I jumped at the cultured, but very commanding, British voice. So did Max. The man who’d spoken surprised me. I had definitely formed a picture in my head based around Breton’s military title. I’d expected a man in his fifties with an iron jaw, deep lines by his eyes and a haircut so precise as to be geometrical. Breton was nothing like that, except for the iron jaw. He’d probably been turned in his late thirties. His long, wheat-colored hair was pulled back in a severe horsetail, accentuating his sharp features and long, straight nose. His lips quirked in an expression that was either annoyance or amusement. It was hard to tell which.

“General Breton, I presume.” I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt as I extended my hand and prayed my palms weren’t sweaty.

The man didn’t take it. “We are not so formal here. You may call me General, Dr. Ames.”

“And you can call me…” I hesitated, rolling his words around in my brain. “Doctor?”

He gave me a cool, appraising look. “Come inside.”

We followed him through the door, Max showing Breton’s back the middle finger the whole time.

The inner office was a bit of a shock, considering the appearance of the waiting area. The walls were dark paneled wood, the carpet a deep, rich print. A huge desk with a carved emblem of a foxhunter dominated the room. Two stiff wing chairs stood before it, where Breton motioned for us to sit. It looked as if we’d entered a bad theme restaurant of British paraphernalia. A coat of arms and crossed swords rested above the mantel over a huge fireplace, and the Union Jack hung from a flag post in the corner. Behind the desk, two large windows—obvious fakes, considering we were below ground—showed a sunny country scene. Somebody’s missing the sunshine.

Not that I could blame him. I found myself occasionally longing for a lazy day of sunbathing on the beach.

“That’s very…pastoral.” I tried to sound friendly, but it came off wooden.

Breton’s eyes narrowed. They were gray, but nothing like Nathan’s. Nathan’s eyes were changeable, storm clouds with the occasional silver lining. Breton’s eyes were stone-colored, and just as formidable. “York. Lovely hunting there.” He settled into his chair, which looked infinitely more comfortable than ours, and placed a manila envelope on the desk. “These may be of interest to you.”

Max reached for the envelope. When he lifted it, glossy, black-and-white photographs slid out.

I covered my mouth, but couldn’t look away. The horrible pictures showed a woman, her head nearly severed, the column of her throat ripped away to the spine.

“I believe your friend Mr. Galbraith is responsible for this?” Breton asked, as though he needed confirmation.