Tom hadn't changed a bit. Still handsome, still sharply dressed, still looking as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. His plea for help, however, was unfamiliar. He was desperate.
And Tessa found it utterly laughable.
Harry Pearce and his little saints wanted the snake for one last bite, and she wouldn't give them the satisfaction. As much fun as it would be to smirk and judge and toss her hair, kick back her feet in the air-conditioned Grid and demurely sip cups of tea, Tessa was bored of that game now and was adamant to watch them struggle.
Not once had she lost a night's sleep fretting about them, but tonight after returning to her glamorous apartment at a decent hour she was pondering with a glass of wine about Tom's visit.
If she hadn't been running phantom agents she'd still have her desk, the arduous hours, the snivelling colleagues. Now, she had independence and money and spending all those years at Thames House seemed like such a waste of time. She was making her own way now and was far better off than those naive, preened little officers like Zoe and Danny who'd get their heads blown off by bombs before they hit their late twenties, and more cunning than Tom and Harry and Malcolm who'd been sticking by their morals for far too long and not daring to deviate from their integrity lest they discover that they quite like the taste of treachery.
Apparently they desperately needed a good Asian agent. Would she help?
No she bloody wouldn't. Some atrocity could occur on an innocuous London street and Tessa wouldn't bat an eyelid anymore – Tom's speech about defending their country had made her positively nauseous. As long as she had her money, other people's problems were unworthy of her talents.
She should have had Harry's job years and years ago, but she was underestimated and patronised and everyone was so surprised when she turned around and did something about it.
Tom Quinn, with all his confidence and coldness, asking for help.
This really was a strange little world.