VOLUME 1, CHAPTER X.THE GIRL OF THE SNOWS
Ten minutes later, Marcus's burner phone screamed again. The voice on the other end delivered a report that wiped the exhaustion from his face, replacing it with a cold, sharp alarm. Two more high-priority pings followed in rapid succession. Marcus grabbed a sheet of stationery and scribbled a jagged note:
"Edris—I'm incredibly sorry, but I have to blow off our tea. I'm being pulled out of the city again on business. I'll be at my place in Hove over the weekend. Can you talk your mom into letting you come down there instead of heading home? I really need to see you. Drew will handle any messages if I'm out. Forgive me—the world is on fire today. —Yours as ever, Marcus."
He addressed it to the Berkeley and sent Drew sprinting toward Piccadilly to hand-deliver it.
At eleven sharp, Marcus sat at the head of the heavy oak table in his private office. The four men with him were the elite: shark-eyed, well-dressed, and fluent in five languages and three types of combat. They were the men who "did things" so the public didn't have to worry about them.
In a few biting sentences, Marcus laid out the Caborn play. He revealed facts that made even these veterans lean back in shock. His intuition was terrifying, and his story about the Edinburgh break-in only cemented their respect. Marcus was the kind of boss who led from the front; if a door needed kicking or a wire needed clipping, he did it himself with a shrug and a smile, as if he were just picking up the dry cleaning.
The men who truly run the world don't talk. Marcus never did. Only a handful of people in the Kingdom knew that his messy signature on a scrap of paper could move millions of pounds or shift a naval fleet.
"Listen close," Marcus said, his voice dropping an octave. "Caborn is a pro. He's one of the best assets the opposition has ever fielded. He knows London like a cabbie, and his wife, Joan, is a ghost. She was born in the States but moved here as a kid—no accent, no tells. They're cold, they're funded, and they're dangerous. But I'm warning you: watch your backs. One slip and you're a memory. I've done the recon; now it's your turn to execute."
The room went silent. The weight of the mission settled over them.
Marcus explained the hot-water bottles and the tin boxes he'd found. "I've insulated the terminals with paper discs. The circuit won't close when they hit the switch. That's your window of safety. There's a high-speed boat waiting for you at South Queensferry. No questions asked. Now move. The Caborns know my face, so I'm fading into the background. You hit the night train to Edinburgh. I'll be at the North British with Paton."
The meeting broke at noon. Marcus walked over to No. 10 Downing Street. He didn't wait; he was waved through immediately. He walked into the private study of Lord Heverbridge, the Prime Minister. The P.M. was seventy-seven, a silver-haired lion of the old guard, but his eyes were still sharp as glass.
"Marcus!" Heverbridge exclaimed. "You only show up when the building is burning. What is it?"
Marcus leaned against the P.M.'s polished desk and gave him the short version of the conspiracy.
"Good God," the P.M. whispered, his face turning ashen. "How did you dig this up?"
"A little luck and a lot of grease on my face," Marcus joked. "But it's real, and it's massive."
"Does the Admiralty know?"
"No. And let's keep it that way. They'd send in a destroyer and tip our hand. I've got my best team on it. I just wanted you to have the truth in case things go sideways."
The Prime Minister sighed, pacing the room. "The country owes you a debt it can never pay, Marcus. You do the work, you take the risks, and you refuse the honors. Why? I've offered you a title twice."
"Because I'm not a paid spy, Lord Heverbridge," Marcus said quietly. "I pay my own way. That way, no one can ever say I'm a servant. I'm just a guy who loves his country."
"You're a fool, Marcus. A brilliant, stubborn fool," the P.M. said with a sad smile. "You should marry. Find someone to share this weight with."
"Me? Marry?" Marcus laughed, a hollow sound. "I don't think so. I'm not built for that."
After ten more minutes of high-level briefing, Marcus walked back out into the London drizzle.
Back at Duke Street, Drew was waiting. "Note delivered, sir. Miss Temperley is on the line now."
Marcus picked up. "Edris! You got the note?"
"Marcus! You're a tease," she laughed. "Hove? Mom said yes—she's a saint. But you have to promise: we are going to Switzerland. No excuses."
Marcus gave an evasive answer. He liked Edris—she was his "platonic ideal." But she was young, and she had that boyfriend, Lionel. Marcus had never really felt "love"; he viewed it as a childhood disease like the flu. He wrote about it in his books because it sold, but to him, it was all fiction. He was two different men: the young, buoyant "Dear Marcus" that women loved, and the hard, callous Architect who never forgave an enemy.
"I'm heading back to Scotland now," Marcus told her. "But I'll be at the coast by Friday night. I'll meet you at Brighton station, 12:05 Saturday. Deal?"
"Deal. See you then, Marcus."
He hung up, the Prime Minister's words about marriage echoing in his head. Edris was a firecracker—independent, modern, and didn't care about the old rules of chaperones. The idea of her staying at his bachelor pad in Hove would have been a scandal ten years ago, but Edris didn't live in the past.
That night, he hit the rails again, bound for Edinburgh.
For the next forty-eight hours, he was a ghost, coordinating the surveillance on Strathnairn Road. By Friday morning, he was back on the train south. He reached his flat in Hove—his real "home"—just before midnight. It was a beautiful spot overlooking the Channel, a place where he could listen to the waves and forget the war for a few hours.
Kate, his housekeeper, had left out sandwiches and a drink. He ate like a man who hadn't seen food in days and crashed in a bed he hadn't slept in for months.
Saturday morning was crisp and salty. After finishing his morning reports, Marcus walked down to the Brighton platform as the London train hissed to a stop.
He saw her immediately—a flash of green fur-trimmed coat and a black hat. She looked incredible.
"Edris!" he called out, catching her hand. "It is so good to see you."
"Do you really mean that, Marcus?" she teased, her gray eyes dancing. "Or is that just your 'novelist' voice talking?"
He laughed and led her toward the waiting taxi. For a moment, the Caborns and the bombs felt a thousand miles away.