Natalie shook her head. “I can’t imagine you ever not being exactly what you are. We’re all killers, but you’re the Killer Queen,” she said, lifting her glass in a toast.
The others laughed and I even managed to drink, but Natalie’s remark cut a little closer to the bone than I would have liked. Because she said what I’d already started to fear—that without the job, I was nothing.
CHAPTER FOUR
DECEMBER 1978
There are no job fairs for assassins. Recruitment is a delicate business, and Billie Webster has no idea that her number is about to be called. She is sitting in a holding cell in Austin, Texas. She has spent the night propped against the cinder-block wall, listening to the usual sounds of a city jail on a Saturday night. A prostitute has fallen asleep with her head on Billie’s shoulder, and even though she smells like body odor and weed, Billie doesn’t make her move.
She hasn’t made her one phone call because she has just broken up with the second-year law student at UT who usually bails her out and doesn’t know who else to call.
So she waits, letting the prostitute snore on her shoulder until the duty officer comes and barks out a name. “Webster!”
Billie gently moves the prostitute aside and stands. The duty officer jerks his head and opens the cell, cuffing her before taking her arm and leading her down a narrow hall. She is still dressed in the denim flares she wore to the protest, but they are stiff with blood and there are red half-moons caked under her nails. The duty officer takes her through a series of doors until they come to one marked private. He unlocks the cuffs and opens the door, gesturing for her to enter as he reattaches the cuffs to his belt.
Inside is a scarred table and a pair of chairs. A man is sitting in one, reading a newspaper as he smokes a pipe. He is dressed in civilian clothes but something about his posture says he’s spent time in uniform.
The officer jerks his head for Billie to enter. “I will be just outside, sir,” he tells the man, but he looks at Billie when he says it and she knows it’s a warning.
She enters and the door closes behind her. The man looks up and waves her over with an unexpected smile. When she gets closer, she sees that the newspaper is the funnies section.
The man chuckles a little as he folds the newspaper. “Marmaduke,” he says to himself. He watches as she sits, looking her over carefully as she returns the favor. She is dirty, her dark blond hair tangled and in desperate need of a wash. She is wearing a thin sweater and bell-bottomed jeans embroidered with palm trees and rainbows, and there is something oddly touching about the notion of this girl sitting in her dorm room, setting each little stitch. It pleases him to think of her doing something so precise. It means his instincts about this girl are right.
She sees a man on the wrong side of sixty, she guesses, with the wiry muscles of a whippet and tidy, sandy hair mixed with white. His mustache is thin and dapper, and he wears casual clothes—khaki pants and an oxford-cloth shirt—with the air of a suit from Savile Row. Billie has not yet heard of Savile Row. It will be many months later that she learns about custom clothing and realizes that he has been her introduction to proper tailoring.
His features are set in an expression of calm interest and he seems amused by her scrutiny. “Good morning, Miss Webster.”
He looks at her swelling, bloody knuckles and doesn’t attempt to shake her hand. It is considerate, and she likes him for it.
“What’s this all about?” she asks.
He smiles, a patient, good-natured smile. “All in good time, Miss Webster. I hope you are not in too much discomfort from your injuries? That contusion above your lip really ought to be stitched,” he says reproachfully. There is a faint British accent to his words, and she likes him for that too.
“I’m fine,” she tells him.
“May I offer you refreshment? A pastry or a cup of coffee? The police canteen does not have much variety, I am afraid.”
Billie shakes her head and he sits back, apparently satisfied that the obligatory courtesy has been observed.
“Good, good. Introductions, then,” he says, rubbing his hands together briskly. “My name is Richard Halliday. Major, Her Majesty’s Army. Retired.”
“What does that have to do with the Austin PD?”
He ignores the question and moves the newspaper aside. Underneath is a manila folder with her name on it. “?‘Webster, Billie.’?” He pauses to look at her. “I admit, that surprised me. I rather thought it might be short for something. Wilhelmina, perhaps.” She stares at him and he goes on reading snippets of his notes. He plows through her IQ—142; her school records—spotty with superb standardized test scores blighted by “discipline issues”; and the fact that she has gotten into college on a scholarship and some institutional pity for the fact that she lived in an unlicensed foster home while in high school. She holds up a hand when he starts on her loner tendencies.
“Major, is this for my benefit? Because I actually know all of that.”
He closes the file. “I represent an organization,” Halliday says slowly. “A clandestine organization, so if you wouldn’t mind keeping this meeting to yourself, it would be greatly appreciated.” He pauses and raises his sandy brows to give her a chance to nod in agreement. “Very good, thank you. As I was saying, I represent an organization that is in need of talent—specifically young, new talent that can be shaped and molded in accordance with our purposes for a very special endeavor.”
“Is it porn? It’s porn, isn’t it?”
The narrow mouth almost smiles. “It is not pornography, no.”
“Then what purposes?” Billie asks. He flinches a little and she realizes that direct questions are not going to be welcome. She would do better to come at him sideways like a crab.
“That will be clear in a moment,” he assures her. “I think it best if I explain the general mission of the organization. Have you heard of the OSS? The SOE?”
“Office of Strategic Services and Special Operations Executive,” Billie says. He raises one brow and she shrugs. “I read a lot.”
“Indeed.” The eyebrow settles back into place. “Then you no doubt know the OSS was founded during the Second World War to coordinate espionage efforts across the branches of the American armed forces.”
“Spies,” she says flatly.
“Spies,” he acknowledges. “After the war, the OSS developed into the Central Intelligence Agency. The story of the Special Operations Executive is a bit different. It was formed under the direction of the Minister of Economic Warfare and largely guided by Churchill himself. Many civilians were involved in extremely dangerous resistance and sabotage work all across Europe.”
“The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare,” she says.
This time he does smile, but it is insubstantial, a ghost smile, flitting over his mouth and then gone again. “One of many nicknames. The Baker Street Irregulars was another. In any event, after the war, the SOE were not transformed into a government agency like the OSS. A few, a very few, agents were transferred into the other intelligence organizations of the British government.”
“What happened to the rest?” she asks.
“Disbanded,” is the succinct reply. He strikes a match and touches it to the tobacco packed into the pipe. He pulls hard, sending wafts of sweet smoke into the air. It smells like wood and cherries, the sort of smell that should have hung in the air of a private club or a stately home. It smells like money. He goes on. “After the training, the courageous service, the breathtaking acts of sacrifice, the entire organization was sacked. It was a black day,” he adds.
“You were one of them,” she says. It isn’t a question. The tightness around his eyes tells the whole story.
“Just so,” he says briskly. “And instead of going home and licking our wounds, a few of us joined together with some of our opposite number from the former OSS.”