Free The Orpheus Deception by David Stone Page B

forces at play in Europe now. These jihadis are a virus in the blood of the West. Wherever they are found, they must be exterminated. They are a death cult. There is no reasoning with them. Even the Dutch and the French have stiffened themselves. You cannot have a truce with such people. It is a cold war, and, like the Cold War, we are forced to descend to brutal tactics, even when we have a strong distaste for it. Methods are used now that Il Duce would have liked, and even good men are stained by what must be done. I cannot give comfort to someone who has become an enemy of his own country.”

    “I’m not an enemy of my country. Or of the Agency.”

    “Then why are you running from your own men?”

    Dalton studied Brancati’s face and saw no room for games in his cold, dark glare. Hell, he deserved at least a sense of what was at play in his own city, if only for his own safety.

    “Okay. I can give you the situation, but I can’t tell you what the central matter really is, other than to say that it relates to a Company operation. Run out of Clandestine Services, under Deacon Cather.”

    “A . . . black op, is that how you say it?”

    “Yes. A black operation.”

    “And you can’t tell me the name of this . . . op?”

    “No.”

    “No? Then maybe I tell you. Was it something called Orpheus?”

    Dalton’s face seemed to harden up, close down, like concrete setting. Which of course told Brancati, a trained interrogator, all he needed to know.

    “I see that it was,” said Brancati, not without sympathy.

    “It was called that, yes. I suppose I talked . . .”

    “I’m considering the application of morphine in all our future interrogations. So much happier for all concerned than a beating. Everyone smiling. Dreamy. Much happy talk.”

    “What did I say . . . about Orpheus?”

    “Everything! Like a chattering cuckoo. I know all, Micah. Tutti.”

    Dalton looked at the man for a while, his breathing constricted, and then he remembered that Brancati was also a cop.

    “Like hell you do. I don’t believe you.”

    Brancati held a sharpened glare for a while and then broke into a grin.

    “No, of course you don’t. But you did say the name. So now that we know the name, will you tell me what is behind the name?”

    “I can’t, Alessio.”

    “Okay. Allora. Whatever Orpheus is, is it a threat to any Italians?”

    “No. Not at all. It’s not a threat to any civilian anywhere. It’s not even something I disapprove of. I don’t think you would either. My problem is, I found out about it. It was handed to me by . . . a dead friend—”

    “Mr. Naumann?”

    “Yes. But indirectly. Through an intermediary.”

    “And the intermediary . . . ?”

    “His secretary. In London. A woman named Mandy Pownall. She was also his lover, I suspect. But now that I know about Orpheus, it can’t be unknown, and it’s quite plausible that some men connected to the operation will do whatever is necessary to make sure I don’t talk.”

    “Are you likely to talk?”

    “Hell no.”

    “Then say so. Tell the Company. What did Le Carré say . . . ‘come in from the cold’? Reassure them. You’re a trusted man, a proven man.”

    What Brancati was saying made sense. Maybe it was still possible to come in from the cold. In the CIA, the tricky bit about being a prodigal son returning was surviving your welcome-home party. In the meantime, Brancati’s restless mind had run on to his own official concerns.

    “Micah, what you cannot tell me about Orpheus—this thing that’s apparently fatal to know—would it cause the CIA to send someone to kill you in Venice?”

    “Possibly.”

    “Like this blond girl?”

    “Possibly. But I don’t see them using a stolen glass blade to do it in the first place. If the Company wants you dead, most of the time it happens so quietly that no one ever thinks of it as a murder. We don’t like attention. This stabbing, right out in the open, in front of thousands of