At first, he had been called on the carpet for the death of that Special Air Service lad. But now that it turned out the man was a hero who had not died in vain, but who had been instrumental in helping discover the location of the American President’s daughter… well, the winds had blown back in Monty’s favor a bit.

Even so, there were worse things than career setbacks to worry about. Bill Cronin had called him three times today from Baghdad, wanting to chat about the operation. Bill’s voice had a funny tone in it. It was a tone that Monty did not like. Monty guessed that his little intelligence partnership with the CIA agent Bill Cronin might be coming to its conclusion.

They were never friends, he and Big Daddy, and work relationships eventually ended. Sad, really, but just part of the life.

Monty placed the suitcases flat in the trunk of his old Porsche 911 Targa, next to two identical suitcases, also flat, making four in total. He put his clothes bags and his badminton rackets on top of the suitcases, obscuring them. It wouldn’t survive a search, of course, but who was going to search his car? No one suspected him of anything, nor should they.

Bill Cronin was calling him a bit, of course, you might even say harassing him, but that meant nothing. Bill probably just wanted to tie up a few loose ends. He could be rather pushy, in his way.

Unfortunately, Monty was not available. He was leaving right now for a few days’ getaway to his country house on the Welsh coast, near Caernarfon. There was a telephone at the house, but Monty was very careful about sharing that number.

No, Monty was unreachable for the time being. In fact, he was thinking of extending the amount of time involved. A period abroad, maybe in some far-flung, anonymous place, might be what the doctor ordered after so much time spent in war zones.

The Seychelles? Maybe.

The South Pacific?

The coast of Nicaragua?

It was hard to imagine a place on Earth where Big Daddy Cronin might not eventually find him.

But it wasn’t like he was on the run, was it? No, of course not. Big Daddy might have a few questions, but they were easily answerable.

Monty slammed the trunk closed and slipped in behind the wheel. It was a beautiful cockpit for a car—they didn’t make them like this anymore. It felt like driving an airplane. This was his favorite car, one of the best he had ever owned.

He turned the key in the ignition, but there seemed to be something wrong with the starter. It was an old car, and these things could be tricky.

He turned it again and gave it a little gas.

A spark ignited under his foot, and then flames shot upward.