seen him for almost ten years.”
“But he worked for you.”
“He worked for Special Operations at the same time as me. In fact, I had very little to do with him. I met him once or twice. That’s all.”
“Do you know what happened in Malta?” Mrs. Jones shook her head. “You’d have to ask Alan Blunt,” she said. “That was his operation. You know it was all a setup. John Rider—your father—was pretending to work for Scorpia, and we had to get him back. We set up a fake ambush in a place called Mdina, but it all went wrong. Ash was nearly killed, and shortly after that he left the service. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Where is Mr. Blunt?”
“He’s in London.”
“So why are you here?”
Mrs. Jones looked at Alex curiously. “You’ve changed,” she said. “You’ve grown up a lot. I suppose we’re to thank for that. You know, Alex, we weren’t going to use you again. I’d agreed with Alan—after what hap-154
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pened with Scorpia, that was going to be the end of it. But the next thing I knew, you’re in America, up to your neck in it with the CIA. I ought to congratulate you, by the way. That business with the Ark Angel space station was quite remarkable.”
“Thank you.”
“And now ASIS! You certainly get around.” Mrs. Jones reached forward and flipped open a file lying on the table in front of her. “It’s strange that we should have run into you this way,” she went on. “But it may be less of a coincidence than you think. Major Yu. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“He’s in charge of the snakehead.” Ethan Brooke had told Alex the name when he was in Sydney.
“Well, to answer your question, I’m here because we’re investigating him. That’s why Daniels is here too.” Mrs. Jones tapped the file with her index finger. “How much did ASIS tell you about Major Yu?” Alex shrugged. He felt uncomfortable suddenly, caught in the middle of two rival intelligence agencies.
“Not very much,” he admitted. “They don’t seem to know a lot about him. That’s part of my job . . .”
“Well, maybe I can help you.” Mrs. Jones paused.
