Chapter 4Peel Me a Grape
The whole f*****g problem was Quinton Mann’s fault.
He was so goddamned different from the usual run of spooks that in spite of everything, I found myself wanting to know stuff about him. Purely because it paid to know what was up with the opposition. I’d actually gone to his mother’s house in Great Falls and “interviewed” her for the Exeter alumnus newsletter as Skip—Jesus, there was a preppy nickname for you.—Patterson, an old friend of her son’s. It was a good thing that picture she compared me with was just a head shot and didn’t give any indication of height. The real Patterson was about five inches shorter than I was, closer to Mann’s five foot ten.
I’d learned some really interesting things about Mann. He rode. He fenced. He would have been on the dressag
