Chapter 6 - The Cleansing of Round Hill
The morning broke over Greenwich in shades of cold silver and pale rose gold.
The fog had cleared, swept away by a brisk northwest wind that rustled the dead oak leaves across the lawn and sent small waves lapping against the stone seawall down at the cove.
At 7:00 AM, the last of the federal command units pulled out of the driveway, their tires crunching over the gravel, heading back toward the regional headquarters in New Haven.
The manor was dead silent.
I stood on the wide flagstone terrace behind the house, wearing a dark grey fleece jacket, faded jeans, and heavy leather work boots. In my hands, I held a ceramic mug of hot black coffee that Greene had brewed on the vintage copper range in the back pantry.
Old Greene walked out through the French doors, carrying a heavy metal trash can and a pair of leather gardening gloves.
He had spent the night in the carriage house, but he looked ten years younger this morning. The stoop in his shoulders was gone; his jaw was clean-shaven; his dark eyes were bright with a quiet, enduring relief that needed no words.
“Madam has departed, Miss Sienna,” Greene said, stopping beside the terrace balustrade. “The car from White Plains arrived at six-thirty. She took four suitcases. Mr. Julian left an hour earlier in a municipal taxi.”
“Did she say anything?” I asked, taking a slow sip of the coffee.
“She asked for the pearls, miss,” Greene replied, a faint, dry ghost of a smile touching the corners of his mouth. “I informed her that the Federal Bureau of Investigation had classified them as potential foreign asset collateral under the Southern District warrant.”
A soft chuckle escaped my chest—the first real laugh that had passed my lips since my father’s heart had stopped three weeks ago.
“Good work, Greene.”
“Thank you, miss. What are your orders for the main house?”
I turned around, looking up at the three-story brick and limestone facade of Round Hill Manor.
It was an imposing structure—twelve bedrooms, eight fireplaces, slate roof tiles imported from Wales, surrounded by twenty acres of pristine, rolling lawns and old-growth hardwoods. For forty years, it had been a monument to Victoria’s vanity, a showroom where she displayed her husband’s money and her curated social triumphs.
“Call the regional facilities director for the Army Corps of Engineers in Boston, Greene,” I said.
Greene blinked, his eyebrows lifting slightly. “The Corps, miss?”
“Yes,” I said, looking out over the lawn toward the Sound. “The primary residence is being transferred to the Department of Veterans Affairs under a long-term sovereign lease. We’re converting the second and third floors into a residential research center for military intelligence officers recovering from traumatic brain injuries and operational stress.”
Greene stared at me for three long seconds.
Then, his chest expanded in a deep, massive breath that seemed to fill his lungs for the first time in thirty-five years. He bowed his head—not with the servile deference of a domestic servant, but with the profound, solemn respect of an old soldier acknowledging a field order.
“Your father would have loved that, Miss Sienna,” Greene whispered, his voice trembling slightly. “He used to sit by the library fire on winter nights and say that this house had too many empty rooms and not enough honest people.”
“We’re going to fill the rooms with honest people, Greene,” I said. “And you’re going to be the residential director. Your salary will be underwritten by the Ironwood Trust, with full federal civil service retirement benefits.”
The old man’s eyes filled with clean, warm tears. He swallowed hard, touched the brim of his cap with two fingers, and nodded.
“I’ll go start on the inventory of the library right now, miss.”
He turned and walked back into the house, his stride light, rhythmic, and purposeful on the flagstones.
I stood alone on the terrace, watching the morning sun burn the frost off the boxwoods.
My satellite phone chimed in my pocket.
I pulled it out and tapped the secure screen.
It was a flash-priority dispatch from General Marcus Vance, Chief of Staff of the Army, transmitted through the Pentagon’s National Military Command Center:
REF: OPERATION IRONWOOD AUDIT. STATUS: COMPLETED. SOVEREIGN ASSETS SECURED: 100%. FOREIGN CONDUIT (NORDIC HERITAGE) NEUTRALIZED BY SDNY. COLONEL STERLING: YOUR EXTENDED LEAVE IS AUTHORIZED THROUGH NOVEMBER 15. REPORT TO PENTAGON SUITE 3E840 ON NOVEMBER 16 FOR ASSIGNMENT BRIEFING: DEPUTY DIRECTOR FOR SPECIAL OPERATIONS INTELLIGENCE. WELL DONE, SOLDIER.
I looked at the screen for a moment, then powered the device down, sliding it back into my pocket.
The battle of Round Hill Road was finished.
May you like
The wolves had been dispersed, their teeth drawn, their vanity scattered to the four winds of the turnpike.
Now came the only work that truly mattered: going home.
