O’Leary scoffed. “Oh, Mastermind. Mastermind contacted us sometime after my second million to see if we were interested in a partnership. They had ideas—too many ideas to do themselves, so they wanted someone else to workshop them.”
“Does that happen?”
“In business? Never. Or nearly never. But we were young and idealistic—and I thought a few tame ideas might help curb Syl’s more... destructive impulses. It worked. I even unloaded some of our own projects, the ones that I couldn’t make work for general sale, to Mastermind’s outfit. They had a use for anything and everything, even the more explosive items. Until I realized Mastermind wasn’t so much helping to curb Syl’s impulses as they were... doing some redirecting of their own. The explosive items I couldn’t use? They almost always stemmed from Mastermind’s suggestions.”
O’Leary sighed and rested his head back against the seat. “And now it’s too late. If you saw the video of us discussing our control, or lack thereof, over Syl, then you surely know what Mastermind intended for him.”
Elliot’s stomach dropped. “Mastermind wants to kill Cicero. And have Anthony Dare do it.”
“And I imagine we’re on our way to Bulgaria to... stop him? Help him?”
“The former, I hope,” said Elliot. “The DVM doesn’t kill. I don’t care who gave Anthony the kill order – and I would have hoped that Anthony would care, too, but...”
Elliot gulped at his drink, feeling the burn in his throat. He came up coughing.
Even if it was Winston ordering it. Maybe I’m wrong about Anthony. I was wrong about the DVM, that’s for sure.
“Hard thing, isn’t it,” said O’Leary sympathetically. “To learn that someone you’ve trusted for so long is actually working for your nemesis.”
I can’t be wrong about Anthony. He wouldn’t kill Cicero, even if Winston had ordered it.
“Syl felt the same about Winston, you know. The tirades he’d go on about it! He was always quite despondent.”
But if Anthony knew the order came from Winston... then why would he leave the safehouse in such a rush? I’m missing something here. I just wish I knew what!
“It started to affect his enthusiasm for the job. In the end, Mastermind promised she’d ensure that Winston was retired, and it was much better after that.”
...She.
Elliot looked up. “What?”
“Anthony Dare was a much better adversary for Syl. The bantering! It was enjoyable all around, really. Kept Syl’s mind quite sharp.”
“And... Mastermind. She made sure Winston retired?”
Which means... she wasn’t Winston Eames?
O’Leary slowly spun what little liquid was left in his glass. “History repeating itself. I’m well aware. First Winston, then Enrique, now Cicero. Anyone who gets too close needs to go. I understand, of course – wouldn’t you?”
“I suppose,” said Elliot, almost on autopilot. If Winston isn’t Mastermind – who is? Who at the DVM could be Mastermind?
“I’m very glad to hear that,” said O’Leary. “Syl’s rather tired of it, of course. It was fun when we were young, when it was all a game of wits and glory. But it hasn’t been that in a very long time.”
There were fourteen people on the Cicero account. Two were Anthony and Elliot. Of the remaining twelve, only four identified as women. The gender inequality had always bugged Elliot—but right then, he was almost grateful.
O’Leary set down his drink. “So. We stop Syl from killing Anthony. We stop Anthony from killing Syl. And... then what? You realize putting us both in DVM custody won’t change a thing, if Mastermind works for the DVM.”
“No, it won’t,” said Elliot, frantically thinking. “She’d only let you both out again. We’ll have to arrest her too.”
“You are a clever one,” mused O’Leary. “How do you think you’ll manage to do that?”
Four women on the account. Two were junior-level analysts who couldn’t authorize a kill order for a flea. One had been a field agent twenty years before, and might have been able to put a quiet suggestion into Anthony’s head, but no more.
The fourth was Bea.
Chapter Eighteen
Bulgaria was beautiful in the spring. The sky was blue, the mountains were green, the clouds were that perfect shape of fluffy that brought to mind children’s cartoons and pasted tissue paper.
Not that Anthony Dare noticed anything but the oversized, outrageously placed secret base on the outskirts of the quaint little town in the mountains. “Secret” was something of a misnomer, because it was painfully obvious that everyone knew who Anthony was and why he was there. After all, he’d landed a helicopter in the middle of the town square—and yet no one had blinked an eye. The man selling vegetables on the corner glanced with disinterest before returning to weighing his onions; the woman serving coffee at the café had just sighed as if helicopters were mere nuisances. Instead of screaming and running for cover, she continued putting up the umbrellas shading the tables.
Even the pigeons were rather blasé about him, pecking at invisible crumbs in the cobblestone cracks, as if helicopters ferrying secret agents landed in the town square every day of the week.
The children playing on the far end of the square didn’t come running up to him. Children always ran up when Anthony Dare appeared.
It was just... weird. Exactly like he was expected – and if that wasn’t enough to put Anthony on edge, he wasn’t sure what else could.
Winston knew Cicero and O’Leary, Cicero wants to kill Elliot, mused Anthony. And absolutely no one cares that I’ve double-parked a helicopter in the middle of their town square!
Anthony was about to walk out of the square, when finally, finally, someone came running, waving their hands.
“Sir!” gasped the police officer in a thick Bulgarian accent. “You must pay for parking.”
Anthony stared at him. “It’s a helicopter.”
“Yes, sir. The payment machines are over there,” continued the police officer, waving to a kiosk with a large “P” on it. “It takes credit card,” he added helpfully.
“Right,” said Anthony, somewhat befuddled. He stared at the parking pay meter, wondering how much time to request.
Hiking to the secret base would take perhaps an hour. Sneaking in, another fifteen minutes, no more. Finding Cicero and...
Anthony’s brain refused to continue.
Winston knew Cicero and O’Leary. They were at school together.
Why wouldn’t Winston mention it? Why wouldn’t Cicero have brought it up?
What else was Winston hiding?
Three hours. He’d put in for three hours. It wouldn’t take that long, surely?
How does Cicero even know about Elliot? He’s never left the DVM before. He’s been my partner for less than a day. That transcript was from two weeks ago.
“Sir,” said the police officer as Anthony finished the transaction. “Just one quick question, sir, before you go on?”
“Uh,” said Anthony, pocketing the receipt from the parking machine, absently wondering if he needed to put it in the helicopter’s windshield, “Yes. Go ahead.”