Chapter 18
It was three weeks into the New Year, and we were starting to hear interesting repercussions with regards to Malossini’s death.
“We’ll just sit back and watch the pot percolate, shall we?” the Wolf had asked me with one of his smiles shortly before I left for the day.
His face truly was going to break one day.
Now I was at home, once again considering the events of New Year’s Eve.
Throughout the mission to reclaim my operative, there lingered the nagging questions regarding my nephew. Had his mother really run away with another man? Had she really died in some tiny African country? And what was it about the cellar of Haynsworth’s house, the very memory of which, however deeply it had been buried, had left St John appearing almost shell-shocked?
The ringing of my telephone
