“He’s action, not analyst,” said Elliot. “I’ve got it narrowed down to one of O’Leary’s security personnel, or maybe a personal assistant. I’d say a spy, but I don’t know why O’Leary would employ one, honestly.”
Daria laughed. “Well, you’re not wrong. But I’m not going to tell you you’re right, either.”
“He’ll figure it out eventually,” said Anthony casually, examining the books on the shelves. Mostly, they were books about business and economics. A few spy novels—none of the good ones, in Anthony’s opinion, but then few were.
Elliot snorted and ignored Anthony. “Kind of surprised O’Leary would have a desktop computer.”
“Laptops can be stolen,” said Daria. “This one’s bolted to the desk.”
“Oh, sure, because that’s a totally sensible thing that a normal non-super-villain person would do,” said Elliot dryly.
“What exactly am I looking for, anyway?” asked Daria.
Elliot crossed the room and stood behind her. “Finances, I think. O’Leary is funding a lot of Cicero’s projects. Look for unexplained transfers, or amounts that don’t make sense for the recipient. Fake people or fake companies or—Are you fucking kidding me?!?!”
Anthony had moved on from the books and was studying the photographs on the wall, but Elliot’s yelp instantly put him on guard. “What?”
Daria stopped scrolling and pointed at the screen. “Or regular payments made out to Cicero Villainy Services, for half a million dollars, every two weeks like clockwork.”
“Does he think he’s never going to be audited?” demanded Elliot, leaning over Daria as he studied the screen. “No, he just puts it out there! Hello, I’m funding Cicero’s plan to take over the world!”
“Do you want me to print it out?” asked Daria. “Or should we download it to something?”
“Download everything,” said Anthony, almost absently as he returned to the wall. “You can go through it later when we’re not pressed for time.”
Elliot almost looked approving. “This is proof, you know. If he’s giving regular payments to Cicero—not even for something specific! That’s pretty damning.”
“Very much,” said Anthony, pausing by one photograph.
There was something about it. Anthony studied it, frowning.
It wasn’t an unusual photograph, really. A school picture, at least thirty years old, exactly like every other class photo of every other upscale boy’s boarding school ever taken. Fresh-faced teenagers all lined up on risers outside a rather staid-looking stone building. There were no captions to indicate the year or the school, but each boy had signed their names in childish scrawls next to their heads, one after the other. Robert... James... Archibald...
Sylvester. Syl.
“How far back do these records go?” Elliot asked.
“About twenty years, at least. All the way to the beginning of his company. He started right out of school. I don’t know if his association with Cicero dates back that far, but—”
The names continued. Thomas. Rupert.
Winston.
Anthony’s eyes stalled on the name – but when he saw the boy under the childish scrawl, his heart sank.
He knew that boy. At least, he knew the man that boy would be after another thirty years, fifteen of which would be spent chasing the world’s bad guys, drinking whiskeys with twists of lemon all the way.
“Get them all,” said Anthony, still staring at the photo.
“Sure, on it,” said Daria, clicking away on the keyboard.
“Anthony?” said Elliot, worried. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” said Anthony, thinking about five years of training under Winston Eames. Learning to sneak in and slip out without detection. When to follow the clues, and when to take a leap of faith. When to trust your partner... and when you had to trust yourself.
“You’ll be better than me someday, kid. I’m gonna make sure you live that long.”
Winston Eames had gone to school with Archibald O’Leary and Cicero. That was the sort of information that got into one’s file, could potentially keep a person off a certain case.
But Winston spent ten years chasing down Cicero. And as far as Anthony knew (and Anthony had memorized Winston’s file the week after becoming his partner), he’d never said a thing.
You bastard.
Anthony tugged on his shirt sleeves without looking at Elliot or Daria. “Daria, does O’Leary keep a liquor cabinet? I could do with a Scotch.”
“Yeah, there’s a bar in the hall near the kitchen,” she said, distracted.
“Good. You keep downloading those files. I’ll be back soon.”
“Yeah, sure,” said Elliot, his voice uncertain.
“Hey, look at this,” said Daria—but Anthony was already halfway down the hall.
Elliot, much to Anthony’s relief, didn’t follow him, undoubtedly captivated by whatever Daria had discovered. Just as well; he was doing his job, exactly as he had been doing for the entire mission. He was even good at it, Anthony had to admit: clever and intuitive, brave and headstrong. He’d keep digging until he found the truth, and then he’d expose every inch of it to the light.
Anthony scanned the contents of the very fancy bar near the kitchen. There was a wide array of bottles, including several bottles of Bea’s preferred brands of Scotch.
Perfect, thought Anthony, nearly knocking over the whiskey to pull it out.
None of the glasses in the bar were right for Scotch – wine and champagne, mostly – so Anthony carried the bottle into the kitchen to look for something suitable.
Whiskey, twist of lemon.
Archibald. Sylvester... and Winston.
You were at school with both of them. Why didn’t you include that on any of your reports, Winston?
Anthony opened cupboard after cupboard, but found them surprisingly bare. A few had neatly stacked bowls and plates. One or two had a box of cereal or a cannister of sugar. Even the fridge was empty of anything except a rock-hard lemon.
You would have kept it a secret for a reason—tell me you weren’t in on it, were you? All the times Cicero got away... all the times he slipped through our fingers. Your insistence that we focus on him, and not worry about how he kept managing to stay afloat....
I trusted you. And you were playing us all for fools.
Anthony opened the last cupboard, but instead of glasses, he found only the recycling bin.
“Dammit,” muttered Anthony, slamming the cupboard door.
The paper flitted through the air, landing at Anthony’s feet. It was just a scrap – as if someone had torn the full sheet before tossing it into the recycling bin. Anthony caught it before it hit the floor.
TOP SECRET – CONFIDENT—, read the top of the page, which made Anthony snort. Because of course O’Leary would not only print out top secret information, he’d just rip it in half before tossing it in the recycling bin.
Anthony set the Scotch down and leaned back against the counter to read. It was formatted almost exactly like a play.
C (cont.)
guess I have to kill this Elliot Bichler, because he’s getting too close to the truth.
Anthony’s hands began to shake. He kept reading.