It wasn’t Arthur.
It was Julian Harrington.
Garrett’s father.Evelyn’s former husband, who had supposedly died in an offshore sailing accident in the Virgin Islands seven years ago.
“You look well, Vesper,” Julian said, setting the briefcase on the metal table beside the heart rate monitor.“Retirement seems to agree with your complexion.
Though I imagine the last twelve hours have been rather taxing on the cardiovascular system.”
I didn’t reach for a weapon.I didn’t jump from my chair.
When you find yourself inside a kill box that has been under construction for three years, sudden movements only serve to trigger the primary charges.
“The sailing accident,” I said, my voice level.“A sunken yacht forty miles south of St.
Thomas.
Two teeth found in a life preserver.”
“A classic extraction,” Julian smiled mildly, unbuttoning his suit jacket.“The dental records were provided by an old associate in the naval intelligence records office in Miami.
