STEVE JACKSON
The Mentor

Dedication

For Karen, with love.

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Part One: Dead Flowers In Her Hair

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

Part Two: The Third Choice

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

Part Three: Babylon’s Burning

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

Epilogue

Afterword

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

Fifteen minutes till showtime.

Waiting doesn’t bother me, never has. It comes with the territory. Killing time … yeah, I’m good at that. The room is oppressive and smells of disinfectant and piss, rented by the hour rather than the day and not much bigger than the bed. There are no Gideons in the bedside drawer, no mints on the stained pillows. The mattress is lumpy and covered with a dirty grey sheet. No duvet. The headboard is screwed to the plasterboard wall to stop it banging, the screws going in at all angles. Paper-thin curtains hang raggedly across the window, the hint of a floral pattern barely visible; tracings in pink, red and green. A garbage-strewn alleyway can be glimpsed through the crack. There’s no wardrobe, no chest of drawers, no point, really. You come to a place like this to fuck or die.

I’ve rented the room for two hours and paid in cash. The desk clerk was caged behind the wire mesh and I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a baseball bat or a gun hidden back there. A shock of electrified white dreads hung halfway down his back and a fat joint was clamped between his bluing lips. Late sixties or early fifties, difficult to say. He was staring through the sweet-smelling smoke at a black and white portable, screwed-up bloodshot eyes taking it all in. On the screen, Arnie was waving a big gun. Half man, half cyborg … come with me if you want to live! The clerk took the money and shoved a key through the slot without turning from the TV.

‘Uhm,’ I said. ‘A friend … a female friend. She’ll be, er, turning up shortly. Could you send her to my room?’

The clerk turned slowly, took a long drag on his joint and gave me a look as if to say what the fuck do you think this is? The motherfuckin’ Hilton? He exhaled and grinned through the smoke, his teeth yellow and gold. ‘Sure thing, mon,’ he said. Still grinning, he turned back to the TV. He’d looked at me for all of two seconds; looked but didn’t see. The man on the other side of the mesh was already forgotten. Just another horny white businessman indistinguishable from the dozens of horny white businessmen he sees each and every day.

A glance at my watch. Eight minutes to go. Further down the hall, a whore is earning her next fix. Moaning and groaning and on the home straight now, telling the punter what he needs to hear: he’s a bad, bad boy … and sooo big. I ignore the noise, boot up the laptop. A click and a purr as the fan spins to life. I type in the password, fingers click-clacking across the keyboard. Hacking into London Underground’s main computer system, I quickly access the security cameras. The screen shows a grainy CCTV image of a crowded platform: Leicester Square. It’s a realtime feed, the picture coming via satellite through my mobile, into the laptop. There are three cameras positioned to give a complete view of the platform, and with a single click I can bounce between them. It’s amazing what you can do with technology.

Rush hour is in full swing, the station crowded with suits. White faces, black faces, yellow faces. The colours vary but the expressions are the same: tired, stressed and bored. A train pulls in and the crush on the platform momentarily eases. The doors shut, then open again to let another couple of businessmen squash inside. I’m not sure who the lucky ones are. Those whisked away by the train or those left behind.

Within a minute the platform is crawling again. I scan the faces, searching for the girl. Everywhere I look little dramas unfold … haikus of humanity. A Pakistani in a crisp suit is standing near an exit, briefcase in hand, laptop bag slung over one shoulder. His tongue subconsciously moistens dry lips, eyes making love to every square inch of the woman in front. She senses something, turns suddenly. His head jerks away too quickly and a slender smile slides across her lips. She runs a hand through her short mannish hair, secretly flattered by the attention. I click to another camera. A backpacker is moving through the crowd like an astronaut, in slo-mo, the gravitational pull of the platform sucking him down. A rucksack is strapped to his back; greasy hair tumbles over his shoulders. He’s wearing cut-off denim shorts; there are piercings in his ears, nose and lip. The one word logo on his T-shirt says it all: LOSER.

The deal was for the whole sum up front, all two million of it, the fee non-refundable. It’s the only way to do business. That half now, half later nonsense is strictly for amateurs. It crosses my mind she might bottle it. Wouldn’t be the first time an op had gone tits up at zero hour. I tell myself to be patient.

Seconds tick by, slowly turn into minutes. I know what they call me behind my back: a dinosaur. They mean it as an insult, but I don’t see it that way. The word dinosaur has its origins in Greek. Deinos meaning terrible; sauros meaning lizard. Terrible Lizard. People should choose their words more carefully.

I click between the cameras, scanning the crowd, checking the faces against the photo lying next to the laptop. A heavily pregnant Arab woman is standing beside the chocolate machine. She’s glowing, radiating a righteous light. Her head moves from left to right, searching for the best place to stand. She presses towards the middle of the platform. The crowds part to let her through, like they know she’s something special. She treads carefully, hands resting on her bump, moving with the waddle of a woman whose waters could break any second. She’s smiling at the businessmen as they move out the way, smiling at women who are obviously mothers. They keep giving her sympathetic glances. Poor thing! Pregnant in this heat, that can’t be any fun! She shrugs and smiles. What can I do? A telepathic conversation taking place between the members of an organisation every bit as mysterious as the masons.

She stops near the yellow line and her eyes flick to the digital display hanging from the roof. The next train is due in one minute. She turns her head and for a brief moment she’s staring directly into the lens. Even in monochrome she looks glorious. Barely out of her teens with long dark hair and exotic skin. There’s no tension in her face, no regret in those dark, smoky eyes; she’s perfectly at peace with herself. Her lips are moving as she silently recites verses from the Koran to herself. **STAND BACK TRAIN APPROACHING**, flashes the sign. The train pulls in, the doors slide open. A tidal wave of bodies spews onto the platform and I lose sight of her. A heartbeat later the screen becomes a blizzard. If I didn’t know better I’d suspect a technical fault.

If I didn’t know better.

PART ONE Dead Flowers In Her Hair

We laugh at honour and are shocked to find traitors in our midst.

C.S. Lewis

1

Paul Aston slammed the phone down and kicked back in his chair. ‘Shit, shit, shit,’ he muttered under his breath. What was her problem? So he was working late. News flash: long hours came with the territory. She already knew that, so why was she acting like it was a big surprise? The phone went and he tried to ignore it. Probably Laura ringing back to tell him to go to hell. Conditioning got the better of him and he snatched it up, said a cautious hello.

‘Hey, Paul.’

‘Thank God, a friendly voice.’ Georgina Strauss was most definitely a friend first and a work colleague second, and that was unusual; in this business you tended to cultivate contacts rather than make friends. They’d gone through the Intelligence Officer’s New Entry Course together, the IONEC in MI6 speak. MI6 loved its acronyms, as Aston had quickly discovered. When he first started it had been like learning a new language.

‘Look, Paul, got to be quick. A bomb’s gone off in Leicester Square tube.’

‘Shit,’ he breathed into the mouthpiece. He checked his watch. The middle of rush hour. ‘How many dead?’

‘No idea. Too fucking many.’

‘What happened?’

‘Our guess is that it was a suicide bomber. They marched onto the platform and blew themselves to bits.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Didn’t I say it was only a matter of time before something like this happened again? For once I hate always being right. So what about all those lessons that were supposed to have been learnt after 7/7, eh?’ She sighed and Aston could imagine her sitting there shaking her head. ‘This is so fucked up, Paul.’

‘Fucked up … that doesn’t even begin to cover it.’

‘You owe me,’ George said, and then she was gone.

Aston hung up and took the Batphone from his shirt pocket. The Batphone was always on, always charged; he wasn’t allowed to go anywhere without it. Before he could flick it open, it started vibrating and chirping. He didn’t need to check the caller ID. Only one person had this number.

Mac jumped straight in without so much as a hello. A barrage of questions to make sure he’d heard the news, testing him out on the whats and wheres, and then he let rip.

‘Okay, so what the fuck are you sitting there with your thumb jammed up your arse for?’

‘You caught me on the way out the door.’

‘I hope you’re not trying to bullshit me.’

‘No, sir.’

A snort that could have meant anything, then: ‘I want you there straightaway. I want to know everything that’s happening. You got that? Everything.’

Aston made a face at the mobile. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘And Aston.’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t use the journalist alias.’

Aston hit the street running; by the time he’d jogged over Vauxhall Bridge his shirt was soaked through with sweat. The evening was humid, the air heavy and moist. He stopped on the other side of the river to catch his breath and glanced back at MI6’s HQ. The elaborate architectural style had more than a touch of the Middle East about it; it was easy to see why the media had christened it Babylon-on-Thames. The cost of the building had run into nine figures and from the outside it wasn’t apparent where the money had gone. It was the things you didn’t see that cost the money. The elaborate anti-bugging devices, the bombproof walls, the triple glazing. The fact that five floors of the building were hidden beneath ground level.

The city was in chaos. All tube services had been suspended, so everyone had headed to the surface to get a cab or a bus. The roads were gridlocked and the air was alive with sirens, horns, arguments. Everywhere Aston looked he saw panic and confusion. Nobody had a clue what was going on. The PM had been assassinated, Buckingham Palace had been nuked … the mutterings Aston heard as he headed for Leicester Square ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous. He stopped running, sweat trickling down his back. If he ran to Leicester Square in this heat he’d have a stroke. There had to be a better way.

The cyclist was dressed in a suit and the crash helmet made it look like he had a metallic blue alien skull grafted onto his head. He was riding along the gutter, squeezing between the kerb and a convertible BMW. The driver had killed the engine, resigned to being there for the long haul, fingers tapping anxiously on the steering wheel as he listened to a news bulletin. The cyclist drew level. Aston grabbed his arm and pulled him from the bike, sent him tumbling to the ground. He picked up the bike, jumped on and charged along the pavement, shouting at people to get out of his way.

He’d just passed the National Portrait Gallery when he saw his first survivor. The girl was in her mid-twenties and covered from head to toe in dust, as if frosted with grey icing sugar. She was sitting on the kerb with her knees hugged tight against her chest, rocking back and forth, focusing on nothing. Aston cycled on, passing more survivors. All of them had the same dead eyes, that same thousand yard stare. Some were crying, some were injured. They were cut and bruised, confused. Blood stained their faces, their clothes. An icy feeling settled in Aston’s stomach as he realised these were the lucky ones.

Then he heard the screams. Cries of anguish mingled with cries of pain, a full-on symphony of suffering that got louder the closer he got. He wanted to block his ears, wanted to turn around and ride as fast as he could in the opposite direction, anything to get away from that terrible noise. Instead, he let his training kick in. From here on he was Detective Inspector Stuart Bromley. One of the Met’s finest. There was no way DI Bromley, hardened by years of seeing the worst humanity could dream up, would run away. Aston got off the bike, propped it up against a lamppost, brushed the creases from his clothes. Handling the fear was easier when you were pretending to be someone else.

He turned a corner and stepped into a living nightmare. All the usual suspects were there. Cops, firemen and paramedics were beavering away on one side of the hastily erected barriers. Journalists, TV reporters, photographers, cameramen and rubberneckers were trapped on the other side. It was like stepping onto a movie set … except this was no Hollywood fantasy. His senses overloaded, slamming into the red. Colours, sounds and smells seemed sharper, more defined. Vehicle engines revving, orders being barked out, the screams and cries of the injured, red and blue lights throbbing on top of ambulances and police cars like a migraine, the excited voyeuristic murmur of the crowd, that dirty London smell coated with a thin layer of puke and cinders.

Aston pushed through the crowd, moving as if he owned the place. He almost smiled when a couple of the more seasoned hacks started firing questions at him. No comment, he fired back. That was the thing with cover. As long as you believed – really believed – you could fool almost anyone.

A PC manning the barrier stopped him, told him he couldn’t come through. Aston didn’t say a word. He drew himself up to his full height, pulled out his ID, flipped it open and thrust it an inch from the PC’s nose. Indignity personified. There was no way the ID wouldn’t pass inspection. Central Facilities had got it from the same place the Met got theirs. The PC muttered an apology, shifted the barrier and let him through. The media was still trapped on the other side. Mac had been right. The journalist alias wouldn’t have got him very far. He turned away from the barrier and marched towards the station entrance, dust kicking up from the heels of his shoes.

2

An old man wearing a neck brace was strapped to the gurney, a bright red blanket covering his body. His wrinkled face was twisted with pain, grime and blood filling the age worn crevices, ivory hair streaked black and crimson. He was calling out a name, over and over – ‘Helena, Helena, Helena!’ – his voice surprisingly strong considering his condition. There was the hint of an accent, something Mediterranean. Was Helena one of the dead? The paramedics pushed on three and the wheels folded away as the gurney slid inside the ambulance. They jumped in behind, pulled the door shut. The ambulance shot forward, siren wailing, and within seconds another had rolled up to take its place. Two paramedics were already waiting at the kerb with the next victim.

Aston did a quick 360 degrees. For the moment this was the medics’ show; the survivors took priority and everything else could wait. The police were nothing more than glorified security guards; there to keep the newshounds at bay, to keep the peace. The DI Bromley alias had got him this far but it wouldn’t take him much further. The only people going in and out of the station were paramedics and firefighters. He did another surreptitious 360 degrees, looking for the angle. There was always an angle. Aston made a mental note of where the PCs were. Uniformed police didn’t worry him: easy to spot, easy to bullshit. CID was a different story. Detectives were born with the curiosity gene and the last thing he needed was to find himself answering a load of awkward questions.

A huddle of suited detectives had set up shop by a news stand opposite the station entrance. They were acting big and talking animatedly, hands emphasising the more important points. Aston walked off in the opposite direction, putting some distance between them, all the time looking for that angle. Another ambulance screamed past, siren wailing. It pulled into the middle of the road to go around the line of fire engines parked at the kerb, the driver thumping at the horn and scattering a couple of firemen out the way. Aston stopped, watched for a second. All the action was centred around the lead fire engine; nobody was paying any attention to the one at the back.

Walking as though he was born to be there, Aston passed the firemen, passed the first three engines. He stopped level with the last one, glanced back at the firefighters. They were all looking the other way, paying no attention to him. He pulled the door open and jumped up into the cab. Had to be quick. No telling how much time he had. There was a ton of gear in the cab: bright yellow helmets, face masks, bulky jackets, axes, respiration equipment, all the good stuff he’d need to pull this one off. Heart pounding, Aston grabbed one of the jackets, pulled it on. A little long in the arm but it would do. He pulled on a pair of trousers, found some boots, took a torch from the shelf and stuffed it into the deep jacket pocket. A sound outside. He stopped dead, listening; said a quick prayer that whoever was out there would stay out there. The scratch of a match, a long, deep inhalation, an even longer sigh. Aston twisted his head so he could see into the tall side mirror. The boy was no older than nineteen, tall and gangly like a baby giraffe. The uniform looked all wrong on him. It was too big, as though he still had some growing to do before it fit properly. The boy had taken off his helmet and placed it by his feet. Head pitched down, staring at the floor, he brought a cigarette to his lips, fighting to keep his hand still. And then he threw up, vomit splattering his boots. Jesus, was it really that bad down there?

Aston timed his departure with the second bout of retching. While the boy was busy losing his lunch, he quietly let himself out the other side, climbing down onto the pavement and gently pushing the door closed behind him. He put on the helmet, glanced in the side mirror to check he looked the part. Almost, but not quite. He bent down and scooped up some dirt from the gutter, smeared it on his face. Walking was tricky to begin with, but he soon got the hang of it. Now he knew why firefighters walked with that macho swagger; it was the bulky trousers that did it. A deep breath as he drew level with the lead fire engine, praying he wouldn’t be challenged. His luck held. Everyone was too busy with their own problems. Confidence growing, he headed for the station entrance, passing a couple of policemen who didn’t even give him a second look. Like Mac said, pulling off a disguise was all about getting into someone else’s shoes; getting under their skin.

The station foyer had been turned into a triage ward, dozens upon dozens of stretchers covering the cold, hard floor. Halogen lamps flooded the area with their sterile glare, generators thud-thud-thudding in the background. Aston looked around in disbelief. It was like something from the First World War. Doctors in bloodstained butcher’s coats flitted from patient to patient, assessing each one, categorising them, making life and death decisions in the blink of an eye. They worked on the ones with the best chance of survival; those who didn’t make the grade were quickly stretchered away to make room for those who did. Nurses flitted around like some rare breed of ivory butterfly, settling down momentarily to fit an IV, to give an injection or a painkiller, to offer some words of comfort. They worked efficiently, their movements economical and precise, their fear hidden behind training and procedure. The sounds and smells from outside were more intense in here, as though reality had been ratcheted up another couple of notches. The noise worked into Aston’s brain, shredding synapses, putting his teeth on edge. Screams echoed off the tiles, the volume creeping past ten. Underpinning this was a lower pitched rumble that was somehow worse – moans groans crying voices pleading for help whispering voices begging for an escape from the pain please please please anything to take the pain away – a bass counterpoint to the hideous melody. The stink was worse than the noise. The stench of shit and puke dominated, stealing what little oxygen there was from the heavy air. There was another smell too, a clean smell that seemed completely out of place: the antiseptic aroma of hospitals. The combination made Aston want to throw up. It was all too much, all too real. The hopeless cases had been moved next to the ticket booth, where a priest in a grey cassock was trying to provide comfort to people past hearing or caring. He was clutching his crucifix so tightly his knuckles were shining. His salt and pepper hair, usually so neat for Mass, was standing on end, a nervous hand pushing it in all directions. Aston watched the priest kneel beside a stretcher. It was difficult to tell if the victim was male or female, young or old. The face was ruined: ugly, moist and black. The priest’s lips moved, mouthing incantations in Latin. Dead words in a dead language for someone who would never see another sunrise. He crossed himself then leant over and closed the corpse’s eyes. A look of disgust spread across his face and he frantically wiped his hand across the front of his neat grey cassock, leaving a nasty dark smear. He jumped to his feet, visibly shaken, spun around to see if anyone had noticed. Aston looked away quickly, leaving the priest alone with his embarrassment, and as he turned he caught sight of the body bags. They were piled up in a dark corner, hidden in the shadows. There had to be a couple of dozen of them. Probably more. And this was just the start.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Aston whispered to himself. He’d expected it to be bad, but nowhere near this bad.

Feeling shaky, he headed for the escalators, his lunch sitting heavily. He took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself. Three of the ticket barriers had been ripped out and dumped to one side, creating a thoroughfare between the makeshift ward and the platforms below. Aston moved aside to let a couple of medics through. He couldn’t help looking at the stretcher as they passed. Car crash curiosity. Aston didn’t fancy the woman’s chances. He turned a corner and almost collided with a firefighter.

‘Watch where the fuck you’re going!’ The explosive consonants of someone used to barking out orders; a tone of voice Aston knew only too well. He looked up, saw a Viking masquerading as a firefighter; the sooty black marks on his face could have been painted on by a make-up artist. The man glaring down at him was hitting fifty, well over six foot with a perfectly trimmed ginger moustache. Aston muttered an apology, all the time telling himself that he was meant to be here, praying his cover wasn’t going to be blown, not when he was this close. He had the uniform – and most people didn’t look any further than that – all he had to do was keep his cool. Mac would throw a shit-fit if he screwed up now. And Mac was a damn sight scarier than this guy.

‘Who the hell are you?’ The firefighter gave Aston the once over, moustache twitching.

‘Paul Hester.’ It was the first name that came into his head.

‘Haven’t seen you before.’

‘I’m based in Watford,’ Aston said. ‘Brought in to help out.’

‘One of Blackie’s boys.’

‘That’s right.’

Aston didn’t have a clue who Blackie was, but if the Viking wanted to believe he was one of Blackie’s boys then that was fine with him. There was a long silence, long enough for Aston to think the Viking was testing him and he’d just screwed up big time, then: ‘Okay Hester, some of the lads are clearing a cave-in on one of the exit tunnels for the westbound platform of the Piccadilly Line. They could do with an extra pair of hands. Do you think you can find them okay or do you want me to draw a map?’

‘I’ll find them,’ Aston said.

‘Good lad.’ The Viking marched off through the barriers and Aston breathed a sigh of relief. That had been way too close for comfort.

He reached the long escalator and stared down into the depths. The bottom was there somewhere, hidden in the gloom. Light bulbs had been strung up along one side, their weak glow reaching for the far wall and not quite making it. He chose the escalator nearest the bulbs, picking his way carefully from step to step, moving through alternating patches of light and shadow, his heart hammering in his chest. He half expected the escalator to suddenly burst into life, calliope music huffing and puffing through the gloom and multicoloured lights flashing luridly, like something from a fairground House of Horrors.

The further down he went, the hotter and stuffier it got. Aston unzipped the bulky coat, wafted it a couple of times, but it made no difference. He sucked in a long, whistling, asthmatic breath, grabbing what little oxygen he could. How the hell did firefighters deal with this day in and day out? Maybe it was one of those things you became acclimatised to.

At the bottom of the escalator, he pulled out the industrial-sized torch, clicked it on. There was even less air here and Aston fought back the panic, stomped it down with rationality. Walking through the tunnels was a surreal experience; the darkness made them unrecognisable. The occasional advert would catch in the torch beam – a book, a movie, a London attraction not to be missed – glimpses of the familiar, but, for the most part, the landscape was completely alien. Every now and again a face would come at him out of the dark. Paramedics mainly, stretchering the injured and the dead to the surface. Aston jumped each time it happened. Although he knew differently, it felt like he was the only person inhabiting this strange universe.

Half a dozen firemen were working on the cave-in, using their hands to remove the rubble piece by piece. They worked in silence to conserve energy; they worked methodically in case they came across a survivor trapped in a debris cave; they worked carefully, the possibility of another collapse hanging over them like the sword of Damocles. A halogen lamp had been set up, its beam bouncing off the blockage. Muddy water from a burst main sluiced around Aston’s feet. He followed the lead of the nearest firefighter, the two of them working side by side. They made a pile of rubble behind them, the larger chunks they carried together. Within no time Aston was drenched in sweat. It trickled down his forehead, into his eyes, blinding him. Every five minutes or so one of the firefighters would shout for everyone to stop. Another would use an infra-red scanner to probe the debris and everyone would hold their breath, praying for a miracle.

The sight of the doll’s leg poking out from the rubble broke Aston’s heart; somehow it brought home the full horror of what had happened here. The people who’d died today had been innocents, none more so than the children. Sweating and groaning, he’d hefted a large slab out the way, and there it was, a glimpse of dirty pink cotton. Aston dropped to his knees, his lungs suddenly packed with ice despite the heavy heat down here. He knew what he was seeing, but the rational part of his brain wouldn’t let him admit the truth. Do that and he’d have to get out, start running and keep going until he reached the surface. It wasn’t that he was weak, it was just that sometimes you needed a little denial to keep you functioning. Aston concentrated on his breathing, forcing the hot, filthy air into his chest, melting the ice – in, out, in, out – then he went to work. With the utmost care he excavated the doll, working in silence, totally absorbed by the task. He had no awareness of anything going on around him. The sounds of the firefighters working, their harsh breathing and tense shouted whispers, the coldness of the water, the sharp stab of the halogens, none of this registered. Down on his hands and knees he dug into the rubble, dirt and grime grinding into his baby-soft skin; his hands were conditioned to the smoothness of plastic, telephones and computer keyboards, not the grim reality of manual labour. The sharp grit got onto his skin, into his skin, under his skin, abrasive right down to the bone. He looked at his hands, and barely recognised them. They were pruned from the water and the damp dirt, black as a miner’s. There was red mixed in there, too. Blood. He couldn’t feel any pain, couldn’t see any cuts; his hands were numb, the injuries belonging to someone else. Aston began digging again, carefully, reverentially. Through the dirt and sweat he saw the pink Babygro with Mummy’s Little Princess on the front. Saw the mangled bloody face. He lifted the doll out, knowing that once upon a time she had been alive – breathing, laughing and loving – but unable to admit this to himself. Not yet. Not ever. So, even though the limbs felt like they were made from jelly rather than plastic, he told himself again it was just a doll, and although he knew differently he kept telling himself it was a doll, only a doll, because that was the one thing keeping him sane right now, the one thing keeping him from falling apart. But denial could only carry you so far, and Aston could feel reality creeping in. He tried to push it back, but it was too late. Fingers moving as though they had a mind of their own, he reached out and fussed her hair, stroked her cheek. Flesh instead of plastic. No point lying to himself anymore. The full horror crashed in on him all at once and he was powerless to stop the flood. He was a lone figure holding his hands up to pacify the raging torrent; there one moment, and then washed away and destroyed the next.

Aston cradled the baby in his arms, the tiny broken face resting gently against his chest, and moved deeper into the tunnel, away from the harsh halogen glare. Still holding her tight to his chest, he slid down a wall. Then the tears came and he wept. He knew that from this moment on nothing would ever be the same.

3

There were seven missed calls on the Batphone when Aston got back above ground. He steeled himself then hit redial.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Mac demanded. ‘Why haven’t you called?’

Aston explained that he’d been a couple of hundred feet underground and it was difficult to get a signal. He hadn’t meant to sound sarcastic, but that’s how Mac took it. When Mac calmed down, Aston attempted to fill him in. He didn’t get far.

‘Shut up and listen. You think I’ve just been hanging around with my dick in my hand waiting for you to call? Is that it?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Too bloody right. If I spent my life waiting for you, I’d never get anywhere. While you’ve been off gallivanting I’ve been working my arse off trying to figure out what the hell’s going on.’

Gallivanting, Aston stopped himself from saying.

‘If you’ve got anything you think might be useful,’ Mac added in a voice heavy with sarcasm, ‘bung it in a report.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And if it’s not too much trouble I’d like that on my desk first thing in the morning. And it’d better fucking well be there.’ With that the line went dead.

‘Cunt,’ Aston whispered at the mobile.

Miraculously the bike was where he’d left it; any other day it would have been nicked in two seconds. He cycled back to Vauxhall Cross through near-deserted streets, the wind pushing past him a welcome relief after the suffocating tunnels. It was almost midnight and still humid; the night was a thunderstorm waiting to happen.

He banged away at the keyboard for almost an hour, taking no notice of what he was typing. His hands were sore, fingers weary. The injuries were superficial – minor scratches and cuts, an abrasion on his left palm – certainly nothing requiring hospital treatment. Some antiseptic and an Elastoplast … job done. All he could think about was the dead baby. He typed faster … if he could somehow get his brain to work quicker then maybe he could outrun those nightmarish images. Fine in theory, but all that happened was he made more typos. He didn’t bother reading the report through when he finished. If it read like it was written in Chinese he didn’t give a shit. He e-mailed the report to Mac’s secure account and headed for home.

His mother had warned him he’d end up in the poor house, and for once she’d been right. The poor house in question was a three-storey red brick building in Pimlico that had been constructed in the late 1800s by a philanthropic mill owner. It had lain derelict until 1995, when it had been restored and converted into ‘studios and apartments’ … estate agent doublespeak for ‘bed-sits and rabbit hutches’. Aston had bought a one-bedroom hutch on the first floor, which the estate agent had assured him was money well spent. The area was up and coming, he was investing in the future, in ten years’ time the apartment would be worth double. Whatever. All he knew was that a large chunk of his paycheque disappeared each month just to keep his toes from slipping off the first rung of the property ladder.

It was pushing two by the time Aston got home. He was physically and mentally exhausted. Laura was crashed out on the black leather sofa, as innocent as an angel. She was wearing grey jogging bottoms and a tiny tight red T-shirt with BABE written in spangly pink letters on the front. She was snoring lightly, even though she swore blind she never snored. Aston had considered recording her so he could present her with irrefutable evidence of her crime, but she’d find some way to wriggle out of it. When it came to arguing she was as slippery as a Southern lawyer.

The fallout from her evening lay across the laminated floor. Aston knew the danger signs. Used tissues were scattered like so many crushed lilies; a box of Milk Tray was within reaching distance; she’d demolished half a tub of Häagen-Dazs. An empty DVD case sat open on the floor in front of a hi-tech stack containing all the latest gizmos. Mission Control was his one indulgence. He always had to have the latest toys. It was a boy thing. He picked up the DVD case. Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Not good. She only watched that when she was on a serious downer. The TV was on and tuned in to BBC News 24, the sound a low mumble.

Aston perched on the edge of the sofa, carefully so it wouldn’t squeak. He brushed her fringe from her face, gently pushing the black strands away with his fingertips. God, she was beautiful. He wanted to wake her; didn’t want to wake her. After the day he’d had he needed to feel her arms around him, an affirmation of life to get rid of the stench of death that still clung to him even though he’d scrubbed himself raw in the shower back at Vauxhall Cross. Right now he needed that more than anything. But she looked so peaceful sleeping there, it didn’t seem right. He leant in close, kissed her forehead. She stirred but didn’t wake. Aston went to the bedroom, got a duvet, draped it across her, then fixed a drink – a JD and coke. He settled into the TV chair, the bottle close to hand, leant back and the footrest came up. He took a sip, ice cubes rattling, and stared at the box, too wired to sleep.

They’d been living together for almost six months, seeing each other for about a year. Laura was the first woman he’d lived with and looking back he wondered how long she’d been planning her assault. First the electric toothbrush appeared. It turned up in the bathroom cabinet one day and sort of stayed there. Next a change of clothes turned up. Made sense. If she was staying over, which she was doing more often than not, then she needed fresh clothes. Before he knew it there was a battered old teddy living at the bottom of the bed, a box of Tampax on the bedroom windowsill, and he was having to fight for wardrobe space.

Laura still didn’t know what he did for a living. She thought he worked for the Foreign Office over on King Charles Street in Whitehall; a lie he’d told so often to so many people there were days he almost believed it. It was one of the first things they taught you on the IONEC. You don’t work for us, you work for the Foreign Office. The I’m-A-Spy conversation was one he’d been meaning to have. It was on his mañana list. He felt he owed her the truth, but how did you start a conversation like that? Hi honey, hope you had a good day; by the way, I’m a spy. Then there was the fact that he’d have to apply to personnel for written permission. Probably in triplicate. It was much easier to live in denial. He hadn’t planned on becoming a spy. When he was little he wanted to be an astronaut; at secondary school he told the career’s officer he was going to be a movie star. By the time he got to the sixth form common sense had kicked in. He got four grade As in his A levels and ended up studying business at Oxford.

Growing up, the subject of his real father was a big no-no. Whenever Aston asked, his mother would get twitchy and quickly move the conversation elsewhere. In the end he gave up asking. He’d overheard her talking with his stepfather once. They’d thought he was asleep but he’d got up to ask for a glass of water and heard them on the other side of the lounge door. When he realised what they were talking about, he’d pressed his ear against the wood, not daring to make a sound. All he learnt was that his father was a lying son of a bitch who should be strung up. Strong words from a woman who considered ‘damn’ a dirty word. His mother was birdlike and anxious, a professional housewife who always worried what other people thought. If the Browns got a new car then she wanted one, too. But it had to be bigger, and better, and newer.

His stepfather wasn’t a bad person, just terminally boring. He was a financial analyst, which, as far as Aston was concerned, said it all. His mother had married Brian when Aston was four. Brian owned a big house in the sleepy little village of Great Bedwyn in Wiltshire and commuted to London each day, which meant that Aston hadn’t seen him much, and that was fine. There were no stepbrothers or stepsisters and that was fine, too. Brian had tried. He’d brought him up as his own, done all the usual Dad things, like taking him to football matches and teaching him to shave. But no matter how hard he tried, Brian wasn’t his father.

Brian and Aston’s mother had split up a couple of years ago and this had shocked Aston. For a woman so sensitive to other people’s opinions, this was totally out of character. Aston had thought Brian and his mother would go to the grave together. He certainly hadn’t expected her to run off with Roy, the small, balding lead tenor from the church choir. The gossip must have spread around the village like wildfire. His mother still lived in Great Bedwyn – in sin – and seemed happier than he’d ever seen her.

There had been little love between his mother and Brian, and his mother’s motivation to marry had always struck Aston as pragmatic rather than romantic. A single mother in the Seventies, she’d simply done what was necessary to survive. Aston didn’t blame her. He’d had a pleasant middle-class upbringing, lived in a comfortable house, never wanted for anything. Things could have been very different.

Aston was first ‘approached’ a couple of days after his Finals. He knew Professor Charles Devlan by sight and reputation; most students did. Devlan was a computer genius, although according to his students Computer God was more accurate. He had a long grey ponytail, dressed in jeans and T-shirts, and was about as un-Oxford as it was possible to get – eccentric in ways that left his colleagues scratching their heads. Aston could never work out why he was a lecturer when he could have been earning millions in the private sector.

‘Mind if I walk with you for a bit?’

Aston was on his way to the library to drop off some overdue books. He turned and saw Devlan beside him, a big smile lighting up his boyish face. Aston shrugged and said he didn’t mind, thinking it a bit strange.

‘Aston, isn’t it? Paul Aston?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Aston replied, wondering how he knew his name. He’d never attended any of Devlan’s lectures; there was no reason he should know who he was.

‘So, Paul, have you thought about what you’re going to do when you leave?’

‘Well, I was planning on taking a year out, do some travelling. After that, I’m not sure. My stepfather has a job lined up for me at Barclays but I don’t know if that’s the route I want to take.’

‘Ah, I see.’ Devlan paused. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever considered working for the Government?’

‘Not really.’

‘No, I don’t suppose you have. Maybe you should think about it, Paul. I’ve got a few contacts. I could point you in the right direction. Anyway, must dash.’ And with that he was gone.

It was one of the most peculiar and intriguing conversations Aston had ever had. In particular, the emphasis Devlan had placed on the word ‘Government’ had left Aston in little doubt of what he was getting at.

The offer appealed to the Walter Mitty in him and three weeks later he was flicking through a copy of The Economist in the reception hall at 3 Carlton Gardens, an elegant old building in SW1 that overlooked St James’s Park. A secretary appeared and Aston fought the urge to cock an eyebrow and call her ‘Mish Moneypenny’. He followed her across the marble floor, up the stairs to the mezzanine.

Mr Halliday was a bear of a man who topped off well above the six feet mark. His brown striped suit was years out of date and made him look like a bank manager from the Forties. He even had a pocket watch, the silver chain dangling from his waistcoat. His hair was snow white, clipped in a neat short back and sides, Brylcreemed in place. He offered a hand and Aston braced himself for a bone crushing. Halliday’s grip was surprisingly gentle. He pointed Aston to a seat, then sat down on the other side of the mahogany desk and pushed a sheet of paper and pen across the burgundy leather blotter.

‘Before we get started,’ he said, ‘I need you to read and sign that.’

TOP SECRET was printed in red across the top of the sheet and the words sent electricity shooting up Aston’s spine. Underneath the extract from the Official Secrets Act was a space for his signature. He made his mark, pushed the sheet back across the desk.

‘Excellent.’ Halliday reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a green ring binder. ‘Now I’d like you to read this.’ He put his hands behind his head, rocked back in the chair, and didn’t say another word until Aston finished.

There were more than thirty pages in the folder, each one tucked safely away in a clear pocket. The first part gave a history of MI6 and set out the service’s aims and objectives. The second part was an A to Z of life in MI6: six months on the IONEC; a couple of years manning a desk at HQ; after that, alternate three-year home and overseas postings until compulsory retirement at 55. What it amounted to was the next thirty-odd years of his life being mapped out for him. This didn’t sit well with Aston. He did the interview on autopilot, his mind already made up. Thanks but no thanks.

The year he spent travelling was a blast, the three years working for Barclays a prison sentence. His escape came in the form of a chance meeting with Professor Devlan in Camden Market one rainy Saturday afternoon. Aston was browsing through a second-hand book stall, turning the pages of a Stephen King novel he couldn’t remember if he’d read or not, when someone said his name. He looked up and recognised the professor straightaway. The ponytail was a bit whiter, but the boyish face hadn’t aged at all. They got chatting, and on hearing that Aston’s career wasn’t everything it could be, the professor suggested he reconsider working for the Government. Aston said he might just do that. The next day he wrote a letter and mailed it to 3 Carlton Gardens. At the time he didn’t find anything suspicious about his chance encounter with Devlan. Lots of people visited London. In retrospect, it had obviously been a set-up. Ten days later Aston was once again following Mish Moneypenny up the marble staircase to Mr Halliday’s office.

Halliday had changed considerably since they’d last met. He’d lost almost six stone, and, more impressively, had shrunk by a good five inches. His eyes had changed from brown to a piercing ice blue; they twinkled as if he was sharing a joke at the universe’s expense. If asked, Aston would have placed this incarnation of Halliday in his mid-forties, however, there was something he couldn’t put his finger on that led him to believe he was in his fifties. His hair had once been blonde and had now faded to the colour of sunbleached corn; if there was any grey it had been hidden by chemicals or plucked. They shook hands then went through the same rigmarole as before: the signing of the OSA form, the reading of the green folder. This time Aston considered each question carefully before answering. Halliday wanted to know everything, from his inside leg measurement to his political leanings, from his family history to his criminal record. Aston left Carlton Gardens feeling as though he’d been buggered by the Spanish Inquisition, convinced that he’d screwed up the interview.

Halliday must have thought differently, because two weeks later Aston found himself in Whitehall where he spent the day undergoing a gruelling series of civil service tests and interviews. The following week he was back at Carlton Gardens for a grilling by a panel of MI6 officers. Halliday mark II was hovering in the background, no doubt listening for any inconsistencies in his answers.

The final stage was the security check, an extensive excavation of his past where every cupboard was checked for skeletons. Aston’s juvenile conviction for shoplifting presumably didn’t count because a couple of months later the acceptance letter dropped onto the doormat.

The IONEC passed in a blur with weeks alternating between London and MI6’s training facility at The Fort in Portsmouth. Aston quickly discovered that alcohol was the oil that kept the cogs of MI6 turning smoothly … not that this was a problem. He also discovered his love affair with booze was shared by George; one of the many things they had in common. They were equally competitive, always trying to upstage one another, and the IONEC soon turned into a two-horse race. In the end Aston pipped her at the post. George ended up with a ‘Box 2’ on her staff appraisal form – above average. Aston got a ‘Box 1’. Of course, this was another excuse to go out and get pissed.

With a mark like that Aston wasn’t surprised to find himself assigned to Production and Targeting, Counter-Proliferation. The PTCP had been set up to stop countries like Iraq and Iran getting hold of weapons of mass destruction. What he didn’t expect was to end up working as Mac’s assistant. Mac had asked for him personally – something he got a buzz from pointing out to George. Robert Macintosh was a legend, one of the unsung heroes of the Cold War. He’d been H/MOS, the head of the Moscow station, when the Soviet Union disbanded. After that he’d been appointed H/VIE. The Vienna station was one of MI6’s biggest, not because Austria was of any interest, but because the country was ideally situated to spy on Russia and the Middle East, the arms trade, and the International Atomic Energy Agency.

On his first day Aston turned up bright and early, eager to make a good impression. Mac turned up even earlier.

‘You’re going to have to do better than that if you’re going to get one over on me.’ The man behind the desk smirked, sharp blue eyes twinkling.

It was Halliday mark II.

Aston flicked between the 24-hour news channels. There was only one story; that there were no ad breaks showed how big it was. All the reporters were giving Oscar-winning performances, all of them acting as though they’d seen the horrors up close and personal. Black ties and suits pulled out of mothballs for the occasion, they were shocked, appalled, sickened. Aston tried to reconcile what they were saying with what he’d witnessed in those claustrophobic tunnels, but couldn’t get the two to match. Their words and pictures fell pathetically short of the mark. Depending on the news channel the death toll ranged between two hundred and five hundred. But these were just numbers – cold, hard statistics that meant nothing. A person couldn’t be reduced to a number. The people who’d died had been husbands and wives, sons and daughters, children. They had loved and they had been loved. And now they were dead, and for those left grieving nothing was ever going to be the same again. Those reporters didn’t have a fucking clue.

‘Hey, you’re back,’ said a husky voice from the sofa. Laura sat up and pushed a hand through her rats’ tails, dragging the strands away from her sleepy face. ‘What time is it?’

‘Almost three.’

Laura tiptoed over, careful to keep her heels off the cold wood, dragging the duvet behind her. She curled up on Aston’s lap, all eight stone and five foot five of her, pulling the duvet across them, snuggling into his chest. She fitted perfectly. He shifted to help her get comfortable, kissed the top of her head. She lifted her face and they kissed properly.

‘Where have you been, Paul? I tried to phone but I kept getting your voicemail. I couldn’t get you on your mobile, either. I’ve been worried.’

‘I’m sorry. By the time I got your messages it was too late to phone. Work’s been manic today.’

She noticed his hands, picked them up and examined them, frowned as she rubbed her fingertips over the Elastoplast. ‘What happened?’

‘Would you believe it, I tripped and fell. How’s that for clumsy?’

‘Looks painful.’

‘I’ll live.’ Aston smiled at her, saw the tears. Without thinking he wiped them away with his thumb. ‘Hey, what’s up?’

Laura used the edge of the duvet to wipe her face. Even though it wasn’t cold, she pulled it more tightly around them. ‘You remember my friend Becky?’

He tried to place the name, and shook his head.

‘We went through teacher training together. She was at Trish and Simon’s wedding.’

A spark went off in his head. ‘Yeah, I remember. She’s okay, isn’t she?’

‘She’s fine. It’s her brother, Martin. He gets the tube from Leicester Square. Same time every night. She hasn’t heard from him …’ her voice faltered.

‘Oh Jesus, Laura.’

‘Poor Becky. She doesn’t know what to do with herself. I would have gone to see her. But there was no way I could get there …’ Laura rambled on, words and sobs mingling together. Aston let her talk and when she finished he held her close, felt the dampness seeping through his shirt.

‘How was work?’ Laura asked.

She was changing the subject, and that had to be a good thing. While she’d been talking his mind kept flashing up pictures of the dead baby. So he told her about the problems they were having in New Zealand, and how it was a complete bastard dealing with anyone over there because of the time difference, how you either had to hang around till nine in the evening or get up at some ridiculous hour of the morning. It no longer surprised him how easily the lies came. All part of the job. He took it for read that he’d open his mouth and the lies would all be lined up waiting to spill out. He occasionally wondered how healthy all those lies were for their relationship.

‘… a complete nightmare of a day,’ he concluded, and at least that much was the truth.

‘Poor baby,’ Laura muttered into his chest. She was almost asleep. A light rain began tapping on the window pane; far in the distance came the first rumble of thunder.

4

It only took a couple of hours for the media to christen the atrocity. Sky News, the tabloid of the TV news stations, did the honours. During the seven o’clock round up the anchorman referred to the Leicester Square bombing as 18/8, and the name stuck. The tabloids used it the next day, and it didn’t take long for the broadsheets to follow suit. Of course, BBC News and CNN weren’t far behind. 18/8 HUNDREDS DEAD, was the screaming headline on the front of the Sun the next morning, the typeface so large it took up the whole page. The story stretching across a dozen pages was big on sensational pictures – bodybags being carried out of Leicester Square, shocked survivors looking dazed and confused, grim firefighters with dirty faces – but light on words. At least, light on any words of substance. There were inches galore of speculation, eyewitness accounts, tales of bravery, but not much in the way of facts. Even now there was little to say on the subject, and certainly nothing that hadn’t been said a thousand times already. Almost two weeks had passed since the bomb attack. Autumn was rapidly approaching, the evenings closing in and the days getting cooler, and they were still no closer to nailing the bastards responsible for the atrocity. Sitting at his desk on the fifth floor, staring at his computer screen, Aston was painfully aware of this.

Fact: The bomb detonated at 5.21 p.m. on Friday, August 18th.

Fact: Another woman had died overnight, pushing the official death toll up to two hundred and sixty-two.

Fact: The manpower working on this one was unprecedented. MI6 had pulled every spare man, MI5 had done the same, so had the Met.

Fact: Two weeks on and they didn’t have shit.

It was so bloody depressing. Not to mention stressful. The internal phone rang and Aston picked it up with a sense of foreboding.

‘Get your arse in here now,’ Mac barked.

Before Aston could say anything the line went dead. Sighing, he picked up his notepad and pen and walked the dozen steps to Mac’s office, a distance as long as any last journey to Old Sparky.

Mac was pacing; wearing out rug, as he liked to put it. He’d been wearing out a lot of rug recently. As head of the PTCP he’d been right in the firing line. Under normal circumstances, Mac was as cool a customer as you were ever likely to meet. However, these circumstances were far from normal and he was definitely showing the stress. There were a few more lines, wrinkles that enhanced the rugged lived-in look of his face; his neat hair had a few loose telltale strands that could only come from nervous fingers. And more than once Aston had caught his boss with the top button of his shirt undone and the tie pulled down a fraction of an inch; something unheard of in the days before 18/8. The signs were subtle but they were there if you knew where to look.

And it wasn’t just Mac who was under pressure. They all were. The attacks had come from all angles. The media had crucified MI6, laying the blame for the tragedy squarely at the feet of The Chief, who’d promptly shared that blame around as best he could. Then there’d been the questions raised in the House of Commons, a hundred and one little questions which all amounted to one big question: how could MI6 allow this to happen again? To make matters worse, the PM had come out smelling of roses. He’d pulled out his smartest black tie, feigned the right amount of sympathy, made all the right noises, and the media had lapped it up. Overnight he’d become the public face of the country’s grief, and in doing so his approval rating had soared. There was nothing like a good disaster to get the public on your side. What the public failed to realise was that the Government was responsible for funding MI6, and year after year those budgets had been getting tighter and tighter. And maybe if MI6 had the funding they had asked for then all this could have been prevented.

‘Bastard,’ Mac said.

Aston wasn’t sure which particular ‘bastard’ Mac was referring to. The PM was a favourite candidate, but there were a number of likely suspects: MPs, reporters, colleagues at MI6. Over the last fortnight Mac had raged about all of them. The only person who’d escaped was Grant Kinclave, The Chief, and Aston guessed that’s because Mac and The Chief were best friends. They went back a long way, had both earned their stripes during the Cold War – probably had matching school ties hanging in their wardrobes.

Aston slipped into the chair on the tradesman’s side of the desk, flipped open the notepad, and waited to be spoken to. When Mac was in this sort of mood it was best to agree when called upon to agree, make the right face shapes as appropriate, but for the most part it was wise to just shut up.

The office was furnished with utilitarian precision and dominated by a neat, uncluttered desk: the in- and out-trays were always kept at a manageable level, and the desk tidy was stocked with sharpened pencils and pens that actually worked (one of Aston’s duties; God help him if his boss ever reached for a pencil and found it blunt). Fish swum merrily back and forth on the flat screen monitor. The only personal touch was a small framed photograph next to the door. It had been positioned so you could see it from the desk. The picture had perplexed Aston to start with, but when he finally placed it, it all made sense. Orson Welles had made his famous ‘cuckoo clock’ speech in front of this big wheel in The Third Man. Not that Aston thought the Orson Welles connection was relevant. No, the connection was that the wheel was in Vienna, and Mac had been head of station there during the early Nineties, a posting that was the highlight of his career. This had surprised Aston. He’d never had Mac pegged as the sentimental type.

Mac stopped pacing and turned to Aston, seeing him as if for the first time. ‘Guess what they’ve gone and done now?’

Aston said nothing and waited for Mac to continue. ‘They’ could be anyone. The Government, the media, terrorists.

‘They’ve only called for my resignation … again. Bastards!’

Well, that narrowed it down. This was political, which meant he was here for one reason. To sit and listen while Mac blew off some steam. Aston flipped the notepad closed and settled back, all ears. If Mac was venting in that particular direction, then at least he wasn’t here for a bollocking. All that could turn in a heartbeat, though; Mac was a man of changeable weather. And to think, when he’d been assigned to work for Mac he’d actually gone out and celebrated. Working for the legendary Robert Macintosh, what an honour. If only he’d known then what he knew now.

‘Of course, it isn’t going to happen,’ Mac said. ‘And do you know why it isn’t going to happen?’

Before Aston could say ‘no’, before he even had a chance to shake his head, Mac was off again.

‘Because they can’t get rid of me. It’d be like getting rid of the ravens at the Tower of London. I go and this whole fucking building will crumble to dust, mark my words.’

The devil on Aston’s shoulder suggested that now might be a good time to point out that MI6 was bigger than one single person, that it was an organisation, which by definition meant it existed by virtue of the combined efforts of all those people in London and around the world who worked for it. The angel on the other shoulder vetoed this on the grounds that his next staff appraisal was imminent and a black mark from Mac wouldn’t do his promotion prospects any good. Promotion prospects, that was a laugh! If Mac had his way he’d have him working in servitude for the rest of his days. Face it, he was here for life.

‘Who the hell do they think they are? What do they know about the intelligence game? Absolutely fuck all, that’s what.’ Mac took a deep breath. Calm, calm, calm. Then he grinned the sort of grin that could charm the pants off a nun. The grin became a good-humoured laugh, the sunshine after the rain. ‘Storm in a teacup is what it is. By tomorrow they’ll be looking for someone else’s bollocks to nail to the wall. Okay, Aston, what’s new? Go on, impress me.’

Aston felt his heart sink and his stomach rise to meet it. Whatever he said next, it wouldn’t be impressive. How many different ways could you say you didn’t know shit?

5

The Farriers was buzzing, the after work commuter crowd twisting each other’s arms to have one more for the road. Nobody needed much persuading. Aston pushed between two stockbrokers – the bright red braces and loud ties were a dead giveaway – and waved a tenner to catch the barmaid’s eye. She was a pretty little thing in her early twenties, wearing a black thong that peeked out from the top of her hipster jeans, and a Little Miss Mischief T-shirt that stuck to her body like a second skin. She finished dealing with a businessman who had the shiny skin of one facelift too many, and an indecent amount of gold dripping from his hands and wrists. Aston waved frantically and she made her way over.

‘What can I get you?’ The accent was East European. Hungarian or Slovakian. Another ‘language’ student over here looking for her golden ticket. Aston didn’t blame her. The collapse of the Soviet Union had created a clusterfuck that would take decades to sort out … if it ever got sorted out. He ordered two JDs and coke and squeezed out from the bar.

Two neatly dressed middle-aged women at a table near one of the windows were finishing their drinks. Aston sidled up, ready to pounce. Their clothes were designer, and it wouldn’t have surprised him if each outfit was worth more than his entire wardrobe. Laura had tried to educate him on the difference between Prada and Gucci, but he didn’t get it (and had no particular desire to, either; you’d have to be out of your mind to spend a couple of grand on a dress just because it had a fancy name on the label). Still, these two obviously knew the difference. The women placed their wine glasses back on the table, stuffed their Marlboro Lights into tiny handbags that were no doubt worth their weight in platinum. As soon as they got up Aston was in there, just ahead of the stockbrokers. He raised his glass, flashed them a better-luck-next-time smile. The stockbrokers shrugged and went off to lean against the jukebox.

His mobile vibrated. Two sharp buzzes. Probably George replying to his whr th fck RU? text. He pulled it out, flipped it open:

soz hon gotta wrk L8:(

CU in abt an hr

lol george xx

No surprises there; they were both working stupid hours at the moment. It had been touch and go whether he’d get away, but Mac had left early tonight and he’d made the most of the opportunity. Aston settled into his chair and took a long pull on his drink. He could think of worse places to waste an hour. The Farriers was just off Soho, one of their favourite haunts. There was something elegantly shabby about the place. Wonky floors and squiffy right angles; the worn wood surfaces preserved with a couple of centuries’ worth of beer, tobacco and dirt that mingled into an aroma that was warm and comforting. George had once described The Farriers as ‘well matured’, and Aston thought that pretty much covered it.

Thursday night was their night, a tradition dating back to their training days. A couple of drinks followed by a curry, then a few more drinks to wash the curry down. During the IONEC they’d always gone for the diviest bars they could find, the divier the better. The first prize had gone to a nightclub called Bubbles. Even by Portsmouth’s standards Bubbles was in a league of its own. The carpets were so sticky it was like wading through treacle, the clientele ninety-nine percent male … all Navy. No mistaking what profession the three women at the bar belonged to. They’d had to step over the bodies in the stairwell and dodge between the ambulances and police cars to escape.

Alcohol was indeed the oil that kept MI6’s wheels running smoothly. If you wanted to find out what was really going on at Vauxhall Cross then the best place to head was the in-house bar. Another plus was that, unlike civilian boozers, the opening hours were somewhat more flexible. They’d been sent to The Fort to learn about spycraft, but boozing was an important part of the curriculum, too. Funnily enough, this was the subject the training officers seemed most keen to teach. Aston and George had passed this part of the course without trying.

Aston drained his drink and picked up George’s. He raised the glass in a toast to absent friends, took a sip. Waste not, want not …

‘Mind if I sit here?’

Aston looked up with the intention of politely telling whoever it was to piss off, and almost choked on his drink.

The man smiling down at him was in his early fifties and had the immaculate grooming of a politician: the Savile Row bespoke suit, Italian leather shoes, manicured nails. His hair was dyed black, the smile filled with perfect white teeth. He was average height, average weight, and the clever grey eyes didn’t miss a thing. Legend had it that Grant Kinclave lived in a gilded cage on the top floor of MI6’s HQ, a penthouse suite with sweeping views of the Thames. His private bathroom had gold fittings, marble floors, and a throne fit for a king. Every day he bathed in champagne and was scrubbed down by a dozen virgins. Or something along those lines.

‘Be my guest,’ Aston managed to say. He indicated the empty seat opposite, his heart frozen in freefall.

Kinclave sat down, slid a beer mat closer, made sure the writing was the right way round, that the edge of the mat was parallel with the edge of the table, then placed his G&T slap bang in the centre. Satisfied everything was just so, he turned his attention to Aston, studying him with those clever grey eyes.

‘So, Paul, how are things going?’

‘Can’t complain,’ Aston replied non-committally. Here they were, two old friends meeting up for a drink at the end of another long day. Nothing unusual about that … except one of them was MI6’s Chief, one of the most powerful men in the country, someone who was accountable to no one, not even God. There had been moves in the Nineties to change this. The Cold War was over and this was a new era, which meant a new way of doing business. It was a nice line to feed to the media, but the truth of the matter was that MI6’s doors were closed as tightly as ever. Aside from a few token nods towards accountability, gestures that were light on substance, it was business as usual.

Aston had only seen The Chief up this close once before. During orientation on his first day, the door of the conference room had swung open and a man strode in, moving as though he was the centre of the universe. Aston had shared a look with George: it was obvious she didn’t have a clue who this was, either. However, from the grand entrance, and the way the two training officers jumped to attention, it was apparent he was someone important. Unsure what to do next, the six trainees had followed suit, rising uncertainly, bewildered expressions passing between them. The man smiled thinly and indicated they should sit. When everyone had settled, Kinclave introduced himself and welcomed them to MI6. He spoke for the next ten minutes in the stirring tones of a Baptist preacher, stressing time and again how important the work they did here was, how secrecy was paramount. While he spoke his eyes moved constantly, scanning the room, scanning faces. More than once, Kinclave’s gaze settled on Aston, and it was an effort not to look away. Afterwards The Chief went around the table shaking hands and wishing the candidates well. Aston wasn’t sure – and he’d replayed the scene in his mind a thousand times since – but Kinclave seemed to take more interest in him than the others. Holding his hand longer, picking him apart with those eyes. Maybe it had been the same for everyone. After all, it was one of those life moments where every single detail, no matter how trivial, takes on extra significance.

Pokerfaced, Aston sipped his drink and said nothing, curiosity eating away at him. Now he’d got over his initial shock, he wanted to know what was going on. Your drinking partner suddenly has to work late and the head of MI6 happens to wander in, plonks himself down at your table and wants to chat about the weather. The whole thing smacked of a set-up. Aston took another sip, eyes surreptitiously wandering around the pub. No way would Kinclave be on his own. And he wasn’t. Aston counted three of them. The man by the door wearing a long leather Matrix coat was a definite; too conspicuous, wanting to be seen. He had the air of someone who knew how to take care of himself. Probably carrying. The man was trying to look bored but he kept glancing over at Kinclave, like Daddy Bear protecting its cub. The other two shadows were at the table near one of the windows. They’d been there when he arrived. From their body language, the uncomfortable way they touched hands, he’d assumed they were having an affair, out in public and worried about being caught. Now he knew different. It was so obvious he could have kicked himself. He’d played the same game with George on numerous occasions.

‘Anything new on 18/8?’ Kinclave asked.

Aston shrugged. ‘Not really.’ It was a redundant question, something to fill the uncomfortable silence. The Chief already knew everything happening there, undoubtedly knew a hell of a lot more than Aston did. All he could add to the official story was that the nightmares in which he was cradling the dead baby were as terrifying as ever, that he would give anything for a decent night’s sleep, that he was drinking way too much and picking stupid fights with Laura, but he didn’t think The Chief would be interested in any of that.

Kinclave lifted his glass, turned it in his hand, momentarily fascinated by the reflections and smudges. He took a drink, straightened out the beer mat, placed the glass back dead centre. ‘Of course, I can depend on your discretion,’ he said.

Aston nodded. ‘Of course.’

Kinclave leant in closer and spoke so quietly Aston had to strain to hear. ‘This is difficult … but have you noticed anything, well … odd about Mac recently?’

‘Odd?’

‘You know,’ The Chief said, ‘is there anything about the way he’s been acting that strikes you as unusual?’

Aston thought carefully before answering. Mac was no more eccentric than usual, no more grouchy, no more of a pain in the arse. ‘No,’ he said.

‘We’re worried about him. Very worried,’ The Chief said. ‘You see, ever since his wife died …’

Aston was aware of those piercing grey eyes crawling across his skin, burrowing into secret places.

‘Ah,’ Kinclave said, ‘you didn’t know about his wife’s illness.’

Didn’t know about her illness? Aston thought, I didn’t even know he was married. Obviously this was a day for surprises. Almost three years he’d been working for Mac and he didn’t know he had a wife.

‘It’s so sad,’ Kinclave said. ‘They’d been together for over ten years, you know. He met Sophia while he was heading up the Vienna station. I thought Mac was a terminal bachelor. Just goes to show, eh? And the fact they managed to stay together all that time … well, I don’t need to tell you how hard it is to keep a relationship together in this business …’

For a second, Aston was convinced that Kinclave was commenting directly on his relationship with Laura. A crazy notion. The Chief had better things to do than be concerned with the trivialities of his personal life. Kinclave sipped his drink, momentarily lost in thought. He straightened the beer mat, placed the glass back dead centre.

‘Sophia had motor neurone disease,’ he continued. ‘Such a terrible disease. The body slowly shuts down but the brain is still as sharp as ever. Can you think of anything worse? Imprisoned by your own body. Absolutely horrendous. And she was so young. Only forty-seven. We tried to persuade Mac to take early retirement so he could look after her, but he wouldn’t hear of it. You can imagine what he had to say about that.’ Kinclave gave a thin smile and Aston nodded. Mac had often joked that they’d have to fit his coffin with a telephone and fax machine.

Another sip, another straighten of the mat. The Chief cleared his throat. ‘Sophia died at the end of July.’

Aston did the maths. It didn’t add up. ‘But Mac’s been at work,’ he said. ‘He didn’t take any time off. I didn’t notice any change in him.’

‘That’s Mac,’ Kinclave said simply. ‘Getting up and getting on with it.’

‘But his wife died. I work with him, I should have seen some change, some indication.’

A wistful smile from The Chief. ‘You never knew Mac when he was working in the field. By Christ, he was good. One of the best undercover operatives we ever had. Actually, I’d go so far as to say the best. Such a talented actor. He could become anyone. No, what you’ve seen these last couple of months is Mac playing a role. I’ve known Mac for more than thirty years. Take it from me he’s hurting.’

‘Even still—’ Aston began.

‘Paul,’ Kinclave interrupted, ‘if Mac wants you to believe everything’s A-okay, then everything’s A-okay. End of story. You know how persuasive he can be.’

Aston lifted his glass and drained it. He put it back on the table and looked over at The Chief. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, why are you telling me all this?’

‘Ah …’ Kinclave paused. ‘This is a bit – how should I put it? – a bit delicate. We’re worried about Mac. On the surface he appears to be holding up, and if you ask him he’ll tell you he’s doing fine.’

A light went on in Aston’s head. ‘You want me to spy on him, don’t you?’

‘I’d rather not use the word “spy”, if it’s all the same with you,’ Kinclave said smoothly. ‘Far too many negative connotations. No, what I’d like is for you to keep an eye on him. If you notice anything unusual about his behaviour, then you report it directly to me.’

Aston didn’t know what to say. Spying on Mac … what next?

The Chief fixed Aston with those clever eyes. ‘There’s one other thing I’d like you to do, Paul,’ he said. ‘Now, I’m meeting Mac for dinner tonight. That means you’ll have a three-hour window. In the left-hand pocket of your jacket is a key, an address, and a number you can contact me on. I just want you to have a quick look around, check everything’s in order, that sort of thing.’

‘What?’ Aston choked out, convinced there was something wrong with his hearing. ‘Let me get this straight. You want me to break in to Mac’s house?’

‘Now, now, Paul, let’s not get all holier-than-thou. I’ve seen your file. I read all about that little stunt you pulled during training.’

Checkmate. There were a number of things he’d done in the name of MI6 that he wasn’t particularly proud of, and although that particular stunt had earned him a ton of Brownie points, that was one of them. ‘But this is Mac we’re talking about,’ he offered. It was a token argument that wasn’t fooling either of them.

‘Exactly,’ The Chief said. ‘And at the end of the day it’s Mac we’re doing this for. Don’t forget that. The old bugger’s much too stubborn to ask for help, so, if he does need a shoulder to lean on, then we’ve got to first establish that, and second, work out the best way of providing it.’

‘Why not ask him? You know, talk to him?’

The expression on The Chief’s face soured, suggesting this was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.

‘Okay,’ Aston admitted. ‘That was a stupid question.’

‘Remember, Paul, we look after our own,’ Kinclave said. ‘Always have done, always will.’

6

‘Mind telling me what the fuck is going on?’

‘Nothing’s going on,’ Aston said. He was heading up Tottenham Court Road to Goodge Street tube station with his mobile glued to his ear, hurrying to beat the rain. The evening was cold and grey, summer already a distant memory. He kept an eye out for a taxi, but it wasn’t going to happen. Taxis in London were like gold dust at the best of times, never mind when the weatherman was promising rain. The other option was to go by bus, but he didn’t have all night. There was only one thing to do. Take a deep breath and just go for it.

‘You’re such a crap liar, Paul.’

‘There’s nothing going on,’ Aston repeated.

‘Excuse me,’ George fired back. ‘There I am getting my coat on, thinking that’s it for the day. But before I can escape my boss is calling me over and telling me he wants me to go and buy a left-handed screwdriver. So off I go and as soon as I get outside guess what the first thing I see is? Wild fucking geese. Hundreds of the little bastards. And I have this overwhelming urge to go chasing after them.’

‘George—’

‘If you tell me one more time there’s nothing going on I’ll break your bloody legs. I swear to God I will.’

Aston sighed into the mobile, well aware he was fighting a losing battle. ‘Look, we can’t talk over the phone. Can you meet me at Highgate tube station?’

‘No problem. I’ll be there in half an hour.’

‘Twenty minutes,’ Aston said.

‘Okay, twenty.’

Aston clicked the phone shut. The Chief hadn’t said anything about going to Mac’s on his own, and he hadn’t asked for clarification on that point. Aston was glad George was coming along; some moral support wouldn’t go amiss. He dipped a hand into his pocket, fingers finding the jagged edges of the key. It felt cold, slightly sinister. He’d worked out when the drop had taken place. On his way to the bar he’d passed the woman from the jukebox couple. She’d been heading towards the ladies and brushed against him. They’d connected for only the briefest of seconds. A quick apology then she’d disappeared into the toilet. Nicely done.

The rain started as he reached the station. Aston jogged the final few steps and brushed the dew from his hair. He paid in cash for a ticket and reached for the change with a shaky hand. Already his breathing was faster than usual, his heart rate rising, and he wasn’t anywhere near the platform yet. Aston walked down the escalator, resisting the urge to turn and run. This was the first time he’d used the Underground since 18/8. Up until now he’d got by using cabs, buses and his own two feet. Still, he had to face the fear sooner or later. Best get it over and done with. The deeper he got the quicker he wanted to move, as though he could somehow outrun those black memories. At the bottom he forced himself to walk to the platform. According to the digital display the next train was due in three minutes. Three minutes! He paced up and down the platform until the train arrived. As soon as he sat down he closed his eyes and imagined himself on a beach on a tropical island – the sun warm on his skin, sand gently scratching between his toes, the waves swishing rhythmically against the shore – just like George had told him to. Amazingly for one of George’s wacky ideas, it actually worked. He could feel the panic letting go: muscles loosening, pulse slowing, his breathing regulating.

George was waiting at the ticket machine. As soon as she saw Aston she walked over and hugged him. And this wasn’t a fleeting kissy-kissy hug, either. She grabbed him and held him close and tight, so close he could feel her heartbeat. ‘How was it?’ she whispered in his ear.

‘Could have been worse.’

She let go and held him at arm’s length, gave him a quick once over. ‘Well, you’re a bit pale – but apart from that …’ She linked her arm through his and led him towards the exit.

George’s most striking feature was the mop of black frizzy hair she constantly bitched about. At the moment it was cut to shoulder length and tied back with a red scrunchy; she’d had it long, had it short, but hated it whatever length it was. At university she’d had a crew cut, a number 1, sandpaper instead of hair. Her mother had been mortified, said it made her look like a lesbian and she hadn’t brought her little girl up to wear Dr Martens and dungarees. More than once she’d told Aston she was the ugly duckling who never quite made it into a swan. Aston told her she was talking shit, but she wasn’t listening. George wasn’t supermodel gorgeous, but she was a long way from scaring the kiddies. She had the most beautiful brown almond shaped eyes, olive skin, and she scrubbed up quite nicely when she could be bothered, which wasn’t very often. Most of the time she dressed down: plain clothes, sober colours, nothing too revealing, nothing that would get her noticed. Perfect for a spy. George didn’t have any trouble attracting men but keeping hold of them was a different matter. They were either too old, too young, or too married. Her love life was a soap opera Aston long ago stopped trying to keep up with.

The address was written in a careful copperplate script: 23 Farley Road, Crouch End. Underneath was a mobile number. They shared an umbrella that was too small to cover both of them, George jiggling it about to keep them dry. A young couple heading home after a long day. It was an act they’d got down to a fine art. They could do everything from the young lovers cruising through a hormone OD and desperately in need of a room to the long-married couple who wanted to stab each other. It wasn’t hard. From the word go they’d been comfortable with one another, so comfortable that every now and then the MI6 rumour mill would crank out a story. Officially their relationship was strictly platonic; unofficially there’d been one blip.

The incident was never talked about. To celebrate the end of the IONEC they’d gone out with the intention of getting annihilated, and reached their objective in style; even by their standards it had been a big night. Next morning Aston had woken up in bed with a mega hangover, and George lying next to him. They were both naked, and from the hazy flashbacks Aston kept getting, the state of the bed, and the fact his dick felt like it had been pounded with a mallet, it was apparent they had done more than sleep. Aston couldn’t put his finger on why it felt wrong. It just did. Like sleeping with your sister or something. When he closed his eyes all he could see was an albino boy with bad teeth playing the banjo. George felt the same. After an awkward discussion they decided the best way to deal with the situation was through denial.

While they walked, Aston told George about his meeting with Kinclave. ‘You know,’ he said in conclusion, ‘I’ve been working for Mac for – what? Almost three years? Not only did I not know he was married, until tonight I didn’t know where he lived. Shit, I don’t know anything about him.’

‘Not true,’ George said. ‘You know what he wants you to know.’

It took fifteen minutes to get from Highgate station to Farley Road. The rain was hammering down now, slick on the pavements, rivers raging along the gutter. Number 23 was a red-bricked Edwardian semi-detached with bay windows on both floors. The front garden had been concreted over and a brand new X-type Jag was parked there. All the curtains were closed.

‘I don’t like this,’ George said as they walked up the narrow path.

‘Join the club,’ Aston replied.

Underneath the porch, he shook the loose raindrops away while George collapsed the umbrella and brushed the rain from her frizzy hair.

‘Why do I let you talk me into shit like this, Paul? Answer me that, eh?’

‘I didn’t exactly twist your arm.’

‘Just open the bloody door, Paul, before I bottle it and go home.’

Aston slipped the key into the lock and turned it. The door opened easily on well-oiled hinges.

‘If it’s all the same with you,’ George said, ‘let’s stick together. None of this “let’s split up so we can get the place searched twice as quickly” crap.’

‘Fine by me.’ Aston wondered if he looked as wired as George. Probably. His stomach flip-flopped as he entered the house, his heart felt too big for his chest. He pushed the door shut, locking them in, flicked on the hall light. This wasn’t the first time he’d broken into a house, but that didn’t make it any easier. He swallowed involuntarily.

‘What exactly are we looking for?’ George asked.

‘Search me. The Chief was a bit vague on that score. “I just want you to have a quick look around, check everything’s in order, that sort of thing”.’ Aston gave a reasonable impression of Kinclave’s Etonian drawl.

There were three closed doors leading off the hallway. Aston pointed to the door at the end of the hall. ‘Right, we’ll start there.’

The door led to a cosy, tidy farmhouse kitchen. There was slate on the floor and lots of oak: dining table and chairs, a large Welsh dresser filled with knick-knacks and crockery. A sign above the Aga proclaimed that the kitchen was the heart of the house. Maybe once it had been, Aston thought. It was easy to imagine this kitchen full of life and laughter and sunshine. The big window overlooking the tangled, overgrown garden faced east and would have caught the rising sun, holding onto it until well past midday. Yes, once this had been the heart of the house. Not anymore, though. Whatever life had breezed through these four walls was long gone.

‘Notice anything strange?’ George asked.

‘Like what?’

‘You know, Paul, for a spy you can be pretty unobservant at times.’ She pointed out the bowl of furry, moist fruit sitting on one of the work surfaces, the flowers decomposing in a vase on the kitchen table.

‘No one’s currently living here,’ she said. ‘This kitchen hasn’t been used for Christ knows how long.’ George marched over to the fridge and yanked the door open. The smell of rancid milk floated heavily through the kitchen. She lifted out the carton and read the sell-by date on top. ‘My guess is that he hasn’t been here for the best part of a month.’

‘That’d be around the time Sophia died.’

‘So where’s he staying?’

‘More to the point, why isn’t he staying here?’

‘Too many memories, perhaps,’ George suggested.

‘Perhaps,’ Aston agreed, unconvinced. And now that George had mentioned it, he could sense the emptiness that filled the kitchen. There was an air of neglect, a whispering sense of things lost never to be found again. And it wasn’t just the kitchen. He’d noticed it when he’d stepped into the house; noticed subconsciously but it hadn’t registered because he didn’t have a name for it. And now he did: abandonment. Like a sunken ship, this house had settled into the silent dark loneliness.

The next door along the hall led to a small study. This was obviously Mac’s domain. There were no pictures on the walls, no personal touches whatsoever. The room was as anonymous as its owner. A thin layer of dust had settled across the room, coating the top of the filing cabinet and clinging to the screen of the monitor. Aston went over to the filing cabinet and pulled open the top drawer. Empty.

‘I’m going to try the next room,’ George said. ‘The sooner we get out of here the better. I’m getting really creeped out now.’

Aston thought about reminding her of the ‘let’s stick together’ speech and decided not to. She was a big girl. He stared into the empty drawer, hand on the handle. Strange. He heard George’s anxious footsteps moving down the hall, heard her open the next door, the click of the light switch.

‘Paul,’ she shouted. ‘Get in here now. You’ve got to see this.’

The filing cabinet drawer clanged shut and he ran along the hall. George was blocking the doorway, and he stopped behind her, placed his hands on her shoulders.

The front room was really two rooms separated by a wide archway to create a large open space. Before Sophia’s illness had taken over this had been the lounge and dining room. High ceilings, worn wooden floorboards, colourful paintings on the white walls, trinkets and ornaments arranged on the black painted mantelpiece, a multicoloured rug in front of the fire, framed photographs lining the bookcase. The room was filled with dozens of personal touches. Female touches. If the kitchen was the heart of the house, this room had been its soul.

An upright piano was pushed up against one wall and covered with a white sheet. The piano must have belonged to Sophia. Aston couldn’t imagine Mac tinkling the ivories; cracking his knuckles before launching into a Mozart concerto, or bashing out some barroom blues. No, he couldn’t see that one at all. Bedpans and packets of pills sat on top of the piano. A vase of mummified roses jostled for space, the heads brittle and black and scarred with a memory of crimson.

The large metal-framed hospital bed dominated the room, neatly made up with clean white sheets. A shower cubicle with waist-height doors had been built into one corner. It was wide enough for the lightweight plastic wheelchair that sat forlornly next to it. The Chief was right, thought Aston, it was impossible to imagine what it was like. One by one all those things you take for granted stolen away: unable to wash or feed yourself, the indignity of wearing nappies. And the worst part was that your brain worked as well as ever, throwing up memories of how things used to be, monitoring the decline, that slow slip-slide towards the grave. Motor Neurone Disease was worse than any curse. Nobody deserved to die like that. Please, Aston thought, when it’s my time make it quick. His attention was drawn to the piano again. How insensitive was that? Why hadn’t Mac moved it out of the room? That would have been the decent thing to do. Instead it was just sitting there, a constant reminder of one more thing Sophia had lost.

On the table next to the bed was a water jug and a small framed wedding photograph. Aston picked up the photo, called George over to take a look. Mac was smiling in the photo. Actually smiling. He wasn’t grinning, or doing that sanctimonious smirk of his. No, this was an honest-to-God million-dollar beamer. For once in his life Robert Macintosh looked happy. Time had been kind to this incarnation of Sophia; in her younger days she must have been stunning. She looked radiant in the photo, glowing with health, and Aston wondered when it had been taken. A few years ago, judging by the suit Mac was wearing. There was no hint of the disease that would ravage her. She was wearing a simple blue silk dress and carrying a posy of flowers that exploded with colour. Simple countryside flowers, dandelions and daisies mostly, were woven into a small tiara that sat on top of her long golden hair. A fairy princess on her wedding day.

George took the photo, held it up to the light and studied it carefully. ‘She was pretty.’

Aston looked curiously at her for a moment. On the surface George’s comment had sounded like a compliment, but it had seemed forced, like she was saying it because it was the expected thing to say. Then again, they were both strung out, and he was probably overanalysing.

‘What?’ George said. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘No reason.’

‘If you’ve got something to say, then say it.’

Aston plucked the photograph from George, put it back where he found it. ‘Someone got out of bed on the wrong side today.’

George sighed. ‘Sorry, Paul. It’s just that being here in Mac’s house like this … well, it doesn’t feel right, know what I mean?’

‘I know exactly what you mean.’

They climbed the stairs together, side by side, neither willing to take the lead. The haunted house vibe had infected Aston, got him on edge. Every creak elicited an uncomfortable extra fraction of a heartbeat to add to his already racing pulse, every pipe groan got him sweating a little more. They reached the landing and worked methodically through the rooms. The first door on the right was the bathroom: gleaming white porcelain, an old-fashioned bathtub supported on four spindly legs, and a brass shower head. The next door led to a spare bedroom: functional furnishings and little in the way of personality.

His fingers brushed the handle of the door at the end of the landing and that was enough to get the electricity crackling. The hairs went up on the back of his neck, on his arms. A quick glance at George told him she felt it, too. He was rational, they both were, but sometimes you had to admit you couldn’t explain everything away with science and logic. And right now his thoughts were anything but logical. They were the thoughts of a child who needed the wardrobe checked one more time for monsters despite the fact it had been checked half a dozen times already.

The door swung open, and in the light sneaking past them he saw the silhouette of a woman. His first thought was that it was Sophia’s ghost. An irrational thought, but that didn’t make it any easier to shake off. Behind him, George let out a tense gasp. He quickly flicked on the light, convinced it must be an optical illusion – ghosts didn’t exist; there had to be a rational explanation – but the woman didn’t disappear in the glare. If anything she became more solid. As Aston’s eyes adjusted, and he was able to see what was going on, he gave a nervous laugh. It wasn’t Sophia’s ghost, but what he saw wasn’t any less disturbing.

‘This is totally fucked up,’ George muttered, taking the words from his mouth.

Mac had turned the bedroom into a shrine. What Aston had thought was a ghost was a mannequin. He moved in for a closer look, George at his side. The mannequin was dressed in the same blue silk dress from the wedding photo; the wig was made from real hair, the soft, fine strands wound into a shoulder length French plait. There were dead flowers in her hair, and Aston guessed this was the same tiara Sophia had worn to her wedding. The dandelions and daisies were crisp and fragile, the colours dulled by the passing years.

Every spare surface was covered with candles, some in holders, some in saucers, but most welded in place with melted wax. The wardrobes and drawers still held her clothes, and Aston swore a hint of her perfume remained in the air. An ivory handled hairbrush and hand mirror sat gathering dust on the dressing table, where perfume bottles were lined up like soldiers, all the labels facing out. The bed was immaculately made up: razor sharp creases in the linen, the pillows fluffed up and placed with military precision. One wall was covered in photographs, all Blu-tacked neatly in place; a scattering of pictures had fallen off and lay on the floor. The pictures had been taken all over the world, the light and architecture changing from photo to photo. Here, the bright sunshine and tall skyscraper backdrop of Singapore. There, the dull light and severe Tsarist palaces of Moscow. Japan, Italy and Austria. New York and Paris. And in all of them Sophia was smiling and happy, radiating health and without a care, completely unaware of the disease waiting to strike her down, not knowing that she was living on borrowed time.

‘Well, they certainly got around,’ George said, gazing over his shoulder at the photos. ‘Seems Sophia had money as well as looks.’

‘Who’s to say Mac didn’t pay for all the travelling?’

‘You’re kidding, right? You’ve seen what we’re paid. You don’t get into this line of work for the money.’

Aston stooped down and picked up one of the photos from the floor. It was older than the rest, and Mac was in it, too. Behind the smiling couple, an antiquated big wheel loomed, the same big wheel from the picture in Mac’s office. Aston had always assumed that he had it there as a souvenir of his time in Vienna. Holding the photo he realised there was probably more to that picture than he thought. They made a good-looking couple. Sophia had a soft, innocent face and slim body, a feline beauty that complemented Mac, who, with his corn-coloured hair and piercing blue eyes, had more than a touch of the Robert Redfords about him.

‘So what do you make of all this?’ George asked.

‘Pretty fucked up,’ Aston said, echoing her earlier sentiments.

‘Pretty unsettling, too,’ George said. ‘Makes you wonder what’s going on in his head, right now. You know him as well as anyone. Any ideas?’

Aston shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t even like to hazard a guess.’

‘Seen enough?’

‘Yeah,’ Aston said, but George hadn’t bothered to wait for an answer. She was already halfway along the landing. Aston backed out of the room, but before he hit the light switch he took one last look at the mannequin, one last look at the tiara of dead flowers in her hair. The dummy stared back with blank indifference, which unsettled him even more. He pulled the door closed and headed downstairs. At the bottom he passed the open door to the study and the grey filing cabinet called to him. He stopped dead. ‘Hang on,’ he shouted to George.

‘What is it now?’ She was standing by the front door, hand on the handle.

‘There’s something I need to check out.’ He disappeared into the study. Through the open door he heard George sigh, her footsteps getting closer.

‘This better be good, Paul.’

Aston didn’t reply. He stared at the filing cabinet for a moment then walked towards it and pulled the top drawer open. Empty. Something wasn’t right here. He went through the other two drawers. The folders in the middle drawer contained household bills and bank statements. Nothing exciting. The bottom drawer contained a couple of software CDs, a small guillotine and a portable document shredder. There was something wrong with this picture. Aston took a step back, looking at the cabinet, seeing it in the context of the study. It was a big filing cabinet for the size of room, yet it wasn’t really being used. That didn’t make sense. There was no way Mac would do that. Aston focused on the space around the cabinet and suddenly saw it. He got down on his hands and knees and ran his hands across the carpet. There were two shallow parallel grooves in front of the cabinet, barely visible. His hands ran frantically across the cold steel, pulling open drawers, clanging them shut, searching. The lever was at the back. A sharp tug and the wheels creaked into place. The cabinet slid forward easily. Aston got back on his knees and rolled the carpet away. He checked the floorboards until he found the loose one. He pulled it up and reached into the dark, fingers finding smooth plastic. The rattle of a handle. Aston lifted out the laptop case and handed it to George.

7

Words float across the table, but there’s no substance to the conversation. It’s all part of the act. Words to pad out the silences, words to create the illusion that everything’s A-OK. After all, this is something we do once a month, schedules depending. Just two old friends getting together to chew the fat. As usual there’s the occasional stroll down memory lane, trips to places and events history turned a blind eye to, some shop talk. And as usual I smile when I’m supposed to smile, nod when I’m supposed to nod, let loose with the occasional laugh. My skin is prickling, the hairs on the back of my neck itching. And all the time I’m watching, taking everything in.

He reaches over the table, candlelight shadows streaking his face. As he grabs the bottle and tops up our glasses, he jokes about the cost of the wine. ‘At least we’re not picking up the tab, eh, Mac?’ I laugh with him. He’s nervous but hiding it well. Suspicious of silence, he’s anxious to keep the conversation going, working hard to avoid any awkward pauses.

The waiter brings our main course and presents my plate with a flourish. His stink is offensive, sweet and cloying; a caterpillar moustache crawls across his top lip. He steps back smiling. Can I get sir anything else? ‘No, thank you,’ I say, turning on the charm and firing a sunny smile right back at him. His smile widens and he’s so pleased that I’m pleased. He flutters back to the kitchen, weaving between tables positioned far enough apart to ensure privacy. All are occupied. Usually there’s a wait of a month to get in to Carmichael’s, but not for us. The maître d’ gets a monthly retainer. For what we’re paying it’s the least he could do.

I recognise some of the faces. Tabloid fodder for the most part. There are soap stars and pop stars, MPs and models. In a quiet corner a young movie wannabe is being entertained by a grey-haired man who’s old enough to be her grandfather. He’s got sagging jowls, piggy eyes and a stomach straining to get free from its black silk prison. A fat Hollywood cigar steams away between thick ring-encrusted fingers. The little poppet’s perfect in a little black dress. She’s got the perfect body, the perfect skin, the perfect teeth. Beauty and the Beast. I don’t recognise him. He looks important – a big shot director, perhaps. She’s hanging on his every word, desperate to get onto that A-list, giggling at his stories. Her fingertips brush the back of his hand; champagne touches, light and bubbly. And he’s buying the act. What does Mr Big Shot think? That she’s after him for his looks? I watch her take a dainty sip, a little Dutch courage so she can deal with the next bit. Enough alcohol and she’ll be able to blot it out: the sweaty whale blubber slimy against her skin, his bulk burying her deeper and deeper into the mattress.

God, I hate this place. I hate the falseness, hate the sycophancy, most of all I hate the desperation of the wannabes. But Kinclave loves it here, so I smile and endure. He’s always been blinded by the glitter and glam, gets a kick from rubbing shoulders with the Beautiful Ones.

My knife slices easily through the steak. Rare, only the briefest acquaintance with the flame. The butterflies in my stomach have stripped my appetite, but I chew and swallow and make like it’s the best steak ever. Kinclave is banging on about the old days, eyes misty with remembrance and too much wine. He always gets maudlin when he’s been drinking. His voice washes over me as he launches into another Russia story, an old favourite. I tune him out, tune into the burble of the restaurant. I catch snatches of conversation from all directions, odd words that merge into surreal sentences. Cutlery scratches against crockery and glasses tinkle. There’s classical music playing gently in the background, a string quartet. I clocked the couple at the table by the door straightaway. Always make sure your arse is covered. After all, isn’t that the MI6 way? I drink my wine and chew my steak and wait for him to make his move.

His mobile hums a tune and he pulls it out, checks the display. ‘Sorry, Mac,’ he says, ‘Duty calls.’

‘No problem,’ I say.

Kinclave gets up, folds his napkin neatly and places it on the chair. I can’t see it but I know the edges will run parallel to the edge of the chair. He moves towards the toilet with the phone pressed to his ear, keeps his back to me. He doesn’t want me to lip-read. The conversation is short, the news worse than he thought. He hides it well, though. His shoulders sag briefly before he catches himself. The back straightens, his shoulders fill the corners of his neat Savile Row suit again. He hangs up and makes a call, then returns to the table.

‘Everything okay?’ I ask.

‘Everything’s fine,’ he lies.

He prompts himself back into his story with a ‘Where was I? Ah yes …’ I switch off and concentrate on pretending to enjoy my steak, making the appropriate noises wherever necessary.

‘My God, Mac, some of the things we got up to, eh?’

‘You said it,’ I agree, not sure what I’m agreeing to and not particularly caring.

‘Were we ever that young?’

I give an appropriate smile, an appropriate shake of the head. ‘Where have the years gone, eh? It’s hard to believe I retire in less than six months. Only seems like yesterday I arrived at Century House for the first time.’

Kinclave picks up his glass, swirls the wine then takes a sip. ‘Don’t worry about that resignation nonsense,’ he tells me.

‘I wasn’t.’

‘That’s the spirit. Far as I’m concerned you’re far too valuable to lose. All that experience … no, it would be ridiculous.’ His voice slinks to a whisper. ‘I don’t care what the PM says. Anyway, I’m not having some jumped-up careerist telling me how to run my shop.’

I’m probably the only person in the world he’d confess these innermost feelings to. But you know what? I don’t care.

‘So, Mac, given any thought to what you’re going to do when you retire?’

‘I’ll probably take up fishing.’

‘That’ll be the day. Seriously, though, if you want to come back as an SBO, the offer’s there.’

That’s rich. SBOs oversee operational security in the Controllerates, sad cases who won’t let go. Far as I’m concerned they’re nothing more than glorified security guards.

‘The money’s good,’ Kinclave offers.

‘To be honest with you, since … well, since Sophia died I haven’t given it much thought.’

I deliver the line frostily, driving the conversation into a silence even Kinclave can’t circumnavigate. He’s saved by the waiter, who flounces over and scoops up our plates, asks if everything was to our satisfaction and would we like to see the dessert menu. Why not, Kinclave tells him, grabbing that lifeline and making the waiter’s day at the same time. The waiter is still beaming when he brings the menus. The couple by the door are on their coffees and brandies now. The girl is especially talented, innocent and elegant, acting the airhead. She’s positioned so she can see our reflection in the window. Very cute.

It was raining the day of the funeral, a freak grey day sandwiched in the middle of a week of gorgeous summer sun. We pulled up outside the crematorium under a battleship sky, the rain streaking the window of the Daimler. I took the front right corner of the coffin; the other three corners were taken by workers from the funeral house, serious men with serious faces and black suits. At Sophia’s request I was the only mourner. She wanted as small a funeral as possible. She hadn’t even wanted me there, but that was one argument I actually won. My memory of that day is fragmented; I did the whole thing on autopilot, my heart and soul numb. Pachelbel’s Canon played softly as we carried the coffin to the altar. A few empty words from the vicar, then a prayer and a hymn I can’t remember the title of. I was invited to say a few words, and this I did, but not aloud. I stood behind the coffin with my hands clasped in front of me, eyes locked on the small posy of wild flowers that had been placed on the lid. Lips tight and without uttering a sound, I told her all the things I’d miss about her, how much I loved her, said goodbye. Tender words for her alone. The vicar patted me gently on the shoulder and muttered some banal observation as I made my way back to the empty pew. Another hymn, another prayer, then the conveyer carried the coffin into the flames. Later that day I drove down to the coast and hired a boat, and under that same battleship sky I scattered her ashes into the choppy white waves.

‘… I can’t imagine what you’ve been through,’ Kinclave is saying.

I slip back into the here. He’s staring at me and shaking his head. His eyes are full of pity. I don’t need his pity.

‘I know things seem bleak,’ he says. ‘But you can get through this. The important thing to realise is that you’re not on your own.’

I’ve heard it all before. I didn’t believe it then; don’t believe it now.

He shakes his head and sighs. ‘You really should talk about it, you know. It can’t be doing you any good keeping everything bottled up …’ Another flash of pity. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘I’ve got it all arranged. I’ve found this little place in the country. Five star. Spa, swimming pool, massages. Some time out to get some perspective will do you the world of good, Mac. They’ll have you back to yourself in no time.’

‘You want to send me to a health farm?’

‘Only if you want to go.’

‘You think a week in the country drinking vegetable smoothies and eating lettuce is going to solve anything?’

‘Well, it can’t do any harm. Alternatively you could take some leave – you’re due a ton, go on a trip somewhere.’

‘That’s really going to cheer me up, Grant. Next you’ll be sending that twitchy psychiatrist to see me so we can have a good old chinwag about all the things I’m repressing.’

‘Mac, I’m only trying to help. You must be going through hell at the moment.’

‘Grant, I don’t need your help or anyone else’s. I don’t need a shrink and, before you say anything else, I don’t need a doctor, either. If you so much as mention Prozac, I’m out of here.’ A gentle, engaging smile. ‘Now, how about we forget this conversation ever took place and order dessert?’

8

‘Paulie, Paulie, Paulie … and what brings you to my little corner of the world? Mac got you working late again?’ Mole took a long drag, tapped the dead ash into the beat-up tobacco tin balancing on his lap. He clamped the roll-up between his lips and wheeled himself forward.

‘Kind of,’ Aston said as the door slid shut and a blast of cool air caressed his face. It was pretty late, almost eleven on a school night; however, he’d guessed Mole would be here. A pretty safe bet. Mole turned to dust when the sun came up, only reconstituting when darkness fell. The air was sweet with patchouli, and there was a trace of BO. A Doors CD was playing softly, the hypnotic groove loose and intense. The End. Morrison and the boys at their stoned best. Aston recognised this particular track from the six months he spent as a wannabe Bohemian when he was seventeen. He’d written a ton of crap poetry, drunk too much cheap red wine, talked a lot of bollocks, and then he’d woken up one morning and it was time to move on to the next fad. Computer fans buzzed in the background, the different pitches creating a smooth harmony. The only illumination came from the monitors dotted around the room and it took a second for Aston’s eyes to adjust. Various screensavers – colourful bouncing balls and interstellar space journeys – cast sneaky shadows; flickering, swimming kaleidoscopes of light. Mole preferred it this way, said he felt more at home existing in the Unreal.

Mole stopped the wheelchair in front of Aston and leant to the side, peering past him. ‘And what have we here? Is that the Gorgeous George skulking back there? Come on out, sweetheart. Don’t be shy. I don’t bite …’

George stepped out from behind Aston. ‘Hi, Mole. How are you doing?’

‘All the better for seeing you. I don’t get many visitors down here, and I rarely get any as pretty as you.’

If proof was needed that MI6 was serious about dealing with the new world order, then Aston reckoned Mole was that proof. In his battered Levis, tatty old Aerosmith tour T-shirt, and a pair of Nikes that were only a few short steps from trainer heaven, Mole was no 007. He was in his mid-thirties and unhealthily overweight. He had flabby jowls and fish eyes that bulged behind thick bottle-bottom glasses. His long hair was tied in a ponytail that came halfway down his back, greasy grey streaks running through black. Before being press-ganged into joining MI6, Mole had amused himself by cooking up viruses and hacking into systems that were supposed to be hacker-proof. His masterwork was a virus called Revelations 2001 that had crashed the Web and cost businesses across the globe millions. Police on both sides of the Atlantic had gone after him, expending huge amounts of time and resources, and eventually tracked him down to a council estate on the outskirts of Sheffield where he lived with his mother.

It was Mac who realised that Mole’s particular talents would be wasted in prison. MI6’s computer eggheads were good, he argued, but what they needed was someone who wasn’t afraid to venture into the uncharted territories on the edge of Cyberspace, someone who would go to that edge and beyond. Mole was that person. Strings were pulled, a deal cut, and Mole escaped prison on the condition that he went to work for MI6. It wasn’t exactly a hardship for the hacker. For his sins he had one of the most impressive computer systems in the world to play with.

Mole’s eyes locked on the laptop bag dangling from Aston’s left shoulder. His face suddenly changed, hardened, the little-boy-lost smile replaced with a hungry grin. The hacker stubbed out the roll-up and snapped the lid back on the tobacco tin. ‘So what can I do for you?’

Aston unzipped the laptop bag, pulled out the computer. Mole grabbed it and wheeled himself back to his desk. He turned it in his hands, examining it in the light given off by three huge flat screen monitors that were arranged like dressing-table mirrors. ‘What’s the story?’

‘We need to know what’s on there,’ Aston said. ‘Everything that’s on there.’

‘You haven’t tampered with it, no? Switched it on and had a go at breaking the password? Opened it up even?’

Aston shook his head. For years the spy world had been using computers to move information. E-mail was ideal for sending anonymous coded messages; the forgotten areas at the edge of the hard-drive were perfect for hiding information. As technology progressed, the security had become more extravagant. Hit a wrong key and that was it. Game over. All those secrets wiped.

Mole finished his visual inspection and shifted the mouse to make room on the desk. He put it down gently, hand resting on the lid, fingers tapping out code on an invisible keyboard. He stared at Aston through the magnifying glass lenses. ‘Okay, mind explaining what this is all about?’

‘I just need to know what’s on the computer.’

‘I heard you the first time,’ Mole said. ‘See, the thing is I remember every computer I build. They’re my babies. And before I kick them out the nest I give them a mark. Something I can recognise them by. Don’t look at me like that. I know that sort of thinking is alien to you, but I’m not a spy. I’m a hacker, and hackers have egos the size of the sun. How do you think they caught me? I was signing my work with foot high letters. Thought I was so fucking clever.’ Mole picked up the laptop. ‘Appears to be an off-the-shelf IBM Thinkpad, doesn’t it?’ He carefully turned the computer over and pointed to the first two digits of the serial number. A six and a nine. ‘Childish, I know. But there we go.’ He smiled at George. ‘This laptop belongs to the honourable Robert Macintosh. Which begs the question: Why do you want to break into Mac’s computer?’

‘Need to know,’ Aston said, enjoying the way the words sounded. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d been fed that particular line. It made a nice change to deliver it.

‘Well, if I don’t need to know,’ Mole said, ‘then we’re wasting each other’s time.’

Aston noticed Mole was in no hurry to hand over the laptop. His hand was resting protectively on the lid, fingers tapping. Mole was as curious to find out what was on the computer as he was.

‘Would it make any difference if I told you I was working for The Chief?’ Not quite the truth; not quite a lie.

Mole raised an eyebrow.

‘If this is one of yours,’ George nodded to the laptop, ‘I take it you can get in? Without it self-destructing, I mean?’

A roll of the eyes. ‘Do you really expect me to answer that? Of course I can get in.’ Mole ran his fingers underneath the laptop and there was a tiny click. ‘There we go,’ he said with a self-satisfied smirk.

The hacker linked his fingers, stretched them out like a concert pianist, and switched the computer on. ENTER PASSWORD blinked up on the screen. His fingers flew over the keyboard, hammering plastic. The screen flickered and changed, characters and symbols as mysterious as hieroglyphics flashing past in the blink of an eye. As Mole typed faster, Aston noticed the hacker frowning. The frown became more defined and he almost asked what the problem was, but he knew better than to disturb Mole when he was working. He’d done that once before and it hadn’t been pretty.

Thirty seconds passed. A minute. Two minutes. Mole suddenly stopped and reached for his Pepsi Max. He took a long slug, belched, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Naughty, naughty,’ he muttered, smiling to himself.

‘What’s wrong?’ George asked.

‘Wrong?’ Mole swivelled round in the wheelchair. A pre-rolled ciggie had magically appeared between his lips. He flicked a lighter and leant into the flame. ‘Why, nothing’s wrong. Well, nothing I can’t handle.’

‘So something’s wrong?’ George pressed.

A long drag. Smoke tumbled from Mole’s nostrils. ‘You know about backdoors?’

‘Yeah,’ George said. ‘They’re put in programs so the programmer can access a system without having to worry about passwords and stuff.’

‘Well, Mac’s had the backdoor I put in locked up nice and tight.’

‘You can’t get in, then?’ Aston said.

‘Oh ye of little faith,’ Mole said with a little shake of his head. The hacker hit a key and the desktop page appeared. He grinned at Aston. ‘What do you think? That I only put one backdoor in? A little more credit please.’

Aston smiled. ‘I’m impressed. So what have we got?’

‘Not so fast. Whoever took out the backdoor knows his stuff. Obviously he’s not in the same league as me, but he is competent. That backdoor wasn’t easy to deal with. I had to make it tricky enough so that if it did get found nobody would suspect a second one.’ Mole took a Godfather-sized tug on the roll-up and waved it at Aston. ‘If it’s okay with you I’m going to keep hold of this and give it a thorough going over. I don’t want to hurry in case there are any nasty surprises lurking in there.’ A pause before adding: ‘You sure you don’t want to tell me what this is all about?’

‘Positive.’

A drag and a long sigh. ‘I suppose I come to you if I find anything.’

‘Me or George,’ Aston agreed. ‘Or The Chief, I suppose.’

‘Nah, you’re alright there.’ Mole laughed from behind the cloud of smoke. ‘I’ll leave the brown-nosing to you.’

9

Like I guessed, the news was worse than Kinclave thought – bad enough for him to get the girl to tail me when I left the restaurant. And like I thought, she was talented. It took a while to lose her, but only because I was enjoying myself. I eventually gave her the slip in the myriad tunnels that snake through Piccadilly Circus tube station.

With my jacket pulled in tight to ward off the chill, I head down to the river, walking with purpose, owning the streets. I lean against a wall and block out the brown river stink. The water swirls below me, dark and mysterious and poisonous. For a while I watch, transfixed by the movement, the gentle waves rolling, rolling, concentric circles merging and separating in the murky dark. Rain runs across my face and drips from my nose.

My father was in MI6 back in World War II. I can remember him sitting on my bed telling me stories of the things he got up to. He’d sit with his back against the headboard, his long legs and stockinged-feet stretching almost all the way to the other end, the comforting smell of aftershave and pipe tobacco surrounding him. The tales he told were real Boy’s Own adventures, and I lapped up every word. There were stories about missions behind Nazi lines, ops filled with danger and excitement. And he’d finish each story with a tap on the nose and a wink and a ‘Remember, Rob … Need-To-Know’. I’d give him a tap and a wink back. ‘Need-To-Know’ I’d whisper. He’d ruffle my hair and tell me to sleep well, and then he’d turn off the light and leave me dreaming about killing Nazis and blowing up bridges.

When I hit my teens I realised he’d made it all up. There was no way he did those things. It was only when I started working for MI6 myself and managed to get hold of his file that I discovered that, although he had made it all up, the things he had done were no less spectacular. What’s more, I discovered how highly he was respected within the organisation. His record was spotless and for a while he was being touted as a possible future Chief.

The official report stated that it was a ‘regrettable accident’, but it wasn’t. It was murder, plain and simple. I was ten and my father was stationed in Moscow. Walking home one night he spotted a woman being mugged. Without thinking, he ran to help her and was stabbed. The mugger was never found, not that the authorities tried very hard. This happened way back in the early days of the Cold War. For whatever reason, the KGB had wanted my father taken out of the game, and that was that. Case closed. Of course, there was an inquiry, lots of bureaucratic nonsense that wasn’t worth a damn.

We were told about his death by the head of station, Giles Meredith, a loose-fitting man who seemed to bumble his way through life. To me, he was always a slightly comical figure, but my father seemed to respect him (and now, with thirty plus years of experience, I can appreciate that what you see isn’t necessarily what you get). My parents had been to Meredith’s house a couple of times for dinner parties, but this was the first time he’d come to ours. He took charge of the situation straight away, guiding me and my mother through to the living room, ignoring my mother’s increasingly frantic questions until we were both sitting on the sofa. When he told us what happened it didn’t sink in at first. I thought there must be some mistake, they’d got the wrong person. I kept expecting the living-room door to clatter open and my father to walk in, pipe steaming, a sly smile on his lips. My mother fell into a long silence and then she started screeching. It was the most hideous noise I’d ever heard. I wasn’t sure what to do. I felt I should probably be crying, but I couldn’t. So I sat on the sofa while Meredith tried to console my mother, hands on lap, staring into the middle distance and wondering what was going to happen now.

My mother didn’t die as such, she sort of faded away; after Father was murdered she became less and less substantial until she ceased to exist altogether. First to go was her mind. I got home from school one day to find my grandmother there. There was gin on her breath and disappointment in her eyes. Without an iota of compassion she informed me that my mother had been locked up in the nuthouse, and I was going to live with her because families looked after each other and wasn’t that just fucking marvellous? When I told her there was no way I’d ever live with her she called me an ungrateful bastard and hit me so hard I was sent spinning to the floor with bells ringing in my head. From the get-go I was under no illusions of the way things were going to be. I saw my mother twice more, once in the flesh and once in a casket. The week before my mother died, my grandmother took me to the asylum. She dragged me through the screaming corridors to a dark windowless room. There were four beds in there, each containing the mummified remains of something that might once have been human. This was most definitely the last stop. My mother was in the bed nearest the door. Around her sunken eyes and collapsed cheeks, I could make out the shape of her skull. Her skin was loose yellow parchment hanging from her bones and she weighed next to nothing. With each inhalation there was a moment of suspension at the top of the breath where there was no movement, moments that seemed to go on forever, and each time I thought that was it she’d exhale and hitch in another rattling gulp of air. Thankfully, her eyes stayed shut.

It was only natural I should want to join MI6, but it wasn’t easy. With no help from my grandmother, who spent most of her time either pissed, comatose or beating me, I got a place at grammar school. While there I discovered I had a knack for drama. Playing different characters gave me a temporary escape from the real world, and how I needed that escape. I won a scholarship to Cambridge where I studied psychology, and during my final year I was approached.

The rain eases and the circles in the river shrink, loosen, then disappear altogether. I could go anywhere, be anyone, start all over again. I’ve got the aliases established, got the necessary skills to pull them off. I could be an engineer, an academic, a financier, you name it. Everything’s stashed away in a safe place. Full documentation: passports, driving licences, NI numbers, complete histories, the works. Nobody knows about Stewart Graves or Graham Webster or Harry Mortimer. It would be easy to sneak out the country. The safest way is to head to Ireland, make my way to Dublin and catch the first plane out. But I won’t do that. Not yet, anyway.

I head back to my hotel, an anonymous no-star affair in a part of town that won’t be featuring in the travel guides anytime soon. London’s the perfect hiding place: nobody sees anyone, nobody sees anything. The occasional glance to make sure I’m not being followed, more out of habit than necessity. The streets get narrower, the shadows deepen. The Invisible Ones are huddled in doorways with blankets pulled around them, one hand protecting their few meagre belongings, the other wrapped around a tin of Special Brew or Woodpecker or meths. A scrawny Jack Russell yaps, and a slurred voice growls for it to shut the fuck up.

‘Got any spare change?’

The voice is behind me, off to my left. I turn slowly and see a dark figure hovering in the shadows.

‘Come on,’ the voice says, ‘you’ve got cash to spare.’

‘Fuck off,’ I tell him.

He steps into a streetlight and I get my first good look at the Ratman. His face is long with eyes sunk deep in their sockets, black coronas surrounding them. He’s got that junkie stare, rotting teeth and skin the colour of old marble. His clothes are held together by dirt: three jumpers and a coat, odd shoes that are way too big, hair hidden under a dirty fur-lined Cossack hat. He uses the back of his fingerless glove to wipe away the snail trails under his sharp nose.

‘Just a quid,’ the Ratman says. ‘Just a quid and I’ll fuck off and never bother you again. Promise.’

‘You’ll fuck off now,’ I tell him.

‘For a fiver I’ll do whatever you want. Anything.’

Smiling, I walk towards him. He gulps and his throat is so scrawny it looks as if he’s swallowing a golf ball. The Ratman looks around uncertainly, takes a step back, out of the light and into the shadows, looking for safety where there’s no safety to be found. He backs up to a wall and comes to a standstill. I motion him forward with a wiggle of my index finger. He looks left, looks right, searching for a way out, but in the end all he can do is walk towards me. As he steps back into the light I study his face carefully. The sodium distorts it, and as I stare it starts to change, morphing into all the faces I’ve grown to hate so much over the years. I can feel the anger rising, spreading through me from tip to toe, and I do nothing to hold it back. So often in life we are forced to suppress our real emotions, those primal desires that originate in the most ancient parts of the brain. And sometimes we are given the opportunity to let them loose and for a few glorious moments we know what it means to be truly alive. A deep breath, adrenaline coursing through my veins, heart doing double time.

‘What did you say?’

The Ratman doesn’t reply, just stands there paralysed, wearing a terrified expression.

A step forward. ‘You’re a worthless piece of shit, do you know that?’ In that sentence I hear echoes of my grandmother; my brain conjures up memories of her alcohol-soaked breath.

‘Sorry,’ the Ratman manages. ‘I didn’t mean to—’

‘Shut the fuck up, okay? I’ve had enough of your whining and your whimpering. You’re pathetic, do you hear me? You make me sick.’ Up close the Ratman’s stink is overpowering, the smell of decay and piss and hopelessness. ‘Do I look like a queer?’

‘No,’ he says, then adds a shaky: ‘Sir.’

‘No, sir, is right,’ I tell him.

Without warning I head-butt him full in the face. He stays upright for a second, blood spurting from his nose, then folds to the ground. The Invisible Ones stir in the shadows but nobody comes to help. When you’re this far down you are really and truly on your own. I rip off the Cossack hat, grab him by the hair and pull him to his feet, punch him twice in the face. Two sharp jabs. Steam rises from the front of his trousers and tears streak his dirty cheeks.

‘Don’t kill me,’ he whimpers. ‘Please don’t kill me.’

I’m so close I can smell the fear, the heat coming off his face. I want to kill him, I really do; I’ve never wanted anything so badly in my life. I let go and he drops to the ground. He’s trembling all over, nothing but a pathetic bundle of rags. I hunker down, crouching at eye level to get a better look. His sunken eyes are big and wide, the tiny spark in the pupils might be hope. His eyes lock with mine and the spark flickers, fades then disappears. He’s convinced I’m going to kill him.

I stand up and walk away. Behind me, The Invisible Ones are leaving the safety of the shadows, cautiously making their way towards their fallen comrade. I don’t need to turn around to confirm that help is the last thing on their minds. Even this far down there’s someone worse off than you, someone you can take advantage of, even if it’s just to steal a pair of odd worn shoes and a battered old Cossack hat.

10

‘Come on, Paul, wake up.’

Aston wished the voice away and rolled over on the sofa with a cold leather squeak. Shivering, he pulled the thin jacket in tight and buried his head under a cushion. A hand grabbed his shoulder and tried to drag him back around. He buried himself deeper into the sofa, resisting the insistent pull, telling himself this wasn’t happening.

‘Don’t you dare turn your back on me, Paul. We need to talk.’

A shiver ran up Aston’s spine. We need to talk. Those four words always spelled trouble. And lately that’s all she seemed to want to do … talk. Laura sure knew how to pick her moments. It was way too early to deal with this.

‘Stop pretending to be asleep. I know you’re awake.’

The hand became a fist that pounded against his arm. The blows weren’t hard and he swiped blindly, swatting as though they were mosquitoes.

‘You’re going to sit up now. And you’re going to talk to me. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.’

‘Leave me alone,’ Aston mumbled into the sofa. ‘Need more sleep.’

Laura stopped hitting and started shaking again, using both hands this time, gripping hard enough for Aston to feel her fingernails digging into his arm ‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘Let me get my act together, eh? I don’t think that’s too much to ask. What time is it anyway?’

‘Just gone half seven.’

‘And you want to talk now? Jesus, Laura, can’t this wait?’

‘No, it can’t wait, Paul.’

Aston rolled over and lay on his back for a moment, psyching himself up. It was all coming back to him. Slowly. After leaving the laptop with Mole, George suggested they find a late bar. Aston hadn’t needed much persuasion. Making up for lost time, they’d started with doubles then hit the trebles. It was around this point that everything became a bit hazy. Aston opened his eyes and sharp sunlight pierced his brain, making his head spin and his stomach churn. He was still fully dressed: his tie a loose noose around his neck, the tail trailing over his shoulder; shirt and trousers wrinkled and smelling like a wino’s. His jacket was a crumpled mess and nowhere near thick enough to deal with the morning chill. There was a half empty bottle of JD by the side of the sofa. Presumably he’d carried on drinking when he got home, drank until he’d passed out. He sat up and rubbed at his face. Wishing that the demons in his head would stop clattering around, he attempted a smile. ‘Don’t suppose you’d be a sweetheart and get me a coffee and a couple of aspirin?’

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