Merwyn's only in his forties, but his hair is snow-white and so fine that strands float in the air even on this windless day. His face is criss-crossed with fine wrinkles, his eyelids folded at the corners, his mouth a firm, disapproving line. Though careful to maintain a respectful distance, he fixes Carter with a patented stare when he finally sits down.
Repressing a smile, Carter returns the stare for a moment, then says, âIf you don't get the fuck off this bench, I'll cut your throat from one ear to the other.'
The threat is wasted, as Carter knew it would be. The psychological training for spooks is every bit as demanding as the physical training Carter endured on his path through the ranks to Delta Force. Still, he feels a little better as he watches Thoma dismiss the bluff with a shake of his head.
âYou should never have left us,' he says. âYou were among the very best of the very best.'
âMaybe I got tired of killing.'
âI doubt that very much, but I haven't come to discuss your business. No, I've come to make two things clear.' Thoma raises his walking stick and taps Carter's knee. âYour country needs you, Carter.'
âThat's one thing, Merwyn. What's the other?'
âYou will answer the call of duty.'
Carter laughs as he hasn't laughed in years, startling a flock of pigeons feeding on a dropped sandwich nearby. They rise a few feet into the air, their cooing distinctly accusatory, but quickly settle down as Carter shifts the cane away from his knee. Carter's thinking that Merwyn's probably right. Whatever the spooks have on him will be enough to secure his cooperation. Which, he supposes, leaves a single issue to be discussed.
âWhat's in it for me?' he asks.