Page 24 of The Spy Who Loved Tea

The first page was a photograph of her, taken at the fête. She was standing by the jam table, adjusting her glasses, looking for all the world like a harmless retiree inspecting preserves.

The second page was a Service record. Heavily redacted, full of black bars where names and operations had been censored, but unmistakably official. Someone had pulled her file from the archives—or what remained of it.

Calloway, Vera M. Status: Retired (1994) Clearance: [Redacted] Operations: [Redacted], [Redacted], Prague (1978), Vienna (1982), [Redacted] Assessment: High-Value Asset. Extreme Caution Advised.

Beneath the official record were handwritten notes in a neat, precise script:

Cover identity consistent with retirement profile. However, behavior at fête suggests operational awareness. Recommend surveillance and, if necessary, neutralization.

Vera closed the file. Her hands were steady, but her mind was racing.

They knew. Not everything—the redactions had held—but enough. Enough to know she wasn’t just a knitting enthusiast with a fondness for gooseberry jam. Enough to mark her as a threat.

She needed to take this file. She needed to take all of it—the maps, the documents, everything that could prove OmniCorp’s conspiracy.

She reached for the stack of folders.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Vera.”

The voice came from above. From the shadows of the gantry that ran along the upper level of the mill.

Vera froze. She didn’t turn around. She slowly withdrew her hand from the files and let it hang at her side.

“I was wondering when you’d show up,” she said, keeping her voice level. “You’ve been watching me since the fête.”

“Longer than that.” Footsteps on metal—the clang of boots descending a spiral staircase. “I was in the village three days before the Major’s unfortunate accident. Surveilling the targets. Assessing the obstacles.”

The footsteps stopped. Vera heard the distinctive click of a safety being released.

“Turn around. Slowly.”

Vera turned.

The man standing at the bottom of the stairs was the grey-eyed doctor from the fête—the same lean face, the same flat, reptilian stare. But he had shed the blazer and medical bag. Now he wore tactical black: cargo trousers, a fitted jacket, boots designed for silent movement.

And he was holding a suppressed pistol, aimed directly at her chest.

“You can call me Julian,” he said. “My employers know me by other names, but Julian will do for our purposes.”

“Julian.” Vera tasted the name. “Not Viper, then?”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “No. No one knows who that is other than he’s responsible for Project Viper. The acquisition and development of strategic mineral resources.” He shrugged. “Corporate codenames. They do love their drama.”

“And you’re what—the enforcement division?”

“Problem solver.” Julian descended the last few steps, keeping the pistol trained on her. “I solve problems that can’t be solved through negotiation or litigation. The Major was a problem. Your friend Pym was a problem.” He smiled—a thin, humorless expression. “You, Mrs. Calloway, are rapidly becoming a problem.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be. It’s not a compliment.” He gestured with the gun. “Step away from the desk. Hands where I can see them.”

Vera complied, moving slowly, keeping her hands raised at shoulder height. Her knitting bag hung from her elbow, swinging gently with each step.

“I have to admit,” Julian continued, “you had me fooled at first. The glasses. The shuffle. The endless nattering about jam and knitting. Very convincing.” He tilted his head, studying her. “But you made mistakes. The way you examined Barnaby’s body—too clinical, too precise. The questions you asked Constable Oakes. And the lock-picking technique you used on the greenhouse door.” He clicked his tongue. “Textbook MI6, circa 1980. A bit dated, but distinctive.”

“I’ll have to update my methods.”

“You won’t have the opportunity.” Julian circled around her, keeping his distance, never letting the gun waver. “I pulled your file—what’s left of it. Impressive career. Prague, Vienna, the business in Beirut. You were quite the asset in your day.”