Two weeks later, I’m standing before the board again, but this time everyone is smiling.
“We are reinstating you, Agent Romanov,” Madam Beake says.
“You’re bloody mental.”
She ignores my insult. “While your actions were highly irregular, there is no denying that you saved this city from another terrorist attack. And you did it on your own. We are in your debt.”
“Actually, I phoned a friend—specifically my cousin, Benjamin Romanov. He used London’s security system to find my wife. Then there’s the matter of my cousin, Dmitry Romanov. I’m sure you’ve seen the video footage—ah, well, perhaps not.” More likely than not, Benjamin scrubbed all traces of the transporter’s visage.
Her lips thin. “Are you purposefully trying to cock this up?”
“Not at all.” I shake my head slowly. “In fact, why don’t I make it easier on all of us? I quit.”
With that, I pivot and shove through the double doors, but this time my head is held high.
“Time to go get my wife.”
* * *
Three days later
Cotton House, Maldives, Indian Ocean
“Took you long enough,” she says, her wide-brimmed hat shielding her face from the sun…and me.
“You said you needed time.”
“I didn’t need that long.”
I fight back a smile. “Had to turn down a job.”
Her head jerks up, her mouth a perfect O. “You didn’t.”
“Afraid I did. I am a bloke without a future at SIS who is madly in love with his wife.”
She scrambles to her feet, her bright yellow bikini a glorious contrast to her tanned skin. “Did you do that for me?”
“For us.” I take her hand in mine, slipping on the ring that she’d left at my flat so long ago. “Let’s renew our vows, Philippa. Let’s start anew.”
“Yes,” she cries, peppering my face with kisses. “Absolutely.”
The End