Mer and I had just narrowly avoided being captured by Pollock's goons and would probably have been 'offed' or 'disappeared', or whatever convenient term would be used to account for our suddenly going missing.
Sometime in the far future our remains might have been discovered in a landfill site, or lake in the vicinity, but for now we had escaped and our voices had not been stilled.
And that was never going to happen...not now, not ever.
Yeah, we were shaken, but I could see on Mer's face the same emotion I felt inside—we were pissed and weren't going to let Pollock scare or silence us.
Our rescuer parked the SUV outside the CSIS offices.
"Martin Withers is waiting for you inside," he said calmly.
"Wait a minute," I rasped, "you show up out of the blue and save our ass and now you'e going to dump us?"
"I'm not your rescuer, Logan, I'm an operative following orders. Ask Martin Withers he'll explain the situation to you."
The lock on the Suv's rear door clicked open and Mer and I stepped out into a cold October rain.
"What the hell was that?" Mer grumbled.
I shrugged and pulled up the collar of my coat.
"I have no idea but I'm going to demand some answers," I growled.
"You think Martin will confide in us?"
"I think Martin needs us as much as we need him. Why else would he make us a private sciff in our home?"
"If that's the case," Mer frowned, "we're in a worse state than even I could possibly imagine."
"Well, let's see what the Director General has up his sleeve. You know the public doesn't even know who he is—that info isn't disclosed for security reasons, so we're already entrenched more than we realize."
"Why am I not thrilled?" she quipped.
I gave her a grim smile. "At least we're in the know."
Martin Withers greeted us with a grave expression of concern.
"Sorry to have let you dangle like this," he apologized, "but this is a most complicated situation."
"But you knew every move we made and let us blunder into a trap," I sputtered.
"That's not quite the case, I'm afraid. I only knew of your predicament through an unknown informant we consider a ghost ally."
I looked at him as if he suddenly sprang two heads.
"I don't get it."
"I know," Withers said compassionately, "sit down while I explain."
Withers motioned for us to sit in two large leather chairs opposite his desk while an attendant came in rolling a serving cart replete with thermal urns of hot coffee and various croissants and danish pastries.
"I know it's damn cold and damp out there, so I took the liberty of providing you with some food and drink to warm you. We still care about the niceties here, despite the inconveniences that occasionally occur."
I had to smile inwardly at his describing our narrow escape from death as an 'unfortunate inconvenience', but Mer and I were chilled and the hot coffee and tempting desserts helped soothe our nerves.
We could have been sitting with a CEO of industry in a private penthouse office, such was the quiet dignity and ambience Withers provided...
But this was not a cordial, business meeting and the subject matter and consequences were far more disturbing than the surface appearances of a coffee break during a meeting.
I couldn't help thinking about his reference to a ghost ally and how this 'benevolent haunting' resulted in saving our lives.
