Glasgow 3.”
The line went silent for three seconds.The ambient sound of paper shuffling ceased.
“Who am I speaking to?”
“Call sign Vesper,” I answered.“Directorate of Special Operations, Redacted Operations Division.
Protocol code: Seven-Zero-Niner-Iron.”
A sharp intake of breath hissed over the receiver.
“Vesper,” the voice said, the cold professionalism replaced instantly by rigid attention.“You’ve been registered dead in the Langley registry for twenty-two years.”
“I am alive.My daughter is dying.”
I leaned against the damp concrete wall of the loading dock.
“I need an aeromedical ICU transport on the roof of St.
Jude General within forty minutes.
I need neurosurgery team Alpha from Walter Reed routed directly to the regional trauma hub.
And I need the Harrington dossier pulled from domestic surveillance.”
“Vesper, we don’t deploy assets for domestic family disputes—”
“Arthur,” I cut in, my voice dropping an octave into pure ice.“You were the station chief in Belgrade when your convoy was cut off in the valley.
