She’d met Randall Carter once before, years ago when Maggie was in the midst of her abortive career at the CIA. She hadn’t liked him then, and she didn’t really like him now. He was too cold, too remote, with that faintly supercilious smile and those blue-gray eyes that showed emotion only when they rested on Maggie. No, she didn’t like him, but anyone was better than that pigheaded, rude, overbearing son of a bitch, Ian Andrews … “Something wrong?” His voice wasn’t solicitous, it was coldly curious. She forced her clenched fists to relax and flashed Randall a weary smile. “Just thinking about Andrews. I don’t see what help he’s going to be.” “It never hurts to have British Intelligence on your side,” he replied. “And if we don’t work together we’re going to be undercutting each other. Flynn’s a formidable enough adversary—we’re going to need every advantage we can get.” “One man against the four of us and practically every law enforcement agency in the western world?”
