Cat In A Quicksilver Caper

Maxamillion

“I was worried,” Gandolph said when Max came home in the wee hours to find the old man waiting up for him.

“That’s kind of nice,” Max said. He knew his smile was weary.

“It took longer than it should have.”

“I had a detour to make afterward. A personal detour.”

Garry Randolph, the man who had been the magician Gandolph the Great, let the graven lines of his sixty-something face lift. “That little redheaded girl you love.”

“She’s a blond these days, and I can’t afford to love anybody while I’m infiltrating the Synth.”

“They won’t like that you put the scepter back.”

“The deal was that I steal it and do with it what I please, giving them a cut of any profits. What I please is to restore it.”

“You’re trying to win them over.”

“Being a wimp won’t win them over. They’ll be pissed to see all that lovely money gone, but they’ll get that I’m my own man.”

“You did it for her. It was her show.”

“Garry, you have me cold. I did it for her. And it was a hell of a challenge to get it back in place again with all the extra security they have lined up now.”

“Yeah? How’d you manage it?”

“I could use a stiff drink and then I’ll tell you every little detail.”

“Not about your detour, though.”

“No. Not about my detour.”

Garry frowned at him, as he had years ago when Max—still numbed by the IRA-bomb death of his cousin Sean—had charged into some particularly dangerous situation abroad, He’d been so young—not even nineteen—and wounded, and wild. The perfect counterterrorism agent. He felt that same untamed urgency again, but not the energy. Not any of the energy at all anymore.

But he had to muster it again for one last personal appearance. Tomorrow.