“They told you not to detain me, didn’t they?” Smith imagined the gruff-voiced man running the show could be somewhat intimidating.
“That is not their prerogative. We have information we need to uncover.”
The man pulled at his tie, loosening the collar, as Smith stood up. “But not from me. I gave my statement.”
“Where will you be staying?” the CIA agent asked as he stood up. Smith’s build dwarfed the agent’s six-foot-two-inch medium build and frame.
“I have no idea.” Which was God’s honest truth. He had his passport, no money, and no idea where Val was if she was still around. Her obligations to Guardian were more important than her interest in him.
A shout echoed down the hallway, and Clearwater spun and opened the door. “What’s happening?” He grabbed a man in a suit sprinting down the hall.
“The Hague has been attacked. A small plane with explosives.”
Clearwater looked over his shoulder at him. “Not again.”
“It could have been coordinated,” Smith mused. Actually, it probably was. “If our plane hadn’t been diverted for an immediate landing, the timing would have been perfect for a coordinated attack.”
“Jesus.” Clearwater shook his head. “I have to go. Stay in London.” The man bolted out of the room, leaving the door open.
Smith stepped out into the hallway and glanced left and right. He’d come up through the garage and wasn’t in a controlled area. He wandered the halls and finally found an arrow indicating a direction he should take. No one gave him a second look as they scurried or gathered around televisions.
“Smithson?” The male voice in his earpiece made him jump.
He rolled his eyes and cracked his neck. Lord, he would never get used to that. “Yes?”
“Where are you?”
“Leaving MI5 if I can find the exit. Everyone is rather busy right now.” As several men carrying laptops and tablets darted past him, he stood to the side.
“I can imagine. There’ll be someone outside to pick you up, but depending on traffic, there could be a delay.”
“Val?”
“Safe and secure. We’re taking you to her.”
“They’re looking for her.” He adjusted his jacket as he approached the main doors.
“They always do. She’s good at what she does. They won’t find her.”
Smith didn’t respond. If there wasn’t a question involved, he rarely spoke out of turn.
“Your ride will find you. Hang loose out front. He’s about five minutes away.” The voice stopped talking, which was okay with him. Smith scanned the area. There was a view of the Thames River, and across the water, he could make out an area he’d love to visit. He oriented himself. Over there would be the Globe Theater. He’d read Shakespeare and did a deep dive on the man himself. There wasn’t much besides the biographical documentation found in birth certificates, baptisms, marriage certificates, and, eventually, wills. Yet the man was a master of language and drama.
A person walked up next to where he was standing. “Damn, Val picked a big one.”
Smith tipped his head down enough to see the man beside him. Again, he didn’t speak. There was no question to be answered.
“You are Smithson Young?”
“I am,” he acknowledged.
“All right. Come with me. I’ll get you to where you need to be.” Smith looked at his … retrieval, for lack of a better word. He stood well over six feet tall and was broad through the shoulders.
“Who are you?” He wasn’t going anywhere without an explanation, even though the gentleman was privy to Val’s name.
“That’s your ride,” the voice in his ear spoke again, but it was laced with static and popped like crazy.
Smith cocked his head. “How long are you going to be listening to me?”