LITMIR.BIZ

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in common.’

      Connor’s ears pricked up. This was agency speak for contact. So why the old lion and not some field operative? He was considering the possibilities when Sir Frank came in with a low hit.

      ‘Heard about your losing your wife and child. That was tough. There’s too many of these planes going down. How long ago was it now?’

      Connor gripped his case while the dust and ashes settled back in his soul. The force of it could still catch him off guard, even now. ‘Nearly six years. But—’

      The elderly voice softened a notch. ‘Must be time you tried again, lad. A man needs a woman, kids to come home to. It’s time you stopped all this adventuring and settled down. Take up the threads again. This sort of work in Baghdad…’ He shook his head. ‘A man burns out fast. Two or three years should be the limit, and you’re well past it. I hear you’ve taken some very close shaves. They tell me you’re good—the very best—but a man only stays on top of the game for so long.’ He slid Connor a glance. ‘The man you replaced ended up with a knife through his gullet.’

      Connor gazed at him with a mixture of incredulity and sardonic amusement. ‘Thanks.’

      But the old guy was in earnest. As his enthusiasm heated up his gnarled hands gesticulated with increasing fervour. ‘I wouldn’t be doing my duty to Mick if I didn’t say this, young fella. You’re dicing with death.’

      ‘You should know,’ Connor fired back. ‘You diced with it yourself long enough.’

      ‘That’s right, I did, and I’ve learned what’s important. No one ever wins this game.’ He grasped Connor’s arm. ‘Look, I could pull a few strings for you. Your dad’s left you a wealthy man. You could set up your own firm. There’s always a call for good lawyers in this country.’ He thumped his creaky old knee with his thumb. ‘Plenty of injustice right here. A big handsome lad like you won’t take long to find another lovely girl.’

      The permafrost that passed for Connor’s heart since the real thing had been broken and scattered over a Syrian mountainside registered nothing. He knew what he’d lost and would never have again. He made his way now without attachments. Banter, the occasional dalliance with a pretty woman, were sufficient to keep the shadows at bay.

      ‘Civilian life offers its challenges, too,’ Sir Frank persisted. ‘And its excitements.’ He waved his unlit cigar. ‘What are you now—thirty? Thirty-five?’

      ‘Thirty-four.’ In spite of his discipline Connor felt his abdominal muscles clench. He understood well enough what the old guy was alluding to. To perform in Intelligence an officer needed to be as clinical and objective towards his contacts as a machine. Perhaps, for some, cracks could develop over time and emotion begin to leak in, but he had no need to be concerned. He was still as balanced and dispassionate in his work as ever. He’d quit soon enough if he had a reason. In fact, he needed the constant threat of death to realise he was alive.

      ‘Sir Frank,’ he said in his deep, quiet voice, ‘your concern is appreciated, but unnecessary. If there’s something you need to tell me, spit it out. Otherwise your driver can drop me right here.’

      Sir Frank looked approvingly at him. ‘A straightshooter, just like Mick. Exactly like him.’ He shook his head and sighed. ‘If only Elliott could straighten himself out.’

      Ah. At last. The crunch.

      Connor stared broodingly out at the familiar streets, riffling back through the dusty mental files of family connections. ‘Isn’t Elliott your son?’

      ‘Now that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. A situation has arisen.’

      As far as he knew, Elliott Fraser was one of those wealthy, fifty-ish CEOs in the private sector. ‘He’s involved in something?’

      The old man looked gloomy. ‘You might say something. A woman.’

      Connor drew an austere breath. ‘Look, I think you may have been misinformed, Sir Frank. I’m here on leave.’ His tone was cool, but it was necessary to let the old guy feel the steel edge of his refusal. ‘I haven’t been flown halfway around the world to sort out your son’s love-life.’

      Sir Frank’s indignant weedy frame flared up like a firecracker. ‘That’s exactly what you have been flown here for, mister,’ he retorted with spirit. ‘Who do you think got you your leave?’ He gestured vehemently with his cigar, pointing it in Connor’s face. ‘No need to get cocky with me, fella, just because I knew you when you had your milk teeth. That’s the very reason I’ve chosen you.’

      Before Connor could respond, Sir Frank leaned forward and pinned him with an urgent, beady gaze. ‘It won’t interrupt your break much, Connor. It’ll take you a week, a fortnight at most, then you can enjoy the rest of your three months. Who knows? You might decide to stay longer. Anyway, I know you’ll do your best to help me out. For the love of Mick.’

      Ah, here it was. The old boys’ friendship card. All those mornings out on the green. Boozy afternoon sessions in the clubhouse. Connor knew it for what it was—emotional blackmail, and impossible to reject. He closed his eyes for an instant, then resigned himself.

      ‘All right, all right. Go on, then. Shoot.’

      ‘That’s better.’ Sir Frank sat back, satisfaction momentarily deepening the cracks and crevices in his crocodile-skin face. ‘Now, this is strictly between us. Elliott’s being considered for a top job with the ministry. Very hush-hush. He can’t afford any scandal. Not a whiff.’ He held up a wizened hand. ‘No, it’s serious. Marla is in America on business for her firm. If she comes back and finds out he’s been playing away from home…’ He shuddered. ‘Marla can be very forceful. I have a strong instinct about this, Connor, and my instincts are rarely wrong. The chances are that this little popsy he’s got himself entangled with is a plant. The timing is suspicious. But even if she isn’t…’ He closed his wrinkled eyelids in deprecation. ‘Do you see now why I’ve chosen you? I don’t want the agency involved. This is my family…I can’t risk some stranger.’ He moved closer to Connor and lowered his voice. ‘You’ll be on your own entirely. It has to be strictly between you and me.’ He waggled an admonitory finger. ‘No logging into the agency’s tech services.’

      Connor shook his head in bemusement. ‘But surely all you have to do is whisper in Elliott’s ear?’

      ‘You try doing that with Elliott. He thinks he’s keeping her under wraps.’

      Connor concealed his amusement. The old guy was clearly loath to reveal to his son that he was keeping tabs on him.

      Sir Frank clutched at his wrist. ‘Connor, for all his sins, Elliott’s my son. And then there’s my grandson.’ His rheumy old eyes filled up with tears. ‘He’s four years old.’

      Connor noticed a tremor in the frail, liver-spotted hand grasping his sleeve and felt the faintest twinge in his chest. ‘Right,’ he said, exhaling a long breath. Old people and children had always been his Achilles’ heel. He might as well grit his teeth, agree to the task and get it over with. He straightened his wide shoulders, and, needing to rein in the excess of emotion lapping the walls of the limo, injected some professional briskness into his voice. ‘Do you have anything on the woman?’

      Sir Frank conquered his tears with amazing swiftness and switched into business mode. Reaching into an alcove set in the door, he produced a file. ‘Her name’s Sophy something. Woodford…no… Woodruff. Works in the Alexandra.’

      ‘Where’s that?’ Connor said, flipping the single page. The information was sparse. A few dates and times. Meetings with Elliott in coffee shops. A bar. An indistinct CCTV still of a slim, dark-haired woman. Her face wasn’t quite in focus, but the camera had managed to catch something of the delicacy of an oval face, the lustre of longish, wavy dark hair. Employed as a speech pathologist in a paediatric clinic. A good, conservative cover. Like his own.

      ‘You

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