Ghosts

Chapter Twenty-Two

Hong Kong tended to enjoy dry winters; the guidebooks all suggested that December was one of the better times to visit, with pleasant temperatures and dry days. As the Airbus descended from thirty thousand feet, however, it passed through a deep carpet of cloud that became progressively darker and angrier until it was almost pitch black outside the windows. The rain, as they sank into it, was a deluge, a torrential flood that had hammered on the city for three days and showed no sign of abating. The pilot came over the intercom and did his best to reassure his passengers that, although they were in for a bumpy landing, it was not unusual for Chep Lap Kok. His words did not go very far and, as the plane started to be buffeted by powerful gusts of wind and the rain sheeted against the windows, several passengers closed their eyes and clasped their hands and prayed to whatever deity they thought would protect them. Milton had been to Hong Kong six times before and had been there long enough ago to remember the old airport, Kai Tak, where jumbos seemingly aimed at the ramshackle apartments blocks before banking at the last minute to line up for the approach to the runway. In comparison, a bit of nasty weather at Chek Lap Kok was nothing to get too worked up about.

The details of the new facility resolved from out of the rain-lashed murk: the reclaimed land, the hangars, the servicing areas, the jumbos lined up at the terminal building and then the runway, demarcated by arrays of red and yellow lights. The plane bumped as it descended, the rear wheels screeched as they bit into the asphalt, the front wheel followed, the flaps popped open and the engines squealed as the plane’s headlong rush was arrested.

Milton packed away the book he had been reading and allowed his thoughts to wander a little. Beatrix Rose: that was a name he hadn’t heard for many years. She had disappeared after the botched operation to assassinate DOLLAR and SNOW; or, as he knew now, Pascha Shcherbatov and Anastasia Ivanovna Semenko. There had been nothing from Control that might have explained her absence but that, in itself, was not unusual. Group operations were typically one or two member jobs and, even where Milton had been paired with another, it was usually a different agent each time. Group Fifteen was carefully segmented so that each agent was independent of all the others. It was their own form of the cut-out that had shielded the agents who worked with Mamotchka; should one of them be captured, it would not matter how badly they were tortured since they would not know anything about the other members of the Group. Everyone breaks eventually during torture; it is a simple matter of biology. But you cannot reveal details that you do not know.

Milton knew a little more about Beatrix because she had presided over his selection and training but, even then, his knowledge was limited. He did not know very much about her private or professional lives, where she lived, what she had done before she joined the Group. He did not know her politics, her likes or dislikes, anything that might allow him to dab a little colour on the empty tracing of her personality. He did know that she was a brilliant agent, terrifyingly clear in her focus and relentless when she had been given a target. Of all of the men and women he had worked with during his career with Group Fifteen, Beatrix Rose, who would always be Number One in his eyes, was the most impressive by far.

He realised now, as he remembered her, that he had never really given the question of her disappearance much thought save her luck must have run out during a job. That happened. But now that he knew that she was alive, and hiding in a place like this, he began to wonder. He had experience of Control’s ruthlessness. He had form for seeking to terminate his top agent when he lost his trust in them. It did not seem so far fetched, especially given what Shcherbatov had told him, that he had done the same to her.

He looked out at the multitude of lights that twinkled amid the throbbing power of the storm. Finding a person in a city like this, an abundance of millions crammed onto an island that was much too small for them, was going to be difficult. He hoped that the leads that Shcherbatov had uncovered were enough.

The plane drew up to the gate and the pilot extinguished the Fasten Seat Belts sign. Across the aisle, Anna stood up and muscled her carry-on luggage down from the overhead bin.

“Here we are,” Anna said.

“Here we are.”

Their passports recorded them as Mr. and Mrs. Roberts. For the purposes of their cover story, they were a couple from London in Hong Kong for a vacation. Milton had questioned whether Anna’s accent would raise suspicion but she modulated it effortlessly: the light southwestern twang that she used while in America had been superseded by a more guttural Russian inflection while they were in Moscow and now that, in turn, had been replaced by a flatness that could very easily have located her in the English Home Counties. She was an excellent chameleon.

They followed the snake of passengers down the aisle and disembarked onto the air bridge. As the corridor widened, Anna moved alongside him and slipped her hand in his. Milton did not resist.

They made it through immigration with no issues and took a cab to the city centre. Anna asked their driver for the Landmark Mandarin and he piloted them through the drenched streets, the tail lights of the cars ahead of them smeared as stripes of red against the sodden asphalt. Milton looked out of the window, reminding himself of the city: everything was tight and cramped, the skyscrapers jostling each other shoulder to shoulder, the buildings sheathed in black glass. They reflected the vast neon signs that flicked between advertisements: a pretty Asian girl, all perfect skin and red lips and gleaming teeth, selling insurance; an SUV, too bulky for these choked roads; confectionary and instant noodles and gambling websites and catwalk models and more cars and online catalogues. The streets were crammed and hectic.

The Mandarin was an expensive, luxury hotel. The reception was neat and functional and the girl behind the desk processed their reservation with good-natured efficiency. Only as they exited the elevator on the fifteenth floor did Milton pause to consider their sleeping arrangements. They were husband and wife; their cover demanded that they share the same room.

Anna approached the door and slid the card key into the reader. She must have detected his unease and, pausing in the doorway, she put a hand on his arm. “It’s a twin room,” she said, standing aside so that he could see into the large room. “Our cover need not extend any further than this.” She left her hand across his bicep and he knew what she was leaving unsaid: unless you want it to.

“This will be fine,” he said.

Milton stepped inside, and, unable to suppress the caution that had been drilled into him over the course of a decade, hundreds of nights spent in identikit rooms like this in countries where the local spooks made it a matter of routine to bug arriving travellers, he made a quick examination: the large en suite with a bath and shower; the twin beds; the large LCD screen on the bureau; the telephone beside the bed. He went back to the start and made a more detailed check. He dropped to his knees and checked under the beds, then he took out a dime from his pocket and used it to unscrew the plug sockets. He took the bulbs from the lights and dismantled the telephone handset. He opened the closet, lifted the television from the bureau and shut it away. It took him ten minutes to satisfy himself that everything was as it should be. Anna watched him quietly, saying nothing.

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

Seven million people, Milton thought.

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

Seven million.

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

“When will you start?” Anna asked him.

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

“Tomorrow,” he said.

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

He opened the door and went back into the bedroom. Anna had undressed, her clothes folded neatly on top of her suitcase. She was in bed, her chest rising and falling with the shallow susurration of her breath. Milton watched her sleeping: the long red hair; the full lips; the vulnerable, exposed neck; the slim body with the shape of her breasts perfectly obvious beneath the thin cotton sheet; the curve of her hip; the long legs; the porcelain white, ice-pale, skin. He wondered, for a moment, whether he could allow himself the luxury of accepting her unspoken and yet obvious offer.

No, he decided.

He could not.

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

Chapter Twenty-Three

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

“Where to, sir?”

“Connaught Road West,” Milton said. “Sai Ying Pun.”

“Yes, sir.”

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

Connaught Road was a flyover that passed through an unlovely area of town in the Central district. Tall office buildings were to the left and a stretch of park was to the right. The driver exited the flyover and looped back around so that he could get to the maze of roads that ran beneath it. Po Fung Mansion was a three storey building with a shuttered takeaway on the ground floor. It was constructed from concrete and its walls were adorned with air conditioning units, a metal balustrade that prevented a drop from the first floor balcony and a collection of unhealthy looking pot plants. Traffic hummed across the flyover and the three-lane road beneath it. It was busy, smokey and noisy, and the three young men loitering outside the entrance to the nearby bar glared dolefully at Milton as he stepped out of the car. He paid the man and the taxi drove off. The men kept looking; Milton ignored them. He saw the familiar sign blowing in the breeze, attached with a piece of string to the door handle: two blue As, within a triangle, within a circle.

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

The secretary recited the prayer: “God, give me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.”

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

The reader finished and closed the book.

“Do we have any new members tonight?” the secretary asked.

No-one raised their hand.

“Any visitors?”

There was no point in staying silent; they all knew he was fresh at the meeting. “My name is John and I’m an alcoholic,” he said. “I’m from London.”

The others returned the greeting, welcoming him.

The secretary introduced the speaker. The man’s name was Chuck. He was corpulent: he dressed in a white shirt and beige trousers and he talked in a lazy American drawl. He didn’t discuss his background in depth, but Milton gathered that he was stationed in the city on behalf of an American corporation. His story was about the things he had done as a younger man; he did not specify exactly what they were, fencing around the subject even in light of the injunction that members should not fear honesty, but it was obvious that something had happened with his family and that it still caused him great shame. Milton closed his eyes again and allowed the man’s words to wash over him. The precise content of the story was not important (it involved a series of domestic faults that this man had to regret) and it could not have been more different to the bloody crimes that that haunted Milton’s dreams. The point of a good share was to find the similarities and not the differences, and Milton understood the man’s disgrace, his insecurity, and the fear that he would never be able to atone for his sins. Those were the universal similarities that bonded all of them together; the details didn’t matter.

Chuck finished and the secretary opened the floor. There was a long pause and, smiling, the secretary turned to Milton. “How about our visitor?” he said. “Care to share back?”

Milton cleared his throat. “Thank you for your share,” he said. The man acknowledged him with a duck of his head and, for a moment, Milton wondered whether he had said enough. He remembered the advice of his first sponsor, the man who had taken him under his wing at the first meeting he had attended in London: you had to share, he had advised him. It was the only way to draw the sting of the toxic thoughts that would inevitably lead to drink. The others were waiting to see if he was going to continue; he cleared his throat and went on. “I’m not from Hong Kong. Just here on business, stopping for a couple of days and then moving on, but I really needed a meeting tonight. I’m very grateful to have found it.”

“And we’re glad you did too,” said the secretary.

“I don’t really know what I want to talk about. I suppose it is partly about gratitude. I’m grateful to you for being here, I’m grateful to the fellowship for giving me the tools that I need to quieten my mind and I’m grateful that my life has been returned to me. I have a lot of things in my past to regret and this has been the only thing I have ever found that gives me peace. Saying that, I haven’t been to a meeting for days. It’s the longest I’ve been without one throughout my sobriety and I don’t mind admitting that it has shown me that I’m very far from being cured. I’ve been struggling with memories from my past and with the temptation to drink so that I can forget them. I couldn’t sleep tonight and I was close to going into the hotel bar and ordering a gin. If this meeting hadn’t been here, maybe that’s what I would have done. But it was, and I didn’t, and after listening to your story I know that I won’t drink, at least not tonight. Day by day, right? That’s what we say. We just take it a day at a time.” He paused again. He felt better, the stress that had twisted in his shoulders dissipating with every word. “Well,” he said. “That’s it. Thank you. I think that’s what I wanted to say.”

It was one in the morning when the meeting finished and the others explained that they usually went for noodles at a late night restaurant that was around the corner. Milton thanked them for the offer but politely declined. He wanted to have a little time to himself. The hotel was on the other side of the island.

He decided that he would walk.

Chapter Twenty-Four

His thoughts reached back; years ago, although it still felt like yesterday. He would usually do anything to think of something else because the memory was the foundation for the dream. As he walked along the harbour front he allowed himself to remember.

Milton and Pope were in the middle of the desert. It was blisteringly hot, the air quivering so that it looked as if they were gazing through the water in an aquarium, and he could still remember the woozy dizziness of being broiled in the sun for so long. It was Iraq, at the start of the invasion, and their eight-man SAS patrol was deep behind Saddam’s lines. There was some suggestion that the madman was readying his army to fling scuds tipped with nerve gas into Israel and the patrol’s instructions were to set up observation posts, find the launchers and disable them.

A Chinook had dropped them and a second patrol, together with their Land Rovers and eighty-pound Bergens, into the desert between Baghdad and northwestern Iraq. They had been given a wide swathe of territory to patrol. They found one launcher within the first three days; they had killed the crew, slapped a pound of plastique on the fuel tank and blown the equipment to high heaven. They ranged north after that, travelling at night and hiding out during the day, and eventually they had picked up the scent of another crew.

They had tracked them to a village fifty clicks east of Al Qa’im. It was a small settlement dependent on goat herding, just a collection of huts set around a tiny madrasa. The soldiers were elite, Republican Guard, and they were smart. Their launcher was an old Soviet R-11 and they had driven it right into the middle of the settlement, parking next to the school and obscuring the vehicle beneath a camo net. The thinking was obvious: if they were discovered, surely the Americans would think twice about launching a missile into the middle of a civilian area, much less at a target that was next to a school?

They had found an escarpment five hundred feet to the west of the village and settled in to reconnoitre. They would wait where they were until either one of two things had happened: either the launcher abandoned its hiding place and moved out, in which case they would take it down with a LAW missile once it was out of range of the village, or, if it stayed where it was, they would wait until sunset to go in and take out the crew. Those options, as far as Milton was concerned, were the only ones that would remove the risk of civilian casualties.

He used the HF radio to send an update to command and then settled down to wait.

He watched the village through the scope of his rifle. Further away, just visible on the fuzzy hills in the distance, he could see the battered old 4x4s that had transported the goat herders to their animals and the indistinct shape of the men and their goats. Closer, within the village, the crew of the launcher had set up a canvas screen and were dozing beneath it, sheltering from the sun. He breathed slow and easy, placing each member of the crew in the middle of the reticule one after the other. Five hundred yards was nothing. He would have been able to slot one or maybe even two of them before they even knew what was going on, but it would be neater at night, and he did not want to frighten the children. He nudged the scope away from them, observing the women as they went to and from the small river that ran through the centre of the settlement, carrying buckets of water back to their huts. He nudged it to the right, watching the five youngsters in the madrasa. They had been allowed outside to play and run off some steam. They had a yard, bordered by a low chickenwire fence, and they were kicking a football about. Milton watched them for a while. A couple of the boys were wearing football strips, Barcelona and Manchester United, and the cheap plastic ball that they were kicking around jerked and swerved in the gentle breeze. If they knew what the scud launcher was, and the danger it represented, they did not display it in their behaviour. They were just kids having fun. The light sound of their laughter carried up to Milton on that same wind; innocent, oblivious to the chaos that was gathering on the borders of their country that would, within days, obliterate everything in its way in a mad dash to Baghdad.

Pope and the others were out of sight on the other side of the escarpment. They had raised their own small sun screen and were sheltering beneath it. Milton felt the sweat on his back, on the back of his legs, on his scalp. He felt the wooziness in his head and reached down for his jerrycan; the water was warm but he gulped down two mouthfuls, closing his eyes to savour the sensation before replacing the cap and putting it back in the Bergen. The small amount that was left had to last him all day. He scrubbed the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his hand and stared through the scope again.

He knew the sound the instant he heard it. A low, rumbling groan, still ten miles out. He put down his rifle and grabbed his field glasses, scanning the haze where the mountains met the deep blue of the sky. The engine grew louder and he swung left and right until he saw it: a black dot that was coming in low and fast. He centred the dot in the glasses and watched it, hoping that it was something other than what he knew it to be. The jet was a little more than a thousand feet up, running fast, and, as it neared and separated from out of the haze, he started to make out the details: the stubby nose; the weapons pylons on the wings bristling with missiles and the big, onion-shaped bombs; the greedy air intakes three quarters of the way down the fuselage; the wide, split fins of the tail. Milton knew exactly what it was and why it was here: an A-10 Warthog, a tank buster, sent to take out the launcher.

He fumbled for the radio, opened the channel to command and reported that he had a visual of an incoming jet, repeating that the target they had discovered was surrounded by civilians and that the jet needed to abort. There was a delay, and then static, and then, through the hiss and pop, the forward air controller told him to stand down. Milton cursed at her and opened a wide channel, identifying himself and hailing the pilot.

There was the squawk of more static and then the pilot’s voice, enveloped by the sound of his engines: “Manilla Hotel, this is POPOV35. I’ve got a canal that runs north/south. There’s a small village, and there’s a launcher under camo in the middle.”

He hadn’t heard Milton or had been told to ignore him.

Forward air control responded: “Roger that POPOV35. Clear to engage.”

“Roger that, Manilla Hotel. POPOV35 is rolling in.”

Milton threw his rifle down and sprinted for the village.

What happened next was unclear and, in the years that had passed since then, he had dreamt it so many times and in so many different ways that it was difficult to separate the truth from his fevered imaginings of it. He was running, as fast as he could, losing his footing in the deep sand and tumbling down the slope to the desert below, his boots scrambling for purchase and his hands sinking into the sand and dust and then he was up again and running hard. The Hog was a couple of miles away now, the engines louder even though the pilot had throttled back so that he could take his time. Milton ran, his boots sinking into the sand, the effort of freeing them so that he could take another step making his thighs and his calves burn. Sweat poured from his face as if it were a squeezed sponge. He made the outskirts of the village and screamed out that they needed to get away, to run, an old crone who was emptying out a pot of dirty water looking at him with alarm but staying right where she was. He ignored her, aiming for the madrasa. He was a hundred yards away and he yelled out his warning again. The Iraqis heard him, stumbling up to their feet and reaching for their rifles before they registered the noise of the jet, realised what it portended, and ran.

Milton ran past them in the opposite direction.

The children had stopped playing now. They were looking at him in confusion. Their ball rolled gently in the wind, bumping up against the side of the yard fence. One of the boys had trotted over to get it and he was closest to Milton. He was five or six.

Milton would always remember his big, brown eyes.

He screamed at them in Arabic to run.

The confusion on the boy’s face would stay with him for the rest of his life.

Too late.

Much, much too late.

Milton looked up at the pale underbelly of the Hog as it boomed overhead, a thousand yards above; the wing pylons were empty. It had dropped its bomb three hundred yards earlier and now half a ton of high explosives fell in a neat and graceful and perfectly judged parabola that terminated at the launcher. Milton couldn’t remembered what came first: the blinding flash of white light or the roar that deafened him. The blast picked him up and tossed him back twenty feet in the direction that he had arrived. The scorching hot pressure wave rolled over him, and then the wave of debris: the remains of the wooden huts, shards of metal from the launcher, the storm of grit and pebbles. He had been dropped on his back and as he opened his eyes he thought that he must have been blinded. The swirling cloud of black fumes was parted by the wind, revealing the same perfectly clear sky overhead. Debris was still falling from the sky around him. Pieces of cloth fluttered down, soaked in blood. The mushroom cloud unfurled overhead. He could smell the explosives. He could smell burning flesh. He rolled and pushed himself onto his knees. A wave of pain swept over him and he had to fight to prevent himself from fainting. He looked around: no launcher, no huts, no madrasa. No children. He looked away to his right, to the skidded splashes of red across the dun brown, and to the ribbons of bloodied flesh that had been strung from the branches of a nearby, newly leafless tree, as if left there to dry in the sun. He looked down at his chest. His shirt was bloodied. He dabbed his fingers down the centre of his sternum, further down his ribcage, to the start of his belly. He felt the rough edge of the shrapnel that had lodged just above his navel.

He didn’t remember very much of what had happened after that. Pope said later that he and the others in the Unit had been disturbed by the approach of the Hog and had seen him running into the village. They saw the bomb detonate and had found him on the lip of a deep crater where the launcher and the madrasa had been. He was slipping in and out of consciousness. They dragged him away. The explosion had painted the sky with a column of smoke fifteen hundred feet high and they knew that if any Iraqi units were nearby they would be sent to investigate. Pope carried him back to the Land Rover and they drove for ten miles until they found an abandoned shack where they had stopped. They had radioed for emergency medivac on their way out of the village but there had been ground-to-air activity and the rotor-heads were proceeding cautiously; they preferred to wait until darkness. None of the other men in the patrol thought Milton would make it. He was delirious and remembered nothing. Pope tended the wound as best he could. He told him afterwards that he was sure that he would bleed out, that there was nothing he could do to stop it, but, he had stayed with him, pressing a compress around the shrapnel until his hands were covered in Milton’s blood and, somehow, he had staunched the flow. An American army Blackhawk was sent to exfiltrate them, guided in by a tactical beacon, and it delivered Milton to the forward operating base in Saudi. He was in theatre almost as soon as the wheels touched down.

It was trite to say that Pope had saved Milton’s life. He had, though; that much was unquestionable. There had been times in the years that followed when Milton had wished that he hadn’t, that he had left him to die in the smoking ruins of the village, because that would have meant that none of what followed would ever have happened. No Group. No Control. No blood on his conscience. Recently, he had started to feel different. He had found the Rooms and the Steps and he felt, for the first time in as long as he could remember, that he had hope. Not the hope of atonement, perhaps, but the chance of a little peace.

Milton thought of Pope in the basement of Shcherbatov’s dacha. He was done for unless he went after him. Milton tried to live his life by the Steps. They had saved his life, he was quite sure about that, and he believed that if he observed them faithfully, they would keep him safe.

The Eighth Step injuncted him to make a list of the people that he had harmed.

The Ninth Step required him to make amends to all of them.

He couldn’t make amends to the people who he had harmed through his work for the Group: one hundred and thirty nine of them were already dead. He chose to interpret those two Steps to mean that he should use his skills to help others. That was how he would make things right. Tonight, as he walked through the busy streets of Hong Kong, the monsoon rains starting to fall again, he knew that he had no choice but to do whatever it took to help his friend, even if doing so would lead to his own death.

He was alright with that.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Milton grabbed a couple of hours of sleep, rose quietly at seven and worked out in the hotel gym for a couple of hours before getting breakfast. It was just before eleven when he returned to the room. Anna was dressed and writing an email; she logged off and closed her laptop as he came inside.

“Letting the colonel know I’m still here?”

“Where have you been?”

“The gym,” he said. “I like to run. It helps me focus.”

“And last night?”

“Never mind.”

“I’m afraid I do…”

“Are you ready to go?”

She dropped it as a lost cause and said that she was ready. They found a taxi in the rank outside and Milton asked the driver to take them to Nathan Road. The rain had continued to fall overnight and through the early morning and, even though the temperature was much less oppressive than it would have been during the summer months, it was still warm enough to render the city’s streets cloyingly humid. The driver followed Kimberley Road and then Nathan Road; when they emerged it was midday and the dampness seemed to wash over them. Anna was wearing a loose dress and sandals. Milton had on the suit that the Russians had bought for him together with one of the white t-shirts. He felt the wash of sweat in the small of his back within moments. He raised the umbrella that the hotel concierge had given him and covered them both as they made their way across the sidewalk and into the café.

Calling the place Chungking Mansion was misleading. That made it sound grand and opulent and it most certainly was not that. It was large, though: a sprawling collection of shops, takeaways, restaurants and hundreds of hostels with everything from two to twenty rooms spread over five 17-storey tower blocks. Five thousand people lived here, with another ten thousand coming to visit every day. Interpol countries were legally obliged to register foreign nationals when they checked in to hotels but that requirement was flouted here. The hostels could claim that they were distinct from hotels and, in many ways, they were. There were small businesses with a couple of rooms to large dormitories with a dozen beds to more traditionally arranged establishments with single rooms and shared bathrooms. They were cheap, occasionally cheerful, and you got what you paid for in all of them: a night’s sleep, if you were lucky, and not much else besides.

It was a sprawling place, choked with crowds. If you were going to submerge yourself anywhere in Hong Kong you would do it here. You could just sink into the sprawl of humanity. You could do everything you needed to do without ever having to leave.

Milton crossed the traffic with Anna behind him, parted a way through the crowd that had gathered outside the garish entrance and went inside. It was a confusing place, crowded corridors branching off in all directions. Chinese lanterns were suspended from the ceilings and the stall holders crammed in beneath them hawked electronic goods, clothes, DVDs, cell phones and foods for every possible ethnicity. It was a high-rise souk, rammed full of people, especially so with the rain outside: they passed petty traders, asylum seekers, itinerant workers, small-time entrepreneurs, tourists, and the unavoidable gamut of sex workers and substance abusers. Conversations merged into an incessant yammer so that when Anna spoke to him he had to raise his voice to answer. There was a small arcade near the door, the machines adding their own electronic babble to the cacophony, a clatter of coins as a lucky punter lined up three cherries; the screech of metal as a key-cutter copied a key; the bubble and hiss of hot oil as fries were lowered into a fryer; an argument between a money changer and his customer; talk radio hosts vying with broadcasts of Muslim prayer meetings and shows playing western music. The air carried the odour of hundreds of damp and sweaty bodies, the tang of sweet-and-sour sauce from a fast-food joint, the heady sweetness of decomposing trash.

Milton pressed through the crowd, bumping against a pair of pasty-skinned backpackers with bewildered expressions on their faces, and found his way to a uniformed guard with an elevated position, his elbows resting on the balustrade of a flight of stairs that led up to the first floor.

The Russians had provided them with the name of the hostel where they believed Beatrix had been staying. “Do you know the Golden Guest House?” he asked the man.

The man shrugged.

“It’s a hostel.”

The man shrugged again, the corner of his mouth curling up in a suggestive smile.

“Here,” Anna said, pressing a ten dollar note into his hand.

He folded the note once, then twice, and slipped it into the breast pocket of his shirt. “Other side of building,” he said. He gave them directions and left them to find it.

The hostel was on the third floor at the end of a maze of windowless corridors that Milton found intensely claustrophobic. He had completely lost his sense of direction and, the deeper they penetrated the warren of rooms, the more vulnerable he felt. An ambush here would be difficult to escape. The Golden Guest House was announced by a painted sign and the open door beneath gave onto a tiny lobby with a bored looking man behind the desk. It was hot and sticky. A broken desk fan sat impotently on a low table between two battered sofas, yellowed stuffing leaking out between rents in the leather that looked like they had been torn open at the point of a knife. The man behind the desk was small and sallow faced, eating a piece of greasy chicken with his fingers as he watched American wrestling. He barely looked up as Milton and Anna entered.

“I’m looking for a woman,” Milton said.

“We all look for woman,” the man said with a lewd smirk at Anna.

“A friend of mine. I think she’s staying here.”

“Can’t talk about guest. Confidential.”

Milton had a photograph of Beatrix that the Russians had provided. It was old, from before the time of the hit on Shcherbatov, and she was dressed in what Milton thought was a police uniform. The likeness was good from what he could remember but it was nearly ten years out of date; time would have aged her, surely, not to mention the changes she would have effected herself. He laid it flat on the counter and left a hundred dollar bill on top of it. The clerk sucked the grease from his fingers and then wiped them on his shirt, pocketed the bill and turned the photograph around so that he could look at it properly. He put a finger up his nostril and turned it around absently. “I don’t know. Maybe I know her, maybe I don’t. Hard to be sure.”

Milton dropped another hundred on the counter and, as the man reached for it, Milton caught his hand and squeezed.

“Ow!” he said. “That hurts!”

“You take me to her room now, alright?”

Milton knew taekwondo and all of the pressure points. His thumb was pushing on the nerve, sending exquisite bolts of pain up the arm. The man winced and thought better of trying to inveigle another hundred out of him. “Okay, I show.”

Milton smiled politely and released the man’s hand.

He led them through a narrow corridor to a tiny box of a room with a single bed, a suitcase propped against the wall and an old-fashioned cathode ray portable television set resting atop a rickety dresser. The A/C unit above the bed gurgled and expectorated a trail of moisture that had stained the wall. There were no windows and, although there was a bathroom, it was only just big enough for the toilet with the result that the shower head was directly overhead.

“How long has she been here?”

“Don’t know. Six month, seven month, maybe more.”

“On her own?”

“Yes.”

“Have you spoken to her?”

“No. No speak with guests.”

“And where is she now?”

He found a little courage. “Who are you?”

“Friends,” Milton said patiently. “We need to find her. Where is she?”

The man hesitated, calculating how much he stood to lose if his guest left in disgust at his impropriety against the damage this intimidating westerner might cause. He dipped his head and whispered, “She eats here, in Chungking.”

“Where?”

“There is a place. Syed Bukhara. Malaysian. Floor Seven, Block E.”

It took them another hour to find their way to the restaurant. There were dozens of places, mostly very small, and although Syed Bukhara was a little bigger than the average it was still only big enough for a half dozen plastic picnic tables and matching chairs. It was painted in schoolyard green and orange, with neat and tidy mauve cushions on the seats. There was a formica countertop, a revolving display case that advertised sickly-looking desserts and an Indian man in a turban who showed them to the only empty table. The overhead lights were bright and harsh and the laminated menu was stained with fragments of rice and sauce that seemed to have been welded to it. Milton scanned it. The prices were worryingly cheap but his fears were offset by the aroma that was coming from the kitchen: a delicious wafting scent of simmering meats and spices.

Milton ordered Nasi Lemak with egg, a Malaysian comfort food that he remembered from a particularly messy assignment in Kuala Lumpur. Anna ordered the mutton Bukhara biryani special. The dishes arrived and what they lacked in presentation they made up for in taste. The creamy sweetness from the coconut rice mixed well with the spicy sambal sauce and Milton, who found that he was very hungry, made quick work of the whole plate. Anna’s portion was even bigger than his and she couldn’t finish it all; he helped, polishing off the generous chunks of mutton meat that were meshed in fragrant basmati rice. By the time he was finished, he was sated. They ordered two cups of Indian chai tea and drank them slowly. When they had finished those, they ordered a couple more.

Milton’s chair was facing the corridor. He made sure that it was angled so that he wouldn’t be too easy to spot. He didn’t think that Beatrix would run, but he didn’t want to take the chances.

They had been there for two hours when Milton finally gave up.

“If she comes in here, she’s not coming today.”

“We’ll come back later?”

“Tomorrow,” Milton said.

“What now?”

“I need a shower.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Milton had no interest in waiting in their hotel room. The rains cleared away in the middle of the afternoon and he decided to go out for a run.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Out,” he said. “I need some exercise. I’ll be back this evening.”

“What exercise?”

“A run. Is that alright?”

Anna stood, too, and slipped her feet into her sandals. “Do you mind if I come too?”

He paused at the door. “I don’t know, Anna. I’m not feeling particularly sociable.”

“It’s not to keep an eye on you,” she qualified. “I don’t want to stay here all afternoon.”

“Then don’t. Go out.”

He looked at her. He felt the same primal response again, quickly suppressing it, and relented.

“Fine,” he said. “We’ll need some kit.”

He opened the door and they made their way to the lobby. She smiled sweetly at him as they waited for the elevator to arrive. Perhaps it would be useful to have her around. He didn’t know very much about her, and that was remiss of him; anything at all could prove to be useful. And, perhaps, she could be persuaded, or tricked, into passing him a little information about Shcherbatov and his plans for Control and Pope.

There was a small sports shop not too far from the hotel and they visited it to buy running shoes and socks, vests and shorts. They returned to the hotel, changed in the gym and then went back onto the street. Milton had run around Hong Kong before; the sidewalks themselves were not suitable, too clogged with people and sometimes too steep, plus the air was often thick with smog that could make for an unpleasant experience. He had learned his lesson and researched alternative routes. As they headed out, he decided to run his favourite of them.

They headed southwest through the Zoological and Botanical Gardens, past the Ladies’ Recreation Club and then started to ascend the Peak. The weather had cleared, a gentle breeze blowing in off the bay taking a little of the edge off the humidity. It was still hot, though, and it didn’t take long for Milton to work up a sweat. Anna kept the pace beside him. She was fit and strong and it was obvious that she ran often. The climb up Old Peak Road grew steeper and steeper and, eventually, she started to flag. Milton dropped his pace and she reeled him back in again.

They reached Peak Tower and ran around Lugard Road. It was car-free and, as a result, it was busy with dog walkers, other runners and families. There was a tower at the top, an upside-down wok shaped building with a galleria that contained shops and restaurants. The route was mostly shaded and, as they got up high, it offered postcard views over Central and Wanchai. They paused at the ten kilometre mark to look out at it: the sparkling skyscrapers and the deep blue of Victoria Harbour all the way to the green hills of the New Territories, the panorama slowly melting into the pink and orange of early twilight.

He was a little short of breath but Anna was breathing harder.

“Alright to keep going?”

“Sure.”

“Mostly downhill from here.”

He led the way again as they wound back around the Peak, picking up Harlech Road on the backside until they were at the Peak Tower again. They followed Findlay Road until it met Severn Road, home to the most expensive property in the world. That was the turn-off point, and they ran back down into Central and made their way towards the hotel. It was a fifteen kilometre route, all told, and Milton’s muscles were tingling as they finally stopped to warm down.

There was a small pharmacy across the road.

“Want a bottle of water?” he said.

“Sure.”

“Hold on.”

He went inside, picked up two half litre bottles and took them to the desk. He paid for them and spoke to the chemist for a moment. Tremazepan should not have been available without a prescription but he explained that he had been unable to sleep properly all week and that he needed it badly. A twenty dollar note laid on the counter was sufficient incentive and, with a nod of understanding, the man disappeared into the back and came back with a box of Restoril. Milton thanked him and went back outside to join Anna again.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

They went back to the hotel to shower and when Anna disappeared down to the lobby — to file a report, Milton guessed — he spent a couple of hours with his book. When she returned he suggested that they go out to dinner. She smiled brightly at the suggestion; it was an innocent happiness that must have been inspired, he guessed, by the thought that she had finally broken through the hard carapace that he sheltered behind. It almost made him feel bad to see it. He knew then that he would be able to do what he needed to do.

She suggested that he choose where they eat and he picked Caprice, a favourite of his from years ago. They took a taxi and it was nearly eight when they arrived.

There was something very modern about the place, and yet something proper and solid. The lobby was crafted between two floor to ceiling displays of wine bottles — with some enviable vintages on show — and the maître d’ led them through a dining room that was encased with dark wood panelling and equipped with luxurious leather sofas and armchairs. The kitchen was open and situated in the middle of the dining area, with nothing to separate the diners from the delicious smells that were created or the quiet, determined communication between the chefs. All of the tables enjoyed a view of Victoria Harbour, and theirs was especially good. The room was busy, with local Hong Kong Chinese and expat diners enjoying their meals, filling the space with engaged conversation and the sound of expensive cutlery on expensive plates. Milton followed in Anna’s wake and watched the heads of the other diners turn to look at her. Her summer dress was creased and marked and her face was streaked with sweat and dust and yet she was still extraordinary to look at.

Milton looked out over the broad curve of the harbour. Lights were strung between the trees in the garden and then, out on the water, colourful junks rose and fell on the shallow swells. They looked through the elaborate, leather-bound menus. Milton beckoned to the sommelier and turned to his companion.

“What will you have?” he asked.

“Do you have a recommendation?”

“Not really,” he said. “I don’t drink.”

“Not at all?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I used to drink too much,” he said simply. “So I stopped.”

“Do you mind if I…”

He waved it off. “No, of course not. Have whatever you like.”

She replaced the wine list face down on the table and turned to the sommelier. “I would like a gin and tonic, please. Hendricks. Fill the glass with ice, all the way to the top, and a slice of cucumber.”

She returned to her study of the menu. “Do you know what you want?” she asked. “Please, don’t be frugal. The Kremlin is paying.” She smiled at her own joke, trying to encourage him, too, but it fell rather flat; it dragged Milton away from the potential pleasure of a meal in her company and back to the reality of why they were here together.

Milton summoned the waiter.

He turned to Anna. “Madam?”

“The langoustine lasagne and then the wagyu striploin, please.”

The waiter turned to Milton. “And sir?”

“The vegetable panache, please, and then suckling pig rack.”

The man complimented them on their choices and left the table.

“You must forgive me,” Anna said. “I am very particular about what I eat and drink. It comes from my background. There was very little luxury when I was a child. Times were difficult. And now, when I’m working, it’s usually on my own. It makes things more bearable if you can go to nice restaurants and know a little about what’s on the menu.”

“You were born in Russia?”

“Volgograd,” she said. “Have you been there?”

“Never.”

“I wouldn’t bother. It is not a pleasant place. My father worked for the KGB. We moved around a lot, depending on where he was posted. We spent time in Kenya, Somalia, Vietnam. I was a bit of an embassy brat.”

“Any brothers or sisters?”

“Just me.”

“Where did you study?”

“Moscow. We moved back when I was sixteen. The People’s Friendship University of Russia. Masters degree in economics. I could have had a job with a Russian bank, made a lot of money perhaps, but I was recruited by my tutor as soon as I graduated. They had different plans for me, I suppose. My father was proud. It wasn’t something I was able to turn down. I moved to London in 2003 and worked for a couple of banks. And I met my husband there.”

“You’re married?” he said. He pointed to her naked hand. “You don’t…”

“Divorced. He was American. It was for the passport.”

She reported it completely matter of factly, as if getting married was something that had needed to be checked off a list. “How long were you there for?”

“In London? I moved in 2006.”

“And after that?”

“New York, originally. I worked in international real estate.”

“That was the cover?”

“Of course. There was no business. There never was. It was a fantasy. Just a desk. It was a useful front and a good way to pass funds to me.”

“What were you doing there?”

She smiled and shook her head. “No, Mr. Milton, that wouldn’t do. Some things will have to remain secret. You understand, I’m sure.”

“Alright. So why don’t you tell me why were you in Texas?”

“That was for you. I was given instructions that an asset was thought to be in the area. We didn’t know where, exactly, so several of us were moved to the south to wait.”

“Several? There are more of you?”

She smiled. “Many more. The CIA has been focussed on external threats for too long. It is easy to work in America if you know what you are doing.”

“So you just up and left? Do you live alone?”

She smiled mischievously. “Do I have a boyfriend, you mean?”

He knew that the conversation was pulling him in the direction she wanted but he didn’t feel like resisting her any more. “Do you?”

“There was someone, but it was for work. I doubt I’ll see him again.”

He left a pause and then allowed her a smile. “A little better,” he said.

“How do you mean?”

“I like to know the person I’m having dinner with,” he said. “I think I’m getting there.”

He raised his glass.

She touched hers to his. “Nasdrovje,” she said.

“Cheers.”

The waiter arrived with the lasagne and the panache and they ate for a time in silence. The food was as delicious as Milton remembered.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?” she said.

“Depends what it is.”

“‘Some things will have to remain secret?’” Her eyes gleamed.

He smiled. “Something like that.”

“You had a bad dream on the flight…”

“I told you,” he said sharply. “It was just a bad pill.”

Her eyes clouded with concern.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You don’t have to answer.”

“It’s alright,” he said. He gazed out into the darkness of the bay. “It’s something I saw a long time ago. It’s not a very good memory. Occasionally I dream about it.”

They were quiet again as they finished their starters. Milton watched her face: she looked deep in thought as if, he wondered, she was trying out conversational lines to be sure that she didn’t spoil the mood. She finished the lasagne, placed the cutlery on the plate and looked up, a bright smile on her face. “You know,” she said, “I was pleased that they asked me to go and get you in Texas. It was something of a coup. You are famous with Russian intelligence. Well, not you personally”—she corrected herself quickly, although he knew that she had meant him—“your Group. Group Fifteen. You are famous and feared.”

“I’m not a member of the Group any more.”

“Nevertheless…”

He frowned and, when he spoke, it was quietly. “It’s nothing to be proud of. What we did. What I did. I have a lot of blood on my hands, Anna. Some of them probably deserved what they got. The others, I don’t know. Maybe not.” He felt awkward talking about it; it made the prospect of a drink more difficult to ignore. He remembered the meeting and the sense of calmness he had felt. He needed to change the subject. “How did you like the lasagne?”

“It was delicious. I’ve had a good day and now I’m having a lovely evening. It’s just a pity…”

“What is?”

“You know. The circumstances. Now. The job.”

She stopped, warned by a blank look on Milton’s face.

“That’s just the way it is,” he said. “Orders. You’re doing what you’ve been told to do.”

He paused and turned his head to the window again. The conversation was becoming more intimate than was appropriate. There were some subjects that Milton would not discuss, with anyone, and she had an open and inviting manner that made it easy to forget his boundaries. He had already said too much. He chided himself: she was a Russian agent. He was only here — in Hong Kong, having dinner with her — because they had a gun to his head. A man he owed a blood debt to had been arrested, beaten and was being held God knows where, having God knows what done to him. That was the only reason he was here. Pope was the only reason that he hadn’t already abandoned her, blended in with the multitude and disappeared from view again.

He was having dinner with her under sufferance and not through choice. Unfortunately, however many times he told himself that, he knew it wasn’t really true.

The rest of the meal went well. The food was excellent and the conversation was good. Anna loosened up even more after her gin and then she ordered a couple of glasses of wine with her main course. She became a little more indiscrete about her work although Milton was sure that some of it was calculated; passing on a little harmless gossip here and there in an attempt to inveigle herself into his own confidences.

She excused herself between the main course and dessert and Milton took his chance. He had prepared earlier, before they left for dinner: he had popped three of the temazepam tablets from their blister pack, ground them together swept the fine powder into a folded triangle of paper. Now, he reached across the table for her unfinished glass of wine and, after checking that he wasn’t observed, tipped the powder into it. It dissolved quickly and without any sign of residue.

She returned to the table and asked him to talk about his background. Assuming that she knew it all anyway, he did. He told her about the peripatetic early years spent following his father’s career around the oil states in the Gulf, his parents’ death, the largely unsuccessful time at private school and then his years reading law at Cambridge. He explained how he had eschewed the career at the bar that had seemed mapped out for him and how he had joined the Green Jackets instead. There was his first posting in Gibraltar, the time spent in the Gulf for the first Iraq war and then the Provinces. Talking about that brought him right back to Pope again and, not wishing to dwell on that tonight, he had been glad that their desserts were finished and cleared away and Anna proposed that they return to the hotel.

Anna summoned the waiter, asked for the bill, paid it in cash and left a large tip on the table. She rose, suddenly a little unsteadily.

“I’m afraid I’m a little drunk,” she said.

“Here.” He offered her his arm and, with her clinging onto it, he led the way out of the restaurant and onto the street outside. It had started to rain again; gently at first, a fine gossamer mist that dampened the face, but then, as they stood waiting to flag a taxi, it fell harder and harder until it was drumming thunderously on the awning above them. Milton took out a packet of cigarettes and offered her one. She took it, ducking her head to accept his light and exposing the nape of her long, white neck.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“A little — fuzzy. I…I…” She stammered for the words and, slowly, a frown that might have been realisation broke across her face. “You…you…” she started again, but the words fluttered away, the thought incomplete and unexpressed.

A taxi pulled up. She was asleep on his shoulder before it had even pulled away.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Milton awoke and reached out for his watch on the bedside table. He scrubbed the sleep from his eyes and checked the time: it was nine. He let his head fall back on the pillow and closed his eyes again. He was tempted to go back to sleep but it was already later than he had intended and he had plenty to do. Anna was still in her bed, and he got out of bed slowly and deliberately, careful not to wake her. She was lying on her front, the sheets pulled halfway down her back. Milton had laid her there, still dressed. Her breathing was deep and very relaxed. He wasn’t sure how long the effect of the Temazepam would last but he figured that he had a little while yet. She would be able to guess where he had gone but he would have a head start, at least. He hoped that he could find Beatrix Rose before she could get there.

He went into the bathroom, dressed and then quietly left the room.

He took a taxi to Chungking Mansion and made his way to Syed Bukhara again. It was ten when he took a seat at the same table in the restaurant as before and started what he suspected would be the first in a series of cups of tea.

But he didn’t have long to wait.

“Hello, Milton.”

He turned: there was a woman behind him, and, for a moment, he didn’t recognise her. It was eight years, that was true, but even so. She was thin, the structure of her bones easily visible through a face that had far less shape than Milton remembered. Her skin looked brittle and dry, like parchment, and her eyes, which had once been bright and full of fire, were dull and lifeless, obscured by a film of rheum. She looked ill.

“Number One,” he said.

She shook her head. “Not any more. And not for a long time.”

There was a wariness in her face as she regarded the few other diners in the restaurant. She moved gingerly, as if it gave her pain, and, as she came around the table and passed directly in front of him, Milton saw with dismay that the emaciation in her face was symptomatic of a more general malaise; she had been beautifully curvaceous before but that was all gone now. She was wearing a flimsy blouse with short sleeves and as she braced her arms on the table to lower herself down into the seat he could see the bony protuberances of her elbows and the shape of the bones in her wrists. She moved with deliberate care, as if it gave her pain. It was as if she had aged thirty years in the space of ten.

She had a bag with her and, as she sat down, she arranged it in her lap and slid a hand inside.

“I’ve got a gun,” she said. “It’s aimed right at your balls. Ten seconds, Milton. What the fuck are you doing here?”

Point blank. She wouldn’t miss.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Five seconds.”

“I want to talk to you.”

“Did Control send you?”

“No,” he said.

“I don’t believe you.”

“This has nothing to do with him. Or the Group. You have my word.”

“Better make me believe that, Milton. I’d rather not shoot you.”

Milton was calm. “Control doesn’t know where I am,” he said. “He doesn’t know where you are, either. If he did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we? I would already have shot you.”

She chuckled mirthlessly. “No, Milton, you wouldn’t. I’ve been following you since you came here to look for me yesterday. I’m disappointed. I taught you to be observant and I’m very out of practice. Go on, why are you here?”

“I’m here of my own accord. I’m out of the Group. I quit. I told Control a while ago. Can’t say he took too kindly to the idea. He’s already tried to kill me twice.”

“Keep going.”

Milton didn’t demur. He told her everything that had happened. He started at the beginning, all the way back to what had happened in London after his last assignment in the Alps, because he knew she would need to have the context to understand what had happened next. He told her about his argument with Control.

“So you resigned,” she said.

“I tried. It wasn’t accepted.”

“You know you can’t…”

“Yes,” he interrupted. “So he kept telling me.”

He explained about the attempt to murder him in London that had very nearly been successful, how he had been shot by Callan and how he had fled to South America. He told her about Ciudad Juárez, and Control’s second attempt to bring him back in, and about how he had escaped and fled to San Francisco.

“So you’re a wanted man?”

“Looks that way, doesn’t it?”

“Control isn’t the sort of person you’d want chasing you.”

“He certainly is relentless,” he said with a wry smile. “Is that enough for you?”

She withdrew her hand from the bag. “For the time being.”

“So what about you?”

Her posture stiffened. “What about me?”

“Why are you here?”

“It’s a long story.”

The waiter looked over at her with a friendly, knowing smile. “The usual, miss?”

“Please.”

She put her hand back into her bag and, for a moment, Milton thought she was going for the gun again. She rummaged for a moment, unable to find whatever it is she wanted.

“Cigarette?” Milton offered.

“You still smoke?”

“Tried to stop,” he said.

“It’ll kill you.”

“So will lots of things. I decided I might as well have one vice. They let you smoke in here?”

She looked at him with mild amusement. “Seriously, Milton? Look around. You can do whatever you want.”

He took the unfinished packet from his pocket and offered it to her.

She took it and held it up. “Winstons?”

“Afraid so. They’re not great.”

“You want to tell me why you’ve got a packet of Russian cigarettes?”

“I was in Moscow the day before yesterday. That’s why I’m here.”

She took two, leaving one on the table. Milton took out his oxidised Ronson lighter, thumbed the flame and held it out for her. She dipped her head to it, the blouse falling open at the neck and revealing the angular points of her clavicle. Milton took one for himself and left the packet on the table.

She leaned back and inhaled hungrily. “So who’s the pretty girl?”

“Her name is Anna Vasil’yevna Kushchyenko.”

“Where is she?”

“At the hotel.”

“She looked unwell last night.”

“You were at the restaurant?”

“Outside. What’s wrong with her?”

“I drugged her.”

“How chivalrous.”

“I wanted to see you on my own.”

“What is she? Russian intelligence?”

“SVR,” Milton said.

She drew down on her cigarette. “So what does a pretty Russian intelligence agent have to do with you?”

He leant back in the chair and drew on his cigarette. “She was sent to recruit me.”

Isabella cocked an eyebrow at that. “For what?”

The waiter returned with two cups of Indian chai tea. She thanked him and waited until he had returned to the counter before she spoke again.

“To recruit you for what, Milton?”

“They wanted me to find you.”

She shook her head sharply. “Whatever it is, I’m not interested.”

“Just hear me out.”

“Do you think I’d be somewhere like this if I wanted to be found?”

“Just let me give you a little bit of background first. I’ve come halfway around the world to find you. Humour me.”

She settled back in the chair and fixed him with a steady glare. She moved her hand close to the mouth of the bag again. “Give me another fag.” He did as she asked. “You’ve got five minutes and then I’m gone.”

“Do you remember my first assignment?”

Her eyes narrowed just a little. “Of course I remember it. It was a disaster.”

“You remember the two targets?”

“Yes,” she said carefully.

“DOLLAR and SNOW. We never knew anything about them.”

“What’s your point, Milton? We never knew anything about any of them. They’re just names.”

“DOLLAR was Anastasia Ivanovna Semenko and SNOW was Pascha Shcherbatov. They were both Russian agents. Turns out Shcherbatov is a colonel in the SVR now.”

“Where are you going with this? It doesn’t matter that they were spooks. I killed my fair share. You would have, too.”

“I know. That’s not the point. Semenko and Shcherbatov weren’t targeted because they were spooks. They were sent to London because the Russians had a tip-off that Control could be bought. They had assets inside the Iraqi government who said he was introducing arms dealers to the right people. So Semenko set herself up as a dealer, said she wanted an in with the Syrians. Control said he could arrange that for her — for the right price. They had him. Photographs, financial records, everything they needed. They were going to flip him or they were going to burn him. He’d proposed a meeting to talk it over. They were going to see him when we hit them. He set the whole thing up. The whole operation was all about him trying to save his own neck.”

She listened intently, her brow occasionally furrowing, chain-smoking her way through another two cigarettes. “How do you know this?”

Milton told her about his trip to Russia to meet Shcherbatov and the story he had told him in the dacha. She didn’t look surprised by any of it.

“And what does this have to do with you?”

“Shcherbatov wanted me to find you.”

“But why would you do anything for him?”

“There’s another agent. Michael Pope. You won’t know him, he joined after you disappeared.”

“No, I do remember him,” she said. “Tall, dark hair? We looked at him before we chose you,” she said, punctuating the words with an absent stab of the cigarette.

“He was made Number One after I got out.”

“How did he end up in Russia?”

“There was a job in the south of France. Control sent him after Shcherbatov again. He got caught. If I don’t help him, he doesn’t have much of a future.”

She waved that away. “Those are the breaks,” she said. “He would have known the risks.”

“True,” he said, “but he saved my life once. And I can’t leave him there.”

She knocked a long ash into the empty teacup. “You haven’t explained what any of this has to do with me.”

“Shcherbatov thinks you took evidence from the car.”

She shrugged. “So?”

“Did you?”

“No,” she said dismissively, although he saw the flinch before she spoke.

“Beatrix?” he pressed. “Did you?”

“I said no,” she said sharply, although he registered the movement in her eyes and he knew that she was lying. “I can’t help you, Milton.”

“And I can’t leave Pope to rot in a gulag.”

“That’s very valiant but there’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry.”

“I need your help. Please, Beatrix.” The respect between them was old, frozen by the passage of time, but he hoped there was enough of it left for her to consider helping him. “Pope needs you.”

“I can’t.”

“I think you need me, too.”

Now her eyes flashed with sudden anger. “Why would you say something stupid like that?”

“Beatrix,” he said carefully, remembering her temper. “Look at where you are. Look at yourself.”

“Fuck off, Milton.”

She waved an impatient arm at him and the motion caused her sleeve to ride a little up her arm, revealing the lower part of a cursive tattoo that he remembered. The fragment said ‘—ABELLA” and Milton remembered seeing it before, and asking what it meant. He took a breath and thought about what he was going to say. He knew it would be inflammatory but he didn’t have any other cards left to play.

“The tattoo,” he said, pointing, “on your arm. You told me that was for your daughter, Isabella. Do you remember?”

She stood up.

“What happened to her? Where is she?”

“We’re finished,” she said. “Don’t try and find me again. I don’t want to be found. Do you understand?”

She stalked away from the table without a backward glance.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

He stayed at the table for thirty minutes, smoking a couple of cigarettes and worrying about the content of their conversation and how weak and ill she had looked, and how little he had achieved. He was about to settle the bill when Anna arrived. Her eyes flashed with fury; with him, and, he guessed, with herself. He had played her very well yesterday, persuading her that he was warming to her to lower her guard just enough that he could put her out of the way for a few hours. He had brought it to an expert conclusion at dinner. He knew that she would feel embarrassed; she had offered herself to him and he had not only rejected the offer, he had turned the tables completely and used the detente between them as a means to incapacitate her. She was a beautiful girl; he doubted that she was used to being treated like that. There might have been some consolation for her if he had admitted that he found her almost irresistibly attractive, but he did not. He guessed, from the steeliness in her eyes, that she would have hit him. He would have deserved it, too.

“You’re going to have to get over it,” he told her. “It was necessary. She would never have come out if we were here together.”

“What? You met her?”

“Yes,” he said. “Forty minutes ago.”

The anger drained out of her. “And? Will she help?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“I mean, no. She’s not in the best shape, Anna.”

“That’s not good enough, Milton. You can’t give up.”

“Who said I was giving up?”

“Where is she?”

“I can guess,” he said. “I’m going to go and see her now.”

“I’m coming too.”

“No,” he said. “You’re not.”

“You’re forgetting…”

“She’s been hiding here for the best part of a decade, Anna. She’s paranoid. And you should remember what she used to do before she came here. How do you think she’ll react if she thinks Russian intelligence have started to follow her? No, don’t answer, I’ll tell you — she’ll shoot you, and then she’ll likely shoot me.” She started to protest again and he held up a hand to forestall her. “I’ll go and speak to her again. I think I can persuade her, but you are going to have to trust me.”

“After what you did?”

“Even after that. If I can get her to cooperate, then you can meet her. That’s the only way this is going to work, Anna.”

He didn’t need to follow her; he knew where she was going. He got lost amid the commotion as soon as he reached the ground floor and only found the familiar corridor an hour later. The same man was behind the desk, an illegal feed of Premiership football on the television. Milton gave him another hundred dollars and went through into the corridor that led to the rooms.

Beatrix was lying on the bed, breathing almost without sound. She was covered with a single sheet, the shape of her gaunt body visible beneath. The room was smokey and smelled sickly bittersweet. There was a joint in an ashtray, almost burned down to the filter, and it sent languid smoke drifting up to the ceiling. She was deep in sleep and yet she did not looked relaxed; her face was troubled and, as he watched, the muscles in her cheek started to twitch, the sudden jerk reflected and amplified by an unconscious spasm in her right leg. The air conditioning unit coughed and spluttered, gobbets of water falling from it and splashing against the wall and floor. The door was open and cold, harsh light from the lobby leaked inside.

Milton stepped all the way inside; the room was so small that he had to squeeze right up against the bed before he was able to close the door. He knelt down. There was an ivory pipe on the bed next to her head: the long bamboo stem was decorated with Chinese inscriptions along its length and it was fitted with a blue and white porcelain bowl. Milton picked up the pipe; the bowl was detachable and, as he unscrewed it, he saw a congealed brown paste gathered inside. There was wooden layout tray on the bed next to her knees complete with a funnel-shaped lamp made of nickel silver, a spare pipe and two extra pipe bowls. A small folded paper envelope was on the tray. Milton picked it up and opened it. There was half a gram of brown powder inside with the consistency of ground cinnamon. His stomach plunged. He had been to the East more than enough times to recognise opium.

Now he knew why Beatrix looked as bad as she did.

He knew why she had chosen to live in a place like this: you could find anything you wanted in Chungking Mansion, legal or not. Finding someone with opium to sell would be a simple matter indeed.

He took the tray from the bed and placed it quietly on the floor.

He let her sleep. It was another three hours before she finally awoke. She stirred, turning over so that she was facing him, and her shallow breathing altered a little. He saw her eyes open, staring right at him.

“Bella?” she said in a quiet voice, and then she closed her eyes again.

She woke properly twenty minutes later. She opened her eyes wide and gave a shudder.

“Beatrix,” Milton whispered. He put his right hand on her shoulder.

Her breathing accelerated and her right hand flailed, searching for something. It stabbed under the pillow and, when it emerged, it was holding a small pistol.

Milton reached down and caught her wrist in his hand. She was weak and he pressed her arm gently down against the mattress. “It’s me, Beatrix. It’s John.”

Her whisper was so quiet that he had to strain his ears to catch the words. “I told you,” she said. “I can’t help you.”

“That’s fine,” he said, his hand still on her wrist. “I won’t ask again. I’m here for you now. I want to help you.”

She laughed, weak and bitter, the noise tearing into a ragged cough. “You can’t.”

“Tell me what’s happened.”

“Leave me alone, Milton. It’s pointless. You can’t do anything.”

“Just tell me. Maybe I can.”

She shook her head and was silent for a moment. Milton thought that she had gone back to sleep again when she gulped and he realised that she was crying silent tears.

“Beatrix, where’s Isabella?”

Chapter Thirty

She gradually regained her strength and when she did, he helped her to stand so that she could go over to the cupboard. She was naked apart from her underwear but she was too vacant to be shy; she had lost so much weight that her ribs showed clearly and, as she turned and bent down to pull up her jeans, he could see the individual vertebrae in her back. He saw the tattoo with Isabella on her right arm and, as she turned, he saw more ink: eight bars of solid black, one after the other, running down from underneath her arm down towards her waist. She opened the door, picked out a clean t-shirt and put it on.

“You got any more smokes?”

He took out the packet and gave it to her. “Keep it.”

“I just want one.” She fingered one from the carton and lit it.

The atmosphere in the room was still heady and Milton felt the beginnings of a headache. “What do you say we get some air?”

She shrugged limply. “I don’t care.”

She put on the t-shirt and a jacket and allowed him to lead the way down to Nathan Road.

“There’s a bar I know around the corner,” she suggested.

“I don’t do bars. Somewhere else?”

“You don’t want a drink?” she asked. “I want a drink.”

“It’s not that I don’t want one … it’s just that … well, I don’t.”

“At all?”

He nodded ruefully. “You’re looking at a new man,” he said.

“You were a soldier, Milton. I’ve never met a soldier who doesn’t drink.”

“Long story,” he said. “I’ll tell you later.” They were passing a coffee shop. “How about here?”

She shrugged and they went inside. Milton ordered two strong coffees and two apple doughnuts. Beatrix had found a table at the back of the room and had taken the seat that was facing out, into the street. She was extremely careful, Milton thought. Old habits died hard. He took the coffees and the doughnuts over and sat down opposite her.

“Get this down you,” he said, sliding the plate across the table.

She picked it up and took a big bite.

“What’s going on?”

She stopped for a moment, as if hesitating at a crossroads, considering each possible choice and the consequences that might flow from it. Milton waited, listening to the sound of cutlery ringing against crockery, the low buzz of conversation and the electric hum of the city outside.

“What Shcherbatov told you. About the operation. It’s true.”

“How do you know that?”

“There was a briefcase in the car after we hit it. It was just habitual. I saw it, I took it. I went back home before we debriefed and I opened it there. Those things you said: the photographs, the flash drives. They were in the case.”

“Did you look at them?”

“Just the photographs. They were enough for me to know something was wrong. Control is not a field agent, Milton. In all the time I worked for him, the only time I saw him away from his desk was for that job. I’d certainly never seen him meeting a target before. That didn’t make any sense at all. I knew that something was wrong.”

“What did you do?”

“I copied the flash drives and hid them and then I went in with the photographs. I asked him to explain them. He couldn’t, of course. He tried, but it was all bullshit. I was about ready to quit before that assignment, like you, and that was just the final straw as far as I was concerned. I played along with him, gave him the answers that he wanted to hear, and then I went home.”

She paused and swallowed, her skinny neck bulging once and then twice.

Milton pressed gently. “What happened?”

“He’d sent five agents. They were waiting for me. They had my husband and daughter. They had a gun on my little girl.” She looked down, her eyes closing. She stayed like that for twenty seconds, her chest rising and falling with each deep lungful of breath that she took. When she looked up again her eyes glistened with tears. “I knew if I didn’t do something they’d kill all three of us so I waited for my chance and went for them. My husband was shot, I got a round in the shoulder but I managed to fuck one of them up pretty good. I don’t know. If she wasn’t dead she’d be smoking these”, she held up the cigarette, “through the hole I put in her throat. The other one got my daughter.”

“Got?”

“Grabbed her. They—”

The words choked in her throat. She stood up and went to the counter for more cigarettes. Milton remained at the table, staring at the half eaten doughnut, unsure quite what to say.

She returned, tossing the cigarettes onto the table. There was fresh steel in her face.

Milton started, “You don’t have to say…”

“It was a stalemate,” she said over him. “I had a gun on them, they had her. What was I going to do?” She tore off the cellophane wrapper, opened the carton and took out a cigarette. Milton lit it for her. “The only thing I could do was run. I got on the Eurostar, went through the tunnel and then kept going. Got on a plane in Barcelona and came here. It seemed as good a place as any to stop. That was nearly ten years ago. Been here ever since.”

“Where is she now?” Milton asked. “Your daughter?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “They emailed a picture a week after it all happened.” She took a slim wallet from her jeans pocket, opened it and took out a photograph. She laid it on the table and Milton took it. The girl had a happy, open face, a ready smile and a cascade of brown curls that gathered on her shoulders. The picture had been taken in an anonymous room, the little girl sitting in front of a large TV with beige walls in the background. She was playing with a doll. “She looks fine but I know that was a reminder. A warning. Control will have her in care somewhere. She’ll be alive. He knows that as long as he has her, that’s the one thing that’ll stop me coming back and tearing his throat out.”

“The tattoos on your ribs,” he said, pointing to his own trunk. “That’s one for every year, right?”

“That’s right. Eight years. It’ll be time to add another one next month.”

“But you can’t stay here.”

“Why not?”

He leant forward and spoke urgently, “Because I found you. Shcherbatov knows where you are. If I can’t persuade you to help them he’s not going to give up. He wants what you have about Control. He’ll just send someone else who won’t ask as nicely.”

“You didn’t find me, Milton, I found you. And that threat doesn’t work if you’ve got nothing left to lose.”

He pressed ahead. “What about Control?”

“What about him?”

“If he finds out where you are, you know what will happen. He’s still there. He hasn’t stopped.”

“Look at me, Milton. You’re not listening. Do you think any of that frightens me? Shcherbatov. Control.” She shaped her fingers into the shape of a gun and pressed the tips against her temple. “You think the gun’s for defence? You know how many times I’ve wanted to put a bullet in my head and lost my nerve? Every day.” He felt his stomach turn and he reached across and took her wrist; there was no resistance in her arm as he gently lowered it and held it against the table. “I can’t even do that. I’m fucked up. They come over here and do it for me, I’m telling you, they’d be doing me a fucking favour.” She sucked down on the smoke and gazed out into the street. “My life is over. My husband is dead. I lost my daughter. I’ve got no money. I’m a drug addict. I’m done, Milton. Finished. How do you think this is going to end?”

“There must be something you can do.”

“You got any ideas? I’m all ears.”

“Something, anything. It would have been better than coming here to all … this.”

“This?”

“The opium, for a start.”

“I don’t need your morality,” she said, glaring at him. She took another cigarette from the packet and lit it.

“Why?”

“Why do you think?” she snapped. “It helps me forget how I’ve fucked up my life.”

“It doesn’t work, though, does it?”

“No? I don’t think about very much when I’m high. You should try it.”

“I have tried it,” he said. “That’s the reason I don’t drink any more. It works for a while until it doesn’t. And then it’s much worse.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re in a program?”

“A.A.” Milton said. He smiled wryly.

“What’s so funny?”

“That’s the first time I’ve admitted it to anyone who wasn’t already in the Rooms.”

“Yeah? Well, good for you, but I still think it’s bullshit. There’s no point trying to persuade me to do something stupid like that. The first thing you need is to want to stop, right?”

Yes…”

“I don’t want to stop.”

“You’re not…”

“There’s something else, Milton. The other reason I do it.” She took a deep breath and laid her hands out on the table, palms down, fingers splayed. “It’s a palliative.”

“For what?”

“I have cancer.”

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I told you. I don’t need your sympathy.”

He shifted uncomfortably; the conversation had veered hopelessly away from where he thought it might go. “How bad is it?”

“Bad. Breast cancer, stage four. It’s in my liver and my lungs. I found out three months ago.”

“Have you had treatment?”

She shrugged. “What’s the point?”

“So you haven’t?”

She waved a hand disdainfully. “There’s a doctor I know, discreet if you pay him enough. He’s given me two rounds of chemotherapy. I might’ve had a third but I’ve run out of money. Don’t do anything stupid like offer to pay for it. I’m alright with it. We’re all going to die, Milton, especially people like us. I just know I’ll be sooner than most.”

“How long do you have left?”

“He can’t say for sure. All they can do is manage it now. No more than twelve months.” She smiled bitterly. “So I eat like shit and I smoke and I drink and when the pain gets too much I smoke heroin so I can’t feel it any more. And one day, when I can’t take it any more, I’ll shoot up enough to bring an end to it. You think about it from my point of view, it’s not a bad way to go.”

Milton laid his hands flat on the table. “What about your daughter?”

Her eyes flashed. “Don’t.”

“You don’t want to see her again? Before…”

“Before I die? Yes, Milton, of course I do. I want that more than anything. But if Control gets even the slightest hint that I’m in the country again he is going to think I’m coming after him; and if he thinks that, she isn’t safe. I can’t take the risk. I can’t go back. You see, Milton? This can’t be fixed.”

He stared right into her face. “No. You’re wrong. Everything can be fixed.”

“Not this.”

“What about if I said I could get her back?”

Chapter Thirty-One

They talked FOR another two hours. Milton didn’t have a plan and so they worked it out on the fly.

“Where are the flash drives?” he asked her.

She paused.

“You have to trust me. I’ve got almost as much of a reason to bring down Control as you do. And this won’t work if you don’t.”

“I know. But… I don’t really know you, Milton, and that’s my only leverage. If I let you have it and it goes wrong…”

“Come on, think. What’s that leverage really worth? How much good has it done you?”

“And how would giving it to the Russians help me?”

“Who said that I was going to give it to them?”

“Then what?”

He rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. “There are other ways to make this work.”

“It’s in England.”

“Okay.”

“And so is my daughter. How are you going to get her? It’s England. You can’t go back just like I can’t go back. Control will kill you.”

“Someone has to go back. It might as well be me. I can’t keep running forever.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Anna insisted that she meet Beatrix. It was, she said tersely, a prerequisite for the continuation of the operation. Milton called Beatrix and they arranged a sit-down at the coffee shop. They took a table. Beatrix kept them waiting for thirty minutes and, when she finally arrived, she was wearing dark sunglasses and an impassive expression.

“Thank you for coming,” Anna said, trying to sound authoritative but the effort was undermined by the tremors in her hand. The indignation with the way that Milton had manoeuvred her quickly disappeared as she sat between the two veteran assassins. Her confidence wilted and she fell back upon bravado. Milton was surprised to find himself sympathetic towards her. Seeing her flounder reminded him how young and inexperienced she was. He also felt regret at what he knew he was going to have to do once they were in England. He was sure now that this was her first solo operation and it was obvious that she was determined to do well. She was young and vigorous and desperate to impress Shcherbatov.

It wasn’t going to end up the way she wanted.

“Let’s be quick,” Beatrix said. “There are things we need to be doing.”

“I need to know what you have planned,” she said. “If I’m not satisfied, we don’t go any further.”

“I could just leave,” Beatrix said. “I can go wherever I want.”

“But he can’t,” she said, gesturing towards Milton.

“What are you talking about? He can go wherever he wants.”

“Let me put it another way,” she said, managing to put a little irritation in her voice. “You can both go wherever you want, whenever you want, but if Mr. Milton cares about Mr. Pope, you’ll do this on my terms.”

“I don’t care about him,” Beatrix said. “I hardly know him, and it was a long time ago. You need me, and you’ll need to do better than that.”

Anna’s mouth opened and closed as she tried to find the proper retort and failed. She looked from Beatrix, still wearing her glasses, and turned to Milton, looking at her with amused forbearance. “Mr. Milton,” she said, floundering a little, “I thought you said she was reliable?”

“She is,” he said, and, turning to Beatrix, he added, “Go easy on her. She’s got her orders.”

Beatrix sat back and raised her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Fine. She’s your problem, not mine.”

Milton leant forwards and looked into Anna’s face. “The plan is this,” Milton said. “Beatrix says that she can get you the evidence that the colonel needs for whatever it is he has planned for Control. She’s going to tell me where to find it and I’m going to go and get it.”

“Why can’t she go?”

“England isn’t safe for her.”

“It’s not safe for you.”

“It’s a risk I’m prepared to take. The items are hidden. It doesn’t have to be Beatrix who collects them. She just needs to tell me where they are.”

“And what about her? What does she do?”

“She’s going to stay here.”

“And she’ll give up her secrets just like that?” She looked at Beatrix again and said, accusatorially, “What’s in it for you?”

Beatrix sighed. Milton looked at her, and could see Anna’s face reflected in the lenses of her glasses. “We all have skin in the game here, don’t we?” she said. “Control needs to be out of the picture. The reason I can’t go back is because of him. Same goes for Milton. And he’s told me that your colonel has a hard-on for him. He’ll be able to take him down with my evidence. We all win: your boss gets Control, Milton gets to go home, I get to go home.”

Anna didn’t give up. “Why can’t you go back?”

“That’s none of your business,” Beatrix said.

“I think it is.”

“He has my daughter. If I go back, and he knows sbout it, she isn’t safe. Alright? Is that a good enough reason for you?”

“Your daughter…”

“Anna,” Milton said, interrupting her. “You don’t need to trust her. You only need to trust me. And I’m prepared to go back to England because I believe that she has the evidence that you need and I am going to get it for you. If I’m wrong about her, it’ll probably mean I end up getting shot. But I’m a good judge of character and I think I’m right. That should be good enough for Shcherbatov.” He paused and assessed her; she looked as if she was wrestling with a decision. “Do you need to speak to him?”

She shook her head, frowning angrily. “It’s my operation,” she said. “It’s my decision.”

“So what are we going to do?”

“Fine.” She clenched her jaw. “We go to London.”