Ghosts

A

“This will be fine,” he said.

Milton stepped inside, and, unable to suppress the caution that had been drilled into him over the course of a decade, hundreds of nights spent in identikit rooms like this in countries where the local spooks made it a matter of routine to bug arriving travellers, he made a quick examination: the large en suite with a bath and shower; the twin beds; the large LCD screen on the bureau; the telephone beside the bed. He went back to the start and made a more detailed check. He dropped to his knees and checked under the beds, then he took out a dime from his pocket and used it to unscrew the plug sockets. He took the bulbs from the lights and dismantled the telephone handset. He opened the closet, lifted the television from the bureau and shut it away. It took him ten minutes to satisfy himself that everything was as it should be. A

Milton wheeled his bag to the furthest bed, stood by the window and looked out. The window was high up and the view was impressive. The swarm of people in the street below hurried about their business, their umbrellas like tiny black mushrooms. The skyscrapers bristled, utilitarian and graceless, the tops muffled by low clouds. Lightning forked the sky and, seconds later, the answering boom of thunder rattled the glass in the window.

Seven million people, Milton thought.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, unable to ignore the fatigue that had sunk into his muscles and bones.

Seven million.

The sheer weight of the number pressed down on him oppressively. He had to find one person amid the mad tumult. That person, for all he knew, had been hiding in the city for ten years; hiding successfully, too, which was more than he could say for himself. Control and the Group had located him in just six months and the Russians had found him again soon after that. Beatrix Rose was better than he was. If she didn’t want to be found, Milton wouldn’t find her.

“When will you start?” A

Milton assessed his reserves of energy. The dream had exhausted him, as it always did, and the task could wait another day.

“Tomorrow,” he said.

He took off his shoes and shirt and went through into the bathroom. He closed the door, undressed and stood beneath the shower for twenty minutes, scrubbing the hot water into his scalp. He dried himself and pulled on the dressing gown embossed with the hotel’s logo. He stood before the mirror and regarded himself carefully. He did not inspect himself because of vanity, although pride would have been warranted if he was so inclined. He did so because he was an artisan; his body was his tool and his discipline demanded that it was always in good condition. The horizontal scar on his face seemed to have faded a little, as if blanched by the chill of Moscow, and the tattoo across his shoulders and back was more obvious now that his tan had faded almost completely.

He opened the door and went back into the bedroom. A

No, he decided.

He could not.

He crossed the room quietly, removed the dressing gown and slid between the cool sheets of the other bed. He closed his eyes, listening to the hum of the air-conditioning and the exhalations of her breath.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Milton couldn’t sleep. His mind was turning this way and that and there was nothing that he could do to settle it. He got up and made his way quietly across the room to the chair where he had piled his clothes. He took them into the bathroom and dressed, took one of the keycards from the writing desk, left the room and took the elevator down to the lobby. There was a small business centre just away from the main desk with a couple of Macs, a fax machine and a printer. One of the computers was occupied and so Milton sat down next to the other one, opened the web browser and navigated to Google. He found the information he wanted, closed the browser down, cleared the history and went outside. It was still hot and humid, steam issuing from air vents and from the grates in the street. There was a taxi rank next to the hotel and he nodded to the driver of the one at the front of the queue; he nudged his car forwards and Milton got inside.

“Where to, sir?”

“Co

“Yes, sir.”

It was midnight. Milton had not been particularly surprised that there was an English speaking meeting, even at this hour. Hong Kong was a twenty-four hour city, after all, and being a drunk was a twenty-four hour problem. It was a closed meeting, which meant that only those in the fellowship were able to attend, and its title was Humble in HK. Milton had not been to a meeting for weeks and he knew that he made himself more vulnerable to the dream every extra day he missed. That, in turn, made him more vulnerable to the temptation of taking a first drink and everything he had learned in the months he had spent in the Rooms, all the way through South America and in San Francisco, made one thing perfectly clear: he would not stop at the first drink.

Co

He crossed the street, opened the door and went up to the third floor. The meeting had just started: the secretary had welcomed the group and was about to lead them in the Serenity Prayer. He smiled at Milton and indicated an empty seat in the front row. Milton felt self-conscious as he picked his way towards it and sat down gratefully.

The secretary recited the prayer: “God, give me the serenity to accept the things I ca

He continued with the familiar preamble and introduced the member who had been asked to read from the Big Book. Milton closed his eyes and listened, gratefully aware that the tension and worry was seeping out of him.