The Hydra Protocol by David Wellington Page A

pad would still be obsolete. The codes in there haven’t been used for twenty years.”
    “Indeed.” Hollingshead took off his glasses and started polishing them with a silk handkerchief. “Hardly seems worth putting the life of my best agent at, um, risk, wouldn’t you say?”
    “I follow my orders, sir,” Chapel replied. “I don’t question them. Usually.”
    Hollingshead nodded in excitement. “I’ve got quite the plan for this little book, son. It’s a shame I can’t tell you what it is.”
    Chapel smiled at his boss. “The suspense might kill me,” he joked. But he understood. The one-time pad was meant for some incredibly secret mission, something truly vital to national security. He desperately, desperately wanted to know why Hollingshead thought it was good for something.
    But he was never going to find out.
    Chapel wasn’t going on the next mission. He was going to get married instead. He’d already asked for, and received, a leave of absence while he went home and proposed to his girlfriend. Hollingshead had been overjoyed when he heard the news.
    “She’s a lovely girl, and you’re a very lucky man,” Hollingshead said, standing up to come shake Chapel’s hands again. “I couldn’t be happier for you. Well, ah, that’s not strictly true.”
    “Oh?” Chapel asked, surprised.
    “Well. I have a, ah, well, not a reservation. Call it my one regret. It’s simply that I wish I could use you for this mission. It’s perfect for you. But that doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters but the joy you’re going to deliver to that wonderful woman. Have you thought about where you’re going to honeymoon? I’m partial to Barbados.”
    “It’s a little premature to think about that, sir.”
    “Of course, of course,” Hollingshead said. He beamed from ear to ear. “Well, take all the time you need. I’ll see you when you get back.”
    “Thank you, sir,” Chapel said. He stood up and saluted.
    The director saluted back. “If anyone deserves a little time off, it’s you, son. Enjoy it. Enjoy it as much as you possibly can.”
    “I will,” Chapel said. He couldn’t help but burst into a smiling laugh. “I really will.”
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK: JUNE 13, 15:46
    Chapel drove to Manhattan, where he stopped off at the jeweler’s and picked up the ring. It was beautiful, gleaming in its little box. He paid the man and headed south, across the Manhattan bridge, into the heart of Brooklyn. Toward home.
    Toward Julia.
    He parked the car outside their little apartment building and looked up at their windows. They shared one floor of a brownstone, just a couple of rooms, tiny by the standards of anyone who’d never lived in a New York apartment. There had been some very good times in those little rooms.
    He caught a flash of movement behind one of the windows. A glimpse of red hair as Julia walked past. She was up there. Good.
    He realized he’d been sitting in the car for ten minutes. Was he nervous? He didn’t feel nervous. Mostly he felt a little numb.
    He headed up the stairs with his good hand clutched tightly around the ring box in his pocket. He had to force himself to let go so he didn’t crush it. When he got to the door, he tried the knob and found that it was unlocked. That was a little weird—Julia, like most New Yorkers, kept her doors locked when she was home. But it didn’t mean anything. He needed to stop thinking like a spy. He turned the knob and stepped inside. There was a little end table next to the door, a place to put keys or plug in a phone. He took the ring box out of his pocket and laid it there, so that he wasn’t holding it when he first saw her. “Julia?” he called.
    For a second, only silence answered him. Then he heard her call back, “In here.”
    We walked back to the bedroom, where she waited for him in the doorway.
    She had never looked more beautiful. Her red hair fell around her shoulders and down the back of the thin black sweater she wore. Her eyes were