Minotaur

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The mansion on the South Fork of Long Island wasn’t the biggest Jim Chapel had ever seen—only three stories high, maybe twenty-five rooms total. On the other hand nobody had tried to make it discreet or tasteful: it boasted an Olympic-size swimming pool, two tennis courts and its own private helipad. It could be seen for miles from the main road, especially since floodlights on the lawn lit up the front side all night long. It was not the kind of house he expected a notorious Soviet double agent to live in.

Chapel pulled up at the front gate, suddenly very aware of the late-model Ford he was driving (government issue) and just how little he’d paid for the gray wool suit he was wearing. But the uniformed guard who came out to open the gate for him just waved Chapel through and went back to his gatehouse.

Heading up the drive to the main building, Chapel sighed under his breath.

“Anything the matter, sugar?”

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