by Helena Maeve
He fought not to flinch when Robin scoffed. “Who says I don’t have a home?” His expression softened marginally once he’d glanced at Ulysses. “Beach view. Wall-to-wall white carpet. Claw-foot bathtub… Maybe someday you’ll see for yourself, improve that myopic view of Britain’s double-oh agents.”
Ulysses had grown up in the Thatcherite north. He’d cut his teeth in print journalism since he was eighteen. He understood the therapeutic benefits of make-believe better than most.
“Maybe,” he agreed, sure that it wouldn’t happen.
Robin clucked his tongue. “Oh, I see… Pitying me now, are you?”
He pounced before Ulysses could reply, their bodies meeting in a tight press of aching limbs and tired muscle. For all that Ulysses doubted that he could get it up again, he submitted enthusiastically to Robin’s voracious kisses, rolling hips against his in lazy circles. Hunger stirred deep in his bones, but didn’t quite make it to the surface of feverish skin.
At length, Robin’s caresses tempered and desisted. He spilled off Ulysses to lie with head tucked into the crook of his neck as his breaths slowed and gradually evened into a dead sleep.
Ulysses lay beside him for countless minutes, listening to the steady metronome of Robin’s heartbeat tick along in the stillness of the room.
The whole world seemed to be holding its breath, suspended on his every inhale.
The calm before the storm. The thought bayoneted what was left of Ulysses’ post-coital tranquility.
He pressed a tender kiss to Robin’s temple, tasting salt-slick and thinking tears, and slowly extricated himself from the tangled bed sheets. He found his underwear and trousers on the landing outside and tugged them on with a sinking heart. Shivers bloomed on his flesh as he crept, shirtless, down the stairs, heart pumping faster and faster in his chest, as though he was about to embark on some illicit operation.
Aren’t I?
With a sharp pull to extricate it from discounted three-for-two bags of peas he didn’t remember buying from Waitrose and a pair of pork cutlets that seemed practically fossilized, he dug his cell phone out of the freezer. To his credit, Robin had slid it into a zip-lock bag before getting it out of the way, so the screen wasn’t crusted with ice when Ulysses slid it free. He entered his PIN code with an icy thumb, stomach roiling with misgivings.
He shot a wary glance into the depths of the house, where nothing stirred and only the breadcrumb trail of scattered clothes suggested anything amiss. Robin must’ve been fast asleep, exhausted by their romp and beaten down by the people who pursued him.
The number Ulysses wanted had been entered into the mobile the night before he left the French coast to return to familiar, well-trodden London streets. He scrolled quickly through the call log.
He wondered what the time was in São Paolo.
Chapter Seven
The car door swung open just as Ulysses jogged to the other side of the street. A man and woman stepped out, both smartly dressed in undertaker black and wearing sensible shoes.
“Where is he?”
Ulysses shivered in his too-thin T-shirt. “Inside. Asleep, I think…”
“And you waited how many hours to call us?”
“I don’t know when he got here,” he protested, his voice edged with indignation. “I called as soon as I thought it was safe.” As soon as Robin was out like a light, sweat cooling on his pale body while Ulysses roamed through the house. “Your colleagues did mention he’s dangerous.”
The female spook pursed her lips. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“What happens now?”
Will you hurt him? Dread choked Ulysses. He hadn’t signed up to be anyone’s informer, but he couldn’t stand to be a traitor, either.
Too much was at stake. Claudia had suffered enough because of him.
The answer was as unsatisfying as he’d feared.
“Now,” said the spook, “you let us take care of it.”
Ulysses looked on, stomach sinking into his knees, as the pair crossed the quiet street. They were halfway up the stone steps that led to the front door before Ulysses saw them extract their sidearms.
“Fuck.”
The cold bit at his skin and slithered under his clothes. He rocked on the balls of his feet beside the dark sedan, hands thrust into his pits to warm his fingers. His heart damn near stopped when lights flicked on in the foyer. This is it. They found him.
Ulysses started to cross, not entirely sure what he was hoping to find once he made it to the sidewalk, when two cones of blindingly bright yellow splashed the asphalt.
He squinted into the glare of headlights, one hand coming up to block out the haze. A shiny Honda gunned straight for him, eating up the concrete too fast for Ulysses to do anything. It swerved within five feet of slamming into him. He caught a glimpse of the driver—shaved skull, ebony-dark skin, and a glare to rival WWE fighters.
Beside Jules, in the passenger seat, Robin turned his head to watch Ulysses as they zoomed past him, close enough that Jules could have run him over if she put her mind to it.
In a heartbeat, they were gone.
“He’s not here!” one of the spooks growled, stalking toward Ulysses. He shoved a fingertip into his chest. “We gave you one simple task and you blew it. Again.”
Ulysses swallowed past the knot in his throat. “Yeah… Who would’ve known that asking civilians to do your job for you would make such a hash of it all?” He licked chapped lips, quivering with the cold. “By the way, which MI are you? Since you people don’t seem to believe in introductions…” Or IDs. Or names.
The finger rose like a warning, but it didn’t carry quite the same weight it might have done a week back. The female agent called her partner off with a sigh.
“We’re done here.”
“Wait, what about me?” Ulysses balked.
The woman arched her eyebrows. “What about you?”
“My cover’s blown. He must know I’m funneling intelligence to MI6…”
The car door clicked open and the male spook slid back behind the wheel.
Ulysses took a hesitant step forward, but his narrow brush with moving vehicles stopped him from placing himself in front of the sedan. “What if he comes after me?”
“As always, you give us a call.”
“You’re joking.”
The sedan rumbled to life, engine purring merrily over the sound of Ulysses’ pulse rushing violently into his ears. Its passengers weren’t joking.
As the car peeled away from the curb, Ulysses tugged a hand through his hair. This was the deal he’d made—his cooperation for a guarantee of safety from the likes of Robin and his volatile, rogue friends.
Without his knowledge, the terms had just suffered alteration. His cooperation didn’t carry much of a premium anymore.
His survival, even less so.
* * * *
Despite the closed door and the earphones blasting Queen’s greatest hits into his skull, Claudia dropped gracefully into one of the so-called visitors’ chairs before Ulysses’ desk and ignored all indication that he wanted to be left alone.
The chair beside her was packed high with old issues of current affairs magazines. A stack of foreign policy reports from Stratfor split the expanse of desk between them, an art student’s idea of a privacy screen. It wasn’t particularly effective.
Claudia steepled her fingers. She could wait hours until Ulysses deigned to acknowledge her presence. She was part Zen master, part press hound.
Ulysses sighed and plucked out one earphone. “What?”
“You look rested.”
“Really? That’s what you came here to say?”
“I like your cologne.”
“Now you’re just being cryptic.” But not wrong. Being back in London meant going back to his suits and expensive aftershave. He’d put on his best white collar professional face on before leaving for work this morning.
It was a relief to be told it had paid off.
“After all these years, you still wear Aqua di Gio.”
“Got me a wife, didn’t it?”
Claudia’s first drunken pass had come one night after work, the two of them knackered from racing against deadlines. She’d commented on his aftershave. Ulysses had raised the stakes with a slurred remark about her shirt. By morning, her top had a tear under one sleeve and Ulysses smelled like cum and spilled liquor, the scent of Aqua di Gio resolutely erased.
Ten months later, he also had a ring on his finger and a piece of paper that said he was Claudia’s lawful wedded husband.
She smirked. “Told you a good night’s sleep would set you straight.”
He didn’t feel it, didn’t know how to get back into the swing of things at a job he’d loved for the better part of twenty years. The newsroom outside his office door was unchanged, a crowded, noisy hub of activity peopled by caffeine-and-Red Bull-drinking workaholics. His inbox was teeming with reminders that he needed to be present for this meeting or give his okay for that story to go to print.
The business of running a magazine—fundamentally different from simply writing for one like the mercenary he’d once been—held few surprises anymore, but Ulysses might as well have been swimming upstream. It was as if someone had tilted the planet off its axis when he wasn’t looking. No matter how he struggled, Ulysses couldn’t seem to find his footing again.
Behind her wire-free glasses, Claudia narrowed her green eyes. “Why did you drop the Russian story?”
Because they’d heard about the dead SVR agent before they heard about the CIA retiree in Rome, Claudia had taken to referring to the string of murders as ‘the Russian story’. Ulysses had deliberately kept her out of the loop while he investigated. Once he had the evidence, he would use her as a sounding board. The deal they’d made when starting their own magazine was that never again would they publish another word before they were absolutely certain of its veracity.
The mortgaged house in Mayfair was the avatar of that commitment.
“No evidence. Authorities shut me out. Couldn’t get in touch with family,” Ulysses said, while in one ear, Freddie Mercury claimed the show must go on. He twirled the plastic earphone by the wire. “I told you the body up and vanished in the middle of the night, right? I’m starting to think there was no link. Whole thing could be human trafficking. Or a junkie with no record.” He shrugged, keenly aware that he was parroting Robin’s words.
They didn’t sound any more convincing the second time around.
“Why not a performance piece?” Claudia volleyed, narrowing green eyes behind her glasses.
“Nothing would surprise me. We could pitch it to Ainslie at The Guardian, if you think someone else should take a crack at it….”
Dark curls slipped free of Claudia’s makeshift chignon when she tipped forward. Pencils, Ulysses had often told her, didn’t make the most effective hair clips.
“Before you go and hand off all your hard work, I think I have something that may interest you. An autopsy report,” she added, unprompted.
“What?” Ulysses plucked out the other earphone.
“Courier delivered it yesterday. No return address… I had one of the lads check that it was authentic.”
“Could be a forgery. A prank.”
Claudia sucked her cheeks in the way she always did when she was struggling to conceal a smile. “You think I’d be telling you about it I wasn’t sure it’s legit? It checks out. Turns out in the era of wire taps and Internet access, nothing’s ever quite lost. Who knew, right?” She stood abruptly, smoothing out the pleats in her skirt. “Well? Why aren’t you excited?”
“I am,” Ulysses answered unconvincingly. “But I already saw the preliminary report, I don’t see how—”
“Did you see the internal findings?” Claudia wondered, like a dog with a bone.
“No.”
“Pictures?”
Ulysses grimaced, but shook his head.
“Then come on. Show a little spirit. I don’t know what I’m looking for and my French is a little rusty.” Claudia beckoned him with a flick of a bejeweled hand. “Turns out you didn’t waste our money for a whole month with no reason. We find out this is more than institutional ineptness and I may even take you out for drinks tonight.”
On any other story, Claudia’s enthusiasm would have been enough to yank Ulysses out of his seat. On this one, it took another goading hand motion.
He followed her out of the office on rubbery knees, dread like a millstone around his neck.
Chapter Eight
Happy Hour had once been the first step in the nightly bar-hopping circuit. After a couple of beers, Ulysses would pack his lightweight colleagues into taxis and set off with the night owls for the next club, the next watering hole.
He would lose one or two wherever he stopped, so that by the evening’s end he was well accustomed to winding up alone—the ideal outcome. He always made the most of his evenings. Even married, he didn’t see much wrong in stumbling home hammered and smelling of another man’s cologne. Claudia had her own adventures, her own informants.
In theory at least, they didn’t do jealousy.
As he stretched his second pint with small sips and little thirst, Ulysses wondered where that appetite for life had gone.
“You’re a million miles away,” Claudia remarked, leaning back against her wooden seat. Aggravation soured in her voice. “Did you hear anything I’ve been saying?”
Ulysses shook his head. “Not really.”
He wasn’t fearful of confessing as much. What would she do? Divorce him again?
Never one to jump when prodded, Claudia merely pursed her lips. “Is everything all right? Did something happen over there? Did you…” Her features slackened. “Shit, did you meet someone?”
As awkward as it could be to talk about his love life with his ex, Ulysses had long discovered that it was worse to try to keep her in the dark. Inquisitiveness was the secret ingredient that made them good at their jobs. Inevitably, it was also the reason they had trouble with boundaries.
“You know you can tell me,” Claudia insisted. “You know I don’t judge.”
I met a spy-turned-traitor who may or may not be juggling with our lives as we speak, and in the process I’ve drawn the wrath of the SIS onto us.
The worst thing about the truth was that Ulysses didn’t care as much about the latter as he ought to. Robin was the kind of distraction that obliterated all other thought. Ulysses could still taste him on the back of his tongue. He still felt the pressure of his thighs around his midriff.
“I know,” he told Claudia. “But I haven’t.” He pushed his half-finished pint farther up the table and rested his face in his hands. “This trip’s really done a number on me, is all.”
And the return home had been anything but relaxing so far.
“Well, I’ll be damned… Never thought I’d see the day that you’re too tired to drink.” Claudia chuckled.
Ulysses cracked a sardonic smile. “I’m sure the sky is falling. Should probably head out and see.”
“All right… So what do you want to do about the story?”
Throughout their careers, the story had been anything from corrupt politicians to the Iraq war and its assorted, government-backed propaganda. Now it was a young, purportedly British man who had vanished posthumously into thin air.
Claudia had been in the business too long to use specifics when they were in public, but her persistence in digging into Mister X’s disappearance was its own problem.
“Leave it with me,” Ulysses said.
“Are you sure?”
He bristled. “Hey, if it wasn’t for me, there wouldn’t be a story.”
Claudia held up her hands. “Touchy, touchy… Fine. But I think we shouldn’t wait too long to go to print.” It was her opinion, Ulysses had learned, that they were dealing with a cover-up instigated by the British intelligence services and perpetrated with the cooperation of the French authorities.
> Only a few days earlier, he would’ve been arguing the same case. It had been easy to do, when he thought all the victims were already cold in the ground and others could be protected if he shone a spotlight onto what was happening across the continent. He knew better now.
He squeezed Claudia’s hand as he levered to his feet. “Don’t stay up too late.”
“You really are fit to drop, aren’t you?”
The thought came to him that it might be prudent to see Claudia home, but he could think of no way to suggest it without arousing her suspicions. He settled for kissing the top of her curly head and shrugging into his trench coat.
“I’m a relic,” Ulysses said, instead of be careful.
The sidewalks outside the pub were burnished dark, a smattering of summer rain having come and gone in the interim. Ulysses thrust his hands into his pockets. It was times like these, his shoes splashing into puddles, gutters drizzling runoff down his sleeve, that he wished he had a car.
Perhaps if he retired, turned silent partner, and relocated to some distant corner of Scotland, that’d be feasible. As if. Scotland was family and obligations he wasn’t in the mood to honor. He hadn’t left as soon as he was able to run back when the going got rough.
He considered hailing a taxi when he was already two blocks from the pub, but they seemed to have evaporated. The distant thrum of raised voices and laughter explained why. It was a busy time of the evening. No doubt if he waited a while, he’d be able to hail a cab, get home in one piece.
The alternative—heading for the tube and zooming home in some piss-scented car—involved too much walking to compete.
I’m not tired. I’m old.
“Got any spare change, mate?” a voice jerked Ulysses from his thoughts. He couldn’t see far into the shadows of the alley and he didn’t slow his steps to investigate.
Distraction more than regret prompted a response. “Sorry, no.”
“Sure about that?” The voice was closer now, a silhouette visible between two stained brick walls. A red bead shone in the darkness.