The Glock was taped beneath my seat. I freed it, reached for the magazine in the glove compartment, and palmed it into the frame. I scanned the empty car park, the black windows of the house in front of me.

I spy with my little eye…

Nothing moved. The bronze autumn moon shone brightly through the barren branches crosshatching the bell-cast rooftops.

I turned off the radio in the dashboard console, cutting off Jack White midnote. “Dead leaves and dirty ground” was about right. I unlocked the door of the Range Rover, got out, and crossed the deserted lot, boots crunching on gravel, breath hanging in the chilly October night. There was a hint of wood smoke in the air; the nearest house was roughly eight kilometers away. A full five miles to the nearest living soul.

I walked past a large banner sign lying facedown in the frosty grass and studied the building’s facade. Two stories of battered white stone. Broken finials and dentils. Arched windows — broken on the top level, mostly boarded on the bottom. The narrow, arched front door was also boarded up. Once upon a time, this had been some founding family’s mansion; in the early part of the last century, it had operated as a funhouse. Now it looked like a haunted house. That was appropriate since I was there to meet a ghost.

I went around to the side of the long building, found a window where the boarding had been ripped away. I hoisted myself up and scrambled over the sill.

Inside, moonlight highlighted a checkerboard floor and what appeared to be broken sections of an enormous wooden slide.

According to Stephen, it was a long time, decades, since the place had operated officially, but it was still a popular place for teens to romance — and vandalize. Especially around Halloween. That was two nights away. I didn’t anticipate any interruptions.

I proceeded, soft-footed, along an accordion strip of mirrors, some broken, some not, my reflection flashing past: a man of medium height, thin, dark, nondescript. The pistol gleamed in my hand like a star.

Down a short flight of stairs, a twist and a turn, another short flight down. I froze. At the bottom of the steps, a woman sat hunched over. She wore tattered French knickers and a blonde wig. It took a couple of seconds to realize she was covered in cobwebs. One of those mechanical mannequins. I glanced at her in passing and saw that someone had bashed her face in.

A floorboard squeaked. I spun, bringing the pistol up. Jesus. He’d arrived before me. I was getting sloppy in my old age.

The shadow raised its arms high. Hands empty.

“Christ on a crutch, Hardwicke. I don’t think much of your taste in meeting places.”

I lowered my pistol. “Malik.”

He was still bitching. “Really, old boy. Don’t see why we couldn’t have done this in more comfortable surroundings. Some place civilized where we might have a drink and a chat.”

Why? Because I thought I might have to kill him. But I wasn’t so socially inept as to say that — for all Stephen thinks, I’m lacking in the social graces. Instead, I replied, “I like my privacy.”

“So I gathered. May I put my hands down?”

“Yes. But keep them where I can see them.”

He suddenly laughed. “Christ on a crutch! You think I’m here to twep you!”

“Good luck with that.”

He was still chuckling; I didn’t find it nearly as amusing. “You think the Old Man ordered an executive action against you?”

“How should I know?”

“Just the opposite, mate. He needs your help.”

I relaxed a fraction. “Sorry. I’m no longer in the help business.”

“Private citizen, eh? How’s that going for you? I should think you’d be climbing the walls with boredom by now.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Course I do. You’re just like me. Like all of us in The Section.”

“I’m not in The Section. I’m retired. Happily retired.”

“So we heard. Decided to get married and grow roses. Think I’d prefer Oppenheim Memorial Park. You know, the lads have a bit of a wager going on how long you’ll last in the private sector. Granted, you’ve lasted four months longer than I thought you would. Tigers don’t change their spots.”

I didn’t bother to correct him. Not about the spotty tigers, and not about the fact that I was quite content in my role as private citizen.

Mostly. According to Stephen, I still had a lot to learn about “coloring between the lines.”

Malik was saying, “You must have seen the news. You must know what’s going on in Afghanistan with Operation Herrick.”

“I watched the UK death toll pass two hundred.”

“That, yes. But I mean what’s happening with the Old Man. The heat he’s taking from the cabinet and the ministers.”

“Nothing he hasn’t faced before.”

“It’s different this time.”

If I had tuppence for every time I’ve heard that.

“No.” I was already turning away. “I can’t help.” This was a promise I wasn’t going to break. Not for anyone. Not even John Holohan.

Malik cried, “Hear me out at least, can’t you?”

His vehemence surprised me. I faced him, saying nothing. I didn’t want to hear it. Wasn’t going to let it change anything. But I owed John this much; I’d hear his emissary out.