Page 69 of Cry Havoc

“Red or black handle.”

“Black.”

Quinn threw Tom the Finnish blade. He tested it and put it in his pocket.

“Anything bigger?” Quinn asked. “My tomahawk was in my bag that is no longer with us.”

“Next drawer down. The former SF guys we have on staff ordered them from Peter LaGana.”

A smile crept across Quinn’s face as he opened the drawer.

“Exactly what I needed. This VTAC will do nicely,” he said, examining the LaGana Tactical Tomahawk. “Tom?”

“Where am I supposed to carry that thing in civies? I think I’m good.”

“Your loss,” Quinn said.

“Frank feels naked without one,” Tom explained. “He’ll be much more pleasant to be around now.”

“Where can we sign for these?” Quinn asked.

“Compliments of the house,” the Agency man said, holding the door open for his guests.

“In that case, I might liberate a bottle of wine too,” Tom said. He pulled a bottle from the rack and blew off the dust.

“Help yourself.”

“Nineteen hundred Château Margaux,” Tom said. “This any good?”

“Take it. We’ve got plenty.”

“Thank you.”

“We aim to please,” Serrano said, leading the way back down the hall and up the stairs.

“I’ll have a driver take you to one of our safe houses. I’d drive you myself, but I have an engagement I can’t cancel.”

At the top of the stairs, Serrano paused and pulled a royal blue Wearever fountain pen and a card from his pocket.

“This is my office number,” he said, as he wrote on the card. “And this is my home number. It’s just outside the city. Call anytime.”

He handed Quinn the card and then did the same on a second one for Tom.

As they headed for the front door, a young man in a gray suit appeared and whispered something to Serrano, who nodded in response.

“Gentlemen, I have a meeting. Get some rest. I’ll make sure SOG HQ has your contact at the apartment and that they get in touch with you regarding arrangements for Amiuh.”

“Thank you,” Quinn said.

As they shook hands, the front door opened, and a distinguished-looking man who appeared to be of French and Vietnamese ancestryentered. He was impeccably dressed in a slate blue tropical wool lightweight suit with a sleek, hardly discernible micro-check pattern. A burgundy grenadine tie of woven silk stood out against his white dress shirt secured under a French semi-spread collar. The tie was offset by a beige linen pocket square that sprouted from his left breast pocket below a narrow lapel. His brown leather belt matched his tassel loafers worn without socks. His left hand rested on the handle of a wooden walking cane, the derby-style handle carved into a majestic dragon.

He was followed by a young woman in her early twenties. The sunlight from the open door briefly illuminated her long straight dark hair before shutting behind her.

The visitors recognized Serrano immediately.

“Ah, my next meeting.”

Serrano stepped forward and extended his hand to the man.