No whispers from the Giant. No words. Not once. I’d never heard the creature speak, his lips forever sealed by the Russian. The Giant spoke with action. Not a wince. Not a scowl. Not a grunt or curse or huff. Grace. That was the word I needed. That man was Mount Everest, a snow-capped murderer of adventurous, foolhardy men. But the way he moved. A cat. You never heard him coming before you were laying on the floor, six shattered vertebrae, your eyes riveted on the frail, graying figure in the dark coat, his mix of Russian and English detailing your ultimate demise.

A starlet. It’s all I’d wanted to be. Taste the good life. Rub elbows with mooks, just not the mooks from Smiley’s festering follies. Mooks with money and means.