The Book of Judith

Target is locked.

Wind speed, 2.4.

Take the shot.

Take the shot.

Whiptail, take the shot.

Whiptail. Whiptail, no,

what are you-- For God's sake, Whiptail, get--

Not-- not again.

Your brother sends his regards.

Ah.

The ski instructor!

Aah!

Aah!

Come on!

Beginner's luck.

- Same again? - Hi. Yeah.

Uh, eight.

Or nine.

The Germans call that Brüderschaft.

Brotherhood.

You speak German.

A little.

Uh...

I finish at 2:00.

Holy shit.

What did you say you did for a living?

I'm an accountant.

So...

...can I call you?

Absolutely not.

Who the fuck are you?

"Who the fuck am I?"

Great question.

The passport in my bag says "Judith Burton, forensic accountant,"

a job so confusing-sounding and potentially boring,

no one ever asks any follow-up questions.

But I have ID badges from the FBI, the CIA,

MI6, Special Ops.

If your country has a military intelligence unit,

I have a badge that claims I work there.

My name is Whiptail,

and I kill people for a living.

This report said about the blood spattering--

the angle that the knife went in--

- there was one thing that they - Yeah.

- hadn't considered. - Oh, my gosh, what?

He was left-handed.

He was left-handed.

An Austrian ski resort was shocked this morning by--

Damn it.

You'll never fit in there, luv.

Come on, come on.

Come on...

Ooh...

Christ.

Shit.

Ooh.

Whoo.

Hello, you.

Hello, you.

I'm just, um-- Oh, you sound out of breath.

- Parking? - Parking. Yeah.

How are you? How's the accounting conference?

Uh, you know, boring, same old.

Uh, I'm gonna be home in a while, so I'll be back for book club.

U-Uh...

I'm here. Listen, I-I can't talk.

I am on a mission.

Good luck.

If you see any of those lamps or those, um,

actually, those copper pans,

and, obviously, if there's a lovely apothecary cabinet...

I-I've got your list. I-I won't forget.

Listen, I really need to get

- a good position. Love you. - I love you!

Bye.

Ladies and gents, welcome.

Please do not panic. The antique warehouse

will open

in a couple of minutes.

They just gave me two teas at the van by accident.

Can't drink two teas. And it must be

horrible standing out in the cold,

so, thought maybe you'd like to have it.

Thanks, actually.

Oh, you're most welcome.

Mm.

If you were to guess, which of these doors you think he'd open first?

D.

Thank you so much.

Have a wonderful day, now.

They've got a cracking Regency apothecary cabinet,

and I tell you what-- I'm not leaving without it.

Hey, look, come on, we've been here ages.

Please, please, do not panic. Calm down. Calm down.

Do not panic.

Fuck.

Who the hell is that?

Isn't that that MP's wife?

"Who the hell is that?"

Great question, and yes,

I am that MP's wife.

David Claybourne, member of Parliament.

I hope we can rely on your vote.

I made law review at Yale,

fell in love, moved to England, raised two grown-up children,

and am now single-handedly

making that man the next prime minister.

But I have a secret.

One that would tear my life apart.

My name is Debbie Claybourne.

It's book club tomorrow,

and I haven't read the book.

There she is.

You can just give me the name of the restaurant, Sam.

You don't always have to give me the encrypted coordinates.

Please. Coordinates are protocol.

Why am I here?

Do I need a reason to see my favorite operative?

So you're not cross?

Cross? Why would I be cross?

Great. You're not cross.

Of course I'm fucking cross.

That sniper rifle has a range of a fucking kilometer,

but instead I've got a hundred eyewitnesses

who saw a ski instructor stab a wanted criminal

to death with what-- a machete?

A steak knife.

A steak knife?

What, it's like you want to get caught.

You used to follow every plan, every

company rule, to the letter. You were the fucking gold standard,

and now everything you touch turns into chaos.

The job gets done, you get paid,

I get paid, the client's happy.

Yeah, it's not the client you need to be worried about.

The director has been reviewing your files.

What, 'cause of one job?

Oh, it's not just one job.

Beirut, Brussels.

Need I remind you what happened in Dubai?

Need I remind you where I found you?

Yeah, and I appreciate everything that you've done for me.

But, seriously, what is going on with you?

Is it because you're 50?

I'm not 50.

No, well, one of your aliases just turned 50.

I can only imagine, an alias turning 50, that would spin anyone out.

My mum turned 50 last year, and she went absolutely insane.

Anyway, um,

we, um, got you a little gift.

What the fuck is this?

This is a Patek Philippe

- Grand Complications-- - Yes.

Why are you giving me a watch?

Is that a retirement gift?

If-if you want it to be.

How many?

- How many what? - Don't you dare be fucking coy.

Three of the waiters are armed.

The hostess has a revolver strapped to her thigh

and the guy at the bar definitely didn't get those knuckles

from his desk job.

Five.

Fine, seven.

Eight, genuinely. And they're only a precaution.

Okay, obviously, I would like for us to both walk away unscathed,

having calmly discussed the prospect of you stepping back.

Absolutely not.

Right. Well, you're a W-O-A-C-A.

A-a what?

A WOACA-- a Woman Of A Certain Age.

And for whatever reason, if I had to guess, I would say it was

you turning 50. You've started acting out, okay?

And that is dangerous, for all of us.

Is that my next assignment?

'Cause I'm not going anywhere.

Okay. A job came through requesting you.

The director said that you couldn't be trusted.

I assured him you could do it perfectly,

but I have really put my neck on the line here,

so if you're gonna do this,

there's no margin for error, no rule breaking. Okay?

Okay.

Billy Donovan? I do war criminals.

- I don't do crime syndicate jobs. - Right, well, we just

- agreed you were gonna do this one-- - Crime-- No.

Fine.

Client needs a watertight alibi,

so they want it done here,

at the gala for Water Relief, the charity

the syndicate launders their money through.