“Tell me something, O’Donnell. Who were you working for that day?”
He shrugged. He was an asset. He rarely knew exactly who was behind an op. “I was supposed to answer to a high-ranking agent in Irish intelligence, but I always knew MI6 was involved.”
“But we were only covering for who had really planned the op. It was all CIA.”
Liam went very still. “No. It was a Brit op. You needed someone with an Irish accent and believable IRA ties in order to get into the cell. My mother was IRA. Rory and I gave that up a long time ago. We were loyal to our country and friendly to the crown. The CIA had nothing to do with it.”
Liam hated the shit-eating grin that crossed Weston’s face. “The CIA is rarely uninvolved, and you shouldn’t be so na?ve. They planned the op. They selected the SAS assets to use. They had their fingers in every single move we made. Look, this was before I was recruited. I didn’t join up until twenty-four months ago, but I’ve studied the files since I figured out who you are. Did you think you could come here and ruin my operation? I’ve become an expert on you. And I know exactly who sold you out.”
And he was prevaricating. Fucker. “Then why don’t you tell me?”
He passed the folder over to Liam. “Didn’t you ever wonder why Ian Taggart was so willing to take you in? You had run two ops with him three years before that night. Why the hell would he move heaven and earth to save you?”
A cold chill went up Liam’s spine. “He’s a good guy.”
“He’s a man with a past you can’t even begin to comprehend.”
“He’s my friend.” That word meant something to Liam. He didn’t have many friends. He had his crew at McKay-Taggart. That was his little family, and they hadn’t steered him wrong. Sure, he thought Adam was an obnoxious prick at times, but he thought of him like a cousin he wanted to punch. He was still his family no matter how much he rolled his eyes.
“Ian Taggart was the agent who ran the op.” The words fell out of Weston’s mouth like a land mine waiting to go off.
“I don’t believe you.” Ian would have told him. Ian knew damn well that that had been the op that cost him his brother, his goddamn life. Ian wouldn’t betray him that way.
That manila file folder sat between them. Liam’s eyes held it. Bare. It had no markings on it, but it suddenly struck him that file folder could change his life. He didn’t want to open it. He wanted to be back in bed with Avery. He should have pushed aside all his fears and taken her again. His cock had been ready. It had been his brain that hesitated because he’d been scared of what she meant.
If he was still in bed with Avery, he wouldn’t be facing that damn folder.
“Ian Taggart is a brilliant asset.” There was a nauseating sympathy to Weston’s voice that put Liam on edge.
Ian was his friend. And he knew bloody well what Weston was trying to do. He was trying to drive a wedge between Liam and his team. He was trying to break Liam’s loyalty. Manipulation was an art form, and MI6 taught its agents well. “I know Ian Taggart. This isn’t going to work. I know he used to work for the Agency. If he’s consulting with them again, then he has his reasons.”
They were looking for Eli Nelson. Nelson was rogue CIA. It only made sense that Ian would use his contacts. It certainly wasn’t a betrayal. It wasn’t.
“How well do you know Ian?”
Liam rolled his eyes. This was so transparent, and he was just about ready to test Weston’s open door theory. He had some important information. He had the girl. If Ian really was in contact with the CIA, then they probably had some influence and might be able to talk MI6 into leaving him in, although he likely didn’t need it. Weston, for all his charm and good looks and obvious money, hadn’t gotten into the lady’s bed. Liam had done that. She trusted him, not Simon Weston. If they wanted to get close to Avery then they needed to keep Liam around and maybe, just maybe, he would share intel with them.
This was his op. He made the decisions. He might not have any right to run the op on British soil, but he had leverage now. They’d waited too long to call him out.
He made sure his voice was confident even if his brain was running in twelve different directions. “I’ve known Ian Taggart for years. I’ve worked with him, trained with him. I know the man.”
“Tell me something, O’Donnell, how much does he talk about his wife?”
So transparent. “He’s never been married. Don’t be ridiculous. Ian Taggart is the man least likely to get married.”
The thought of Ian putting a ring on some girl’s finger was ridiculous.