Bryan Gilmore steadied himself behind the ball, his brand new driver gripped in both hands. He tried to remember the techniques he’d learned from the online course he’d watched the night before. Bending at the knees, Gilmore kept his head steady. He brought the club back above his head and drove through his hips and shoulders in one smooth action. Club and ball connected with a satisfying ping. Gilmore looked up to the clear blue skies. His ball sailed over the lush green landscapes of the Chesapeake golf course.
And sailed left. Way left.
Gilmore watched it disappear into a thick clump of oak trees and threw his club to the ground. ‘Goddamnit!’
Resigned to his fate, he picked up the club and trudged to the gleaming white golf cart. Gilmore slammed his driver inside his bag and climbed behind the wheel. Of all the hobbies he could have taken up after his retirement, why did he have to take up golf?
In truth, it wasn’t his first choice. That had been fishing. And an investment in a boat and the rent paid on a boathouse. But fishing had bored him stupid. It was too quiet. Too slow. More pertinently, he was terrible at it.
So golf it was. And Gilmore was damned if he was going to fail at this, too. He steered the cart down a steep slope onto the fairway, the course empty thanks to the 6 a.m. tee time. And besides, most people had bigger things to worry about than their golf swing. For Gilmore, it was a distraction from the news. The hardest thing about retirement was watching the headlines without being able to do a damn thing about them.
He brought the cart to a stop in front of the wall of trees. They stood in a bed of coarse grass and bushes. Gilmore pulled an iron from the bag. He made his way into the shade beneath the canopy, the ground dewy, the morning air earthy and only the light twitter of birds for company. Disrupting the peace, Gilmore swung and chopped at the grass, seeking his errant ball. He pushed his wraparound sunglasses onto his head and searched the ground.
Spotting a chink of white in a sea of green, Gilmore found his ball half swallowed in the rough. He stood square of the ball and lined up for his next shot.
After four swipes of his club, the ball had moved all of three inches. Gilmore cursed his luck and stooped to pick up the ball, feeling a twinge in his back. He carried it out of the rough and tossed it onto the fairway. The ball bounced to a stop. Gilmore pulled his sunglasses down and sought out a fairway driver. He paused and let the 3-wood slide back in the bag.
On the front seat of the cart lay a brown card folder and a disposable SIM phone. Gilmore whirled around. He looked up and down the fairway. There was no sign of anyone, let alone another cart. So Gilmore took a closer look at the file. It had the familiar red ‘Classified’ stamp on the cover. He was about to pick it up when the phone burst into a jaunty tune. The caller ID said ‘Unknown’. Gilmore pushed the green button and held the phone to his ear. ‘Hello?’
‘Bryan?’
‘Who’s asking?’
‘It’s Violetta.’
Gilmore dropped his head. Violetta Hill was a human battering ram, the most persistent, persuasive woman he knew. And a ticket for future president if ever there was one. She also always wanted something.
‘Violetta,’ Gilmore said, feigning joviality. ‘I heard you made it to the UN.’
‘Yeah, in time to inherit a shitstorm,’ Hill replied. ‘Which brings me to the reason for my call—’
‘Oh, hi Bryan. Long time since our days in Langley,’ Gilmore said in a sarcastic tone. ‘Sorry for interrupting your round of golf.’
‘From what I hear, it’s more of a deforestation exercise.’
‘Spit it out, Violetta.’
‘We’ve got a situation,’ Hill said. ‘There was a bombing in the Moscow embassy.’
‘I’m retired, Violetta, I’m not dead.’
‘Then you’ll know how precarious the situation is.’
‘Sure, but what’s it got to do with me?’
‘I’ve got a project I could use your help on, Bryan.’
Gilmore sighed. ‘You know I don’t work for the Company any more.’
‘Not the Company,’ Hill replied. ‘Peacekeeping ops.’
‘The UN has plenty of good people,’ said Gilmore.
‘Not skilled in clandestine work.’
‘Since when did the UN get their hands dirty?’ Gilmore asked.
‘Since around eight thirty last night.’ Violetta paused. ‘What I’m about to tell you is beyond classified—’
‘There’s a good reason I’m out of the game, Violetta.’
‘One failed mission, boo-hoo,’ Hill said. ‘It’s the CIA’s loss. And anyway, we’re kinda short on options.’
‘Ah, now we get to it,’ Gilmore laughed. ‘You want a man you can hang.’
‘I want a man I can trust.’
‘Like I said, I’m retired.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Hill said. ‘You enjoying it?’
‘Loving it,’ Gilmore replied.
‘Then I hope you’re at home in those bunkers.’
‘You’re being dramatic, Violetta. This is the world we live in now. Crisis of the week.’
‘Not like this one, Bryan. I know you’ve got unfinished business.’
‘Come on, emotional blackmail isn’t your style,’ Gilmore said.
‘It’s exactly my style,’ Hill laughed.
Gilmore couldn’t help laughing too. He almost surprised himself, it had been so long.
‘I’m talking about one job,’ Hill continued. ‘Quick, clean, covert.’
‘What kind of job?’
‘Intelligence gathering, primarily.’
‘Primarily, huh?’ Gilmore said. ‘I thought the UN was neutral.’
‘It is,’ Hill said. ‘The operation will be independent. Above national interest. We’re each donating an operative.’
Gilmore frowned. ‘From the peacekeeping corps? They’re not equipped for that kind of work.’
‘That’s why we’re looking further afield,’ said Hill.
‘Private contractors?’ Gilmore asked.
‘No, we need this to be deniable. Hence my call on a disposable cell.’
Suddenly, Gilmore found himself curious. ‘Then who are we talking about?’
‘There’s a selection inside the file,’ Hill replied. ‘It’s not a big pool… Well, it’s more of a puddle. But take a look. Let me know what you think.’
‘What I think?’
‘Yeah, have we got what we need? Can you work with them?’
‘Look, Violetta. I didn’t say I was interested.’
‘Bullshit,’ Hill replied. ‘You were interested the moment you picked up the call.’
‘Christ, you could talk a turkey into an oven.’ Gilmore removed his cap. He looked along the fairway and breathed in the smell of fresh cut grass. ‘I suppose I could take a look,’ he said, staring at the file. ‘But that’s all I’m doing. If you need an ops chief, you’ll have to look elsewhere.’
‘Tell us who we need,’ Hill said. ‘We’ll take it from there.’ The line went dead. Gilmore took a seven iron from his bag, threw the phone on the ground and beat the device out of shape. Returning the club to the bag, he slid the broken phone on the dash and took a seat behind the wheel.
Gilmore picked up the file and held it awhile before opening it up. The first page was the standard disclosure warning. Yet with the standard UN header missing. Which meant whatever Hill was planning… boy, was it illegal.
After a moment’s hesitation, he turned the page and cast an eye over the first profile. There was a small black and white photo and a potted service history. ‘What the hell…?’ Was this some kind of joke? A clerical error, surely. Gilmore felt he ought to tell Violetta. He at least owed her that much.
Gilmore looked again at the photo accompanying the first profile. Staring back at him was a ghost.