Sir Hamish Walcott, MI6’s youngest chief ever, was jolted awake by the ring of his cell phone, a ringtone only reserved for emergencies. He fumbled with it in the dark and answered.
“Sir, sorry to wake you, but we have a situation with Yellowtail.”
Walcott listened, then hurried to his dressing room. He splashed water on his face and reached for the pressed shirt and suit he’d laid out just hours before. Five minutes later, he was sliding into the back seat of his waiting car.
“Good morning, sir.” The driver handed him an envelope, closed the door, and climbed behind the wheel. Walcott opened it and reviewed the contents, a single piece of paper. He frowned and peered out the window.
The dark streets were damp, barren. Thank goodness he operated well on little sleep, a practice he started while cramming for university exams. This wasn’t the first time he’d been awakened in the middle of the night, nor would it be the last. He smoothed his tie, unbuttoned his jacket. He was short and slim with thick, auburn hair and pale skin. He again glanced at the piece of paper. Why are we only finding this out now?
The car pulled into MI6 headquarters in Vauxhall Cross, London, and Walcott exited and made his way through the long corridor to his office. Four men, dressed in dark suits and colorful ties, rose when he entered. Pleasantries weren’t needed. The room was elegant but formal with dark colors. Ruby-red, velvet upholstered chairs and a long leather sofa sat under a row of windows that overlooked the interior courtyard. He threw the file on his desk, sat and leaned back in his chair, and glared at them. No one spoke. They knew better than to speak before he did. He wanted to remain calm and get all the facts before he started rolling heads. Someone messed up.
“How did this happen?” he asked.
Peter Campbell, a young MI6 agent with a heart-shaped face and a high forehead, shifted his long, thin physique in his chair. “We’re just finding this out, sir.”
“I read the file. Now give me the details.”
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