Georgina’s faux-apologetic tone made Jack let out such a loud laugh that even the barista looked around. Somewhat sheepishly, he slunk to a table near the back of the café. It broke their line of sight of the laundromat but better some petty larceny than being recognised by a passer-by. Come in for a peppermint mocha, leave with a WTF expression on their face.
Her prompting made the encounter with Ooty Featherstonhaugh flashed past his eyes like a Kodak reel. Tone it down for Georgina, avoid a disaster, or tell the full story?
“I’m not going to discuss how Zenit Saint Petersburg is doing with that idiot, forget Pushkin,” he began, attempting the easy question first. “Of course, he went to Harrow and Oxford, so we’re talking about an idiot who’s really well-versed in Pushkin. But for the idea of tapping him to turn on his wife… it’s too slippery. He’s like a wet codfish. He looked devoted to that woman. All yes, dear and very well, dear.”
He wondered, briefly, if Georgina enjoyed Monty Python. What she did when she wasn’t chasing monsters.
“And I’m not saying I’ve ‘been made’ or whatever you Americans say.” Hands flat on the table, he leaned forward in his seat, trying to impress it as deeply as possible. “Everything’s fine, Georgie. I’m still in the clear. But, and this is a very small but here, I went to the same school as Ooty. Alumnus meets, overlapping years, the club of posh public school gits who also go to Oxford. Given a chance, he’s going to remember.” There it was, that uneasiness pulsing through Jack’s veins like sludge. “But it’s too early to pull me out. I’ve got fuck-all nothing on Makarovich or the Triumvirate. You have to keep an eye on Ooty, Georgie. He is not going to be the reason this operation goes up in flames.”
For someone who’s entire life hinged on not blowing his cover, he was suspiciously good at being paid attention in a crowd. Though can’t hide the gracious smile that creeps upon her face at the sheer boisterousness of his laugh. She follows him to their hidden corner, promptly setting a timer on her phone in an effort to combat a potential laundry heist.
She listens intently as she would on a real meeting. Though if it were, there’s no way she would have chosen the most conspicuous location of inside a coffee shop...she would have at least done it outside. She bites her lip and nods. “Okay I trust your judgement, both about his analytical capabilities and devotion to his wife,” The point was dead for now but that didn’t mean she’d stop pushing for an in with the armoury.
“Spotted, compromised, exposed—” she interrupted with a patriotic raise of her finger before leaning further back into her seat maintaining the distance between them. She lets the silence rest uneasy in the air for a beat, eyes training on his features as if the right answer was written across his forehead. “Plastic surgery,” she says staunchly, hoping to slice through the mounting tension with an ill-timed joke.
“But you do see this catch 22, right?” She peers down at her phone (personal phone, not to be confused with work phone one or work phone two) to check the timer, mere minutes have passed. “For both your safety, and that of the mission I should have you at least lay low— get out of the city,” She says this with the most sincerity she can muster. She knows all too well the pitfalls of their line of work. “But I know that you’re right and I hate to say it,” she sighs “Keep your distance and I’ll see what I can do,” Step one, phone the legal hackers and gather as much intelligence they possibly can.
