Barrett took Morris’s hand. He noted that Morris’s handshake was firm, but not too firm. There was the sense that the man was holding back tremendous strength, which could crush David Barrett’s hand to mulch.

Barrett shook his head. “Ah, Don. Call me David, please. Won’t you sit down? What can we get for you? Anything at all. Water, soda? Beer? I know it’s early, but if you want something, you can have it. We can have them make us lunch.”

Morris shook his head. “No sir. I’m fine. Thank you. That’s very kind.”

They sat down.

“I know we’ve talked once before, haven’t we?”

Don nodded. “Yes sir. We talked briefly on the phone just a few weeks ago.”

“That’s great,” David said. “I remember that.” He felt foolish. These pleasantries were not at all what he wanted to come out of his mouth.

“I want to tell you how grateful I am, how grateful my wife is, and our parents. I think we are the most grateful family in America at this moment. We owe you a debt that we can never adequately repay.”

Don shrugged. “Sir, I appreciate that. But I had very little to do with the operation that saved your daughter. It happened because of the initiative, and frankly, the guts, shown by our field agents Luke Stone and Edward Newsam. And they had a big assist from our intelligence team, from a covert CIA agent it’s better if I do not name, crack helicopter pilots, and dozens of on the ground troops. A lot of people made this thing happen.”

“I know. I know that,” David Barrett said. “It’s wonderful the people who do these dangerous jobs. But I’ll tell you, I’m fascinated by the career you’ve had and the work you do. I’m very excited that you’ve started this new agency, and I want to meet your people. The best of the best, isn’t that what you told me? Like a civilian Delta Force?”

Morris nodded. “That is exactly what I said. You have an excellent memory.”

“Well, Don, I’m hoping we can all work closely together going forward.”

Don Morris smiled.

“I would like that, sir. I hope we can, too.”

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

4:30 p.m. British Summer Time (11:30 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time)

Portobello Road

Notting Hill

London, England

It was time to go.

Andrew Montgomery came out of his pale blue Victorian-era terrace house, carrying two suitcases. There were no clothes in the suitcases. His clothes were already in the car. No, the suitcases held nothing but cash, and a lot of it.

His time in Iraq had been well spent.