Jack Calloway: Foghorn when there is Silence in the Fog
The fog rolled off the Thames like it had secrets to keep. Jack Calloway sat in a half-empty diner tucked between a tube station and a butcher shop that hadn’t changed hands since Churchill. The kind of place where the tea came black, strong, and indifferent—just like the waitress who brought it. He wasn’t here for the tea. Across from him sat a man whose face you forget the moment he walks away. Let’s call him Eddie Reilly—not his real name. “They made you in Havana,” his friend from MI5 muttered. Jack didn’t flinch. “Let ‘em try. That … Continue readingJack Calloway: Foghorn when there is Silence in the Fog