by KJ Hannah Greenberg
According to Colonel Prig, failing to kowtow to torture was overrated. Much better was ratting on cohorts than was flinching from splints inserted under fingernails or crying when bits of extremities were chopped off and made into salad.
What’s more, a dead spy was of less use to either organization than was a turncoat; the latter could be transformed into a pawn while the former, if lucky, went six feet under. As per losses incurred from voluntary disclosure, professional risk was as concomitant to espionage as were venereal disease and bad chop suey. Neither Mallory nor Richard ought to be set up, but they were not funding the Prig Kids’ College Fund.
Accordingly, when Devin held the Walther P99 to Prig’s head, Prig sung better than any budgie. He spoke of the director’s hidden Floridian glade mansion and of Agent Tiny’s expertise in Chin Na. Prig even drew a sketch of the vault where Commander Green had secreted the Empress Diamond.
Devin pulled the trigger, nonetheless. His Palm Beach County team had already located the competitor’s manor. Tiny, a double agent, was more reputed for Wing Chun than fancy choke holds. The Empress Diamond was paste; Devin knew as he had planted it.
Tsking over the Colonel’s spilled grey matter, Devin punched a number into his phone, pulled up a chair and then got comfy was a book. While waiting for backup, Devin read a little more about Watson’s choices in “His Last Bow.”