27
EMMY
It was bloody freezing, but despite the chill, I had to appreciate the wild beauty of Baldwin’s Shore. I’d persuaded the leader of the off-the-books task force who’d picked up the three Moscowteers to drop me off half a mile from the Peninsula, and now I was waiting for James to call. The beach wasn’t as good as a SCIF, but between the biting wind and the desolate surroundings, I figured it was unlikely anyone would be eavesdropping on my conversation. Hurry the f**k up, James. My fingers were turning blue.
I’d spoken to his chief of staff earlier, a whip-thin guy named Martin O’Connor—who everyone just called Irish on account of his grandma having hailed from the Emerald Isle—and he’d put me in touch with the right people. Grudgingly, because he liked to do everything by the bo
