Ghosts - 05 (26 page)

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

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

“Difficult but not impossible.”

“No. Not impossible.”

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

“With what?”

“I know you’re replacing him.”

“How do you know that?”

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

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

“I’ll take care of them.”

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

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

“That sounds like a threat.”

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

“What do you want it to sound like?”

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

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

“Oliver Spenser is dead. I want the four agents who were responsible for the murder of my husband and the abduction of my little girl. Their names are Lydia Chisholm, Connor English, Joshua Joyce and Bryan Duffy. Chisolm might be dead. If she is, I want solid proof of it. The other three are out there somewhere. I want GCHQ to make finding them a top priority, and then I want you to pass me the information. I’ll take care of what happens after that.”

“But we wouldn’t have to worry about them?”

“They’ll go quiet. You wouldn’t have to worry about them.”

A car went by, sweeping its headlights into the cabin and, for a moment, he saw her hard, implacable face. “No,” he said. “I don’t think we would.”

“And most of all I want Control.”

“That’s five,” Pope said. “How are you going to get all of them?”

“One at a time.” He heard the door open. “I’m going to get out of the car now. I’m not unreasonable. I know you’ll have to give this some thought.”

“I’ll need a couple of days.”

“You can have a week. I’m not going anywhere.”

“How will I find you?”

“You won’t,” she said. “I’ll find you.”

Beatrix Rose stepped out of the car. Pope found he had been holding his breath. He looked in the wing mirror and watched as she stepped between the two cars parked behind him, turned to the left, and then disappeared. He stayed where he was for a long minute, staring into the dark and watching the lights of the stacked planes as they patiently waited for their chance to land. She was a dangerous woman, he knew that much for sure. Dangerous didn’t even cover it. Ten years of enforced exile would have filled her to the brim with spite and bitterness and there was no telling what consequences that might have.

How reliable was she? How much could he trust her?

She did have a point, though: he had no idea about any of the men and women that had been bequeathed to him. Were there any bad apples? Which ones? Were they all bad apples? And she had the evidence of Control’s corruption. It was difficult to imagine how deep down the rabbit hole that would go if it ever saw the light of day.

He heard the sound of a high performance motorcycle engine somewhere behind the car. A single high beam headlight cut through the dusk and a red, white and green Ducati 1098 roared by the outside of the car. The engine growled and the rear light cluster glowed red as the rider braked at the exit and then, as the gate lifted, the engine howled again as the rider fed revs and accelerated onto the road and away.

Pope shook his head. The way he saw it, he really didn’t have any choice. If he didn’t take up Rose’s offer, she would probably find them all herself. It would just take a little longer. In the meantime, she could bring down British intelligence. Didn’t it make better sense to take advantage of the very particular set of skills that she could bring to the table?

Pope started his car and pulled away.

The motorcycle was already long gone.

MILTON SMILED at the steward and handed him his boarding card. The man checked it and smiled in return, welcoming him on board and directing him down to the right, into economy. He had a window seat just in front of the wing. He nodded at the woman sitting in the aisle and she unclipped her belt and stood so that he could sit. He sat down and stuffed the copy of Great Expectations that he had bought in the airport shop into the mesh pouch on the back of the seat in front of him. Space was a little tight and his knees bumped up against the seat. He looked out of the window at the runway and the terminal buildings beyond. The headlights of the service vehicles that buzzed around the big jet raked across the runway.

The woman next to him bumped her elbow against his as she gripped his armrest by mistake.

“I’m sorry,” the woman next to him said. “My nerves are awful. I’m a terrible flyer.”

“Quite alright,” Milton said.

She was quiet as the plane rolled down the taxi-way, following the queue of jets waiting for their take-off slots. As they swung around at the end of the approach, perpendicular to the start of the runway, the angle allowed them to watch the BA flight ahead of them as its engines boomed and it climbed slowly into the air.

“I hate take off the worst of all,” the woman said.

Her face was a little pale. Milton gave her his most reassuring smile. “You probably know the statistics. You were more likely to get into a situation on the way to the airport than you are now.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I’m Sadie.”

Milton didn’t really want to get into a conversation; he would have preferred to read his book for an hour or two and then try and catch some sleep. “I’m John.”

“Is this business or pleasure?”

He thought about that; it was an excellent question.

“A bit of both.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m between jobs.”

She carried on talking, vague sentences tumbling out with nervous energy. Milton kept an open, friendly expression to his face and made the appropriate responses when they were required, but he quickly zoned her out. This was business, not pleasure. He had been unable to decide upon his destination after Pope left and so he had bought a newspaper and a sandwich and found an empty seat. He had opened the newspaper and started to read, trusting that something would present itself. The story that finally caught his eye was on the tenth page, buried in the international news. It had snagged his attention and, no matter how much he tried to think about something else, he could not. He made up his mind. He finished the sandwich and went to buy a one-way ticket from the desk.

The pilot jockeyed the jumbo around until it was on the runway, nose pointing straight down the centreline. The engines cycled up and the jet lurched forwards. The woman stopped speaking, gripping her armrests so hard that her knuckles showed white through the skin on the back of her hands. Milton looked out of the window as they sped through the buildings, the lights merging into a multi-coloured blur. They roared through the terminal and out the other side and the cabin tilted gently as the jet took to the air. Front wheels, back wheels, and up. Milton kept watching as the airport opened up beneath them, and then the lights of the towns and villages that surrounded it, the cars on the motorway, the late night train that snaked its way east towards London. He looked down on England wondered when he would see it again. Perhaps he never would.

John Milton closed his eyes and thought about what he was going to do next.

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