Ghosts

Pope shrugged.

“You?”

“They asked me yesterday.”

“And you said no.”

He smiled ruefully.

“You said yes? Don’t be an idiot, man.”

“It’s the only way they’re ever going to get off your back.”

“You don’t have to do that for me.”

“It’s not just for you. I’m the same age as you. You think I want to be in the field for ever? I’m old and slow. I was sloppy last time. I got lucky.”

Milton protested. “But you’re not a politician. Get into private security. Go and be a consultant somewhere. Make some money. You think you can work with the government? They’ll eat you up.”

“Ouch,” he said. “A little more credit, please. It’s in your interest to see me do well. I’m the one who’s saying there’s no point in chasing you halfway around the world anymore. I’m the one saying you’re free to do whatever you want. I rescinded your file. That was the first thing I did.”

The two of them paused; Milton didn’t know what to say. He knew that Pope was a superb agent, not as good as he had been but good, and that having him ride a desk was a criminal waste of his talents. But, as his old friend smiled with patient affection at him, he realised that, maybe, his promotion had benefitted from a little good sense. Pope was solid and dependable and, after the corruption and avarice that had latterly been exposed in his predecessor, those were not unhelpful qualities to have. He was strong-willed, the kind of man who would question his orders and, Milton thought, that too would be a useful trait.

“You’re not going to congratulate me?”

“For accepting a poisoned chalice? You couldn’t pay me to do that job.”

There was a moment of awkwardness between them. Pope slapped his hands on his knees, dispelling it. “What are you going to do next?”

Milton thought about that. “I don’t know,” he said. “If the Group isn’t looking for me, I don’t have to hide.”

“No,” Pope agreed. “You can go wherever you like. You need money?”

“Does it look like I’m begging?”

“No. I think it looks like you’re leaving with nothing.”

“What else do I need?” Milton shrugged.

“No luggage at all?”

“If I need something, I’ll get it when I arrive. I’ve always travelled light.”

“You know where you’re going?”

“I’ve made a habit of not telling people that,” he said, and then when Pope frowned at him, he added, “Wherever seems right.”

“I can’t persuade you to stay around?”

“There’s nothing for me here.”

Milton really didn’t know what he wanted to do or where he wanted to go. His plan was to walk into the departures lounge, look at the flights that were leaving in the next couple of hours, pick one, buy a ticket, and go.

“You want some advice? If it were me, I’d find somewhere I liked and I’d stay there a while. Put down some roots.”

“That’s not me,” Milton said. “I’ve been on the move for six months. I’ve got no ties. Don’t think I want any.”

“You don’t want a woman? Get a family?”

“Do I look like a family man? I’ll leave that to you. I’ve never been cut out for it.”

And, he thought, I’ve got too much that I need to do. Too much to make amends for.

“Alright, then,” Pope said. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He offered his hand and Milton took it.

“Thanks,” he said. “You didn’t have to do what you did. I won’t forget it. If you need me, you know where I am. Alright?”

Milton felt a moment of hesitation.

He looked up at the screen with two dozen destinations on it.

“Good luck,” Pope said.

“You too.”

Milton put the new passport in his hip pocket and walked towards the nearest ticket desk.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Pope had left his car in the short-stay car park. They had offered him a driver and a better car but he wasn’t interested in either; the old Control had been in post for so long that it felt like the time was right for a change in approach. He would do things his own modest way, and if that meant doing them quietly and without extravagance, then so be it. He could only be himself.

He unlocked the door and sat down. He was reaching for the engine start button when he was aware of someone in the car behind him.

“Easy.”

He felt a prickle of tension across his shoulder blades. “Who are you?”

“It’s Beatrix Rose.”

He looked into the rearview mirror: it was dark but there was enough of a glow from the courtesy light to see her sallow face and long blonde hair. She was sitting back against the seat, unmoved and unconcerned, her cold blue eyes staring at him in the mirror. She was wearing a tight-fitting leather jacket.

“Relax? Are you serious? I’ve seen what you can do. And you’ve broken into my car.”

“I needed to speak to you,” she said.

“You couldn’t make an appointment?”

“I’d prefer it if we could keep it between us.”

The courtesy light faded out and Pope could only see her as a dark shadow. “You don’t have anything to hide from any more.”

“Old habits die hard.”

“No-one is looking for you, Rose. Control has gone.”

“Yes,” she said. “That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

Pope rested his hands on the wheel. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where he is. No-one knows. You have my word.”

“You understand why I want him?”

“Yes. What happened to your family. I know. Milton told me.”

“And you know I can’t let that stand.”

“Yes, of course. I’d be the same.”

“So I need you to find him and give him to me.”

“I know I owe you. What you did for me will buy plenty of favours. But that’s going to be very difficult to arrange.”

“Difficult but not impossible.”

“No. Not impossible.”

“I’m not expecting favours, Pope. I can pay my way.”

“With what?”

“I know you’re replacing him.”

“How do you know that?”

“Never mind. You want to know how I see this? Control has left you a group of agents that you can’t trust. He picked all of them and you don’t know which ones were involved with him and which ones weren’t. For all you know, they all were. That would be the safe assumption. Five of them are dead and you’re out of the game. That leaves six. I don’t know about you, but not being able to trust them wouldn’t make me feel very safe. If you agree to work with me, I’ll vet all of them for you: surveillance, background checks, whatever you need. All off the books. You and I would be the only ones who know.”

“And if we find any of them are crooked?”

“I’ll take care of them.”

He knew what that euphemism must mean. “We could talk about that.”

“You need to know something else, too. I don’t want to get our relationship off on the wrong foot, but I have the evidence to prove what Control did. Milton gave it to me. I sent it to the government. They have it just as they want it at the moment: Control is gone and you’ve taken his place with no fuss and no noise. Smooth and seamless. But it wouldn’t take very much to rake over those coals again. I could easily send it all to a newspaper.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“Depends how you take it,” she said. “That’s not what I want it to sound like.”

“What do you want it to sound like?”

“I want you to have all the information you need when you make your decision to work with me.”

She was confident and she had reason to be; she had a strong hand. “What exactly would you want?”

“Oliver Spenser is dead. I want the four agents who were responsible for the murder of my husband and the abduction of my little girl. Their names are Lydia Chisholm, Co