Ghosts

He packed the items into the suitcase, left the empty crate behind him, locked the door to the storage room and went back outside to his car. He put the suitcase into the trunk and, before he closed the lid and after checking that he wasn’t observed, he opened the case, withdrew the semi-automatic and covered it beneath his overcoat as he went around to the driver’s side and got into the car.

* * *

It was a two hour drive to the south coast from Waterloo. He drove carefully so as not to draw attention to himself, following the A23, M23, A23 again and then the A26 until he reached Lewes. He passed the Beachy Head Hotel and the sign for the Samaritans at the side of the road: ‘Always There, Day or Night’, the last appeal to those who were intent upon doing away with themselves. It was a beautiful spot, the exposed promontory whipped by the winds that blew in from the Cha

He parked the Jaguar in the car park, leaving the keys in the ignition, collected the suitcase from the trunk, and wheeled it back to the bus stop that he had passed as he drove in. There was a telephone box next to it. He went inside and called the local minicab office that had left business cards wedged into the sides of the window.

The operator picked up after a dozen rings.

“I need a taxi.”

“Where are you, mate?”

“Beachy Head.”

“And where do you want to go?”

“Southampton Airport, please. Quick as you like.”

Control stood outside the telephone box and watched as the fiery rim of the sun slid above the edge of the cliff, the light flooding into the midnight blue of the sky. The dawn chorus greeted it noisily and, back at the pub, a milkfloat rattled and chinked as the driver pulled in with his delivery. Control drew his overcoat around him and breathed in a lungful of fresh, salty air.

It looked like it was going to be a beautiful day.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Milton got off the underground at Heathrow Terminal Five. The platform was crowded with travellers, some with handheld luggage, others hauling cases on wheels. Milton was unencumbered: all he had was his watch, his oxidised Ronson lighter, a packet of cigarettes and three thousand pounds that he had withdrawn from an account he had opened five years earlier and never touched. He didn’t need anything else. He took his place on the escalator and rode it all the way to the first floor and the departure lounge. A travelator hurried the seemingly endless queue of travellers onwards: parents corralling boisterous children; business travellers with newspapers open before them; backpackers with grungy t-shirts and brightly-coloured bracelets on their wrists. Milton waited in line. There was no sense in rushing; he wasn’t in any kind of hurry.

The huge, cavernous shed opened out before him: hundreds of check-in desks, thousands of passengers. There was a Starbucks concession this side of security and Milton headed for it.

A man was sitting at one of the shiny metal tables. Milton sat down opposite him.

“Pope.”

“Milton.”

Pope’s face still bore the evidence of his beating at the hands of Pascha Shcherbatov. His eyes were still bruised, but the vivid purple had faded away, to be replaced by a dull puce. He shifted in his chair, better to accommodate the residual pain from the ribs that had been broken.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look it.”

“But I look better than I did?”

“You look old.”

“We both look old, John. We are old.”

“Speak for yourself.”

A

“Mr. Milton,” she said with cold formality.

“A

“I’m very well.”

The conversation was stilted; he had hurt her pride for the second time.

“Are you going to sit down?”

“I don’t think so. My flight leaves soon.”

She was dressed in a business suit with a white shirt, similar to the outfit that she had been wearing when she had got him out of trouble in Texas. That seemed an awfully long time ago now.

She looked down at him: beautiful, frigid, haughty.

“I’m not going to say I’m sorry, A

She stiffened. “I don’t need your apology,” she said curtly, “and I don’t need your advice.”

“I’m sorry about the colonel. What happened to him wasn’t what we pla

Anger flashed. “No? What did you have pla

“I was going to give the flash drives to him.”

Did she believe him? It didn’t look like it. She shook her head derisively, the curtain of red hair shifting across her shoulders. She collected her bottle of drink from the table. “I should be going,” she said. “Goodbye, Mr. Milton.”

“Goodbye, A

“Perhaps we will see each other again.”

“Perhaps.”

Chapter Forty-Eight

Milton and Pope wandered across to the wide windows of the observation lounge. It was a dark night, the moon and stars hidden by a thick blanket of low cloud. The 747 that was liveried in the colours of Aeroflot lumbered down the runway, raised its front wheel from the tarmac and struggled into the air. A

“Have we spoken to the Russians?”

“I believe so.”

“And?”

“They’re not unhappy. As far as they’re concerned, you did what you said you’d do.”

They strolled to a couple of empty seats and sat down.

“Here,” Pope said, proffering a new passport. Milton flicked through the pages; they were clean, unstamped, virgin. There was something to be written there. Possibilities.

“Thanks.”

“Look at the last page.”

Milton did: the passport was in his own name, not an alias.

“You’re in the clear, John. You are officially retired.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“I’m serious. It’s finished, John. You can do whatever you want to do.”

“You know that for a fact?”

“I do.”

“And does Control see it that way?”

“He isn’t going to be a problem any more. Not for you, anyway.”

“They got rid of him?”

Pope paused, an awkward grimace on his face, and Milton co

“Seriously? They took him out?”

“He’s been given a file.”

“But?”

“But he can’t be found. His car was found at Beachy Head last night. The keys were still in the ignition.”

“No way,” Milton said. “He’s faked it. He didn’t jump. He’s a cockroach, Pope. It’s going to take more than that to get rid of him.”

Pope nodded his agreement. “They’ve searched the rocks and they didn’t find anything. We don’t think he jumped either. He’s ru

“I’ve been thinking that, too.”

“Shcherbatov would have been pleased.”

“He would have said the job was only half done.”

“Yes, but we’ll finish it. He can’t run forever. We’ll find him.”

Milton stopped, looking at his old friend. “Hold on,” he said, a slow realisation dawning. “Who’s replacing Control?”