“Of course. I’ve spent the better part of three days on it.” She grinned. “Not that I want to pat myself on the back, but it’s some of my best work. You’ll have everything you need: a new name, new papers, new backstory. Everything. It was good to get back into the swing of things again. You remember the first one I did for you?”

“I don’t,” Milton said. “I was drinking then. They blend into one another.”

“John Smith,” she said.

“That was you?”

“It was.”

“Then you’ve been helping me out ever since I left the Group. I’ve been Smith ever since.”

“But no longer.”

Milton took out his passport and held it up. The old document was battered, the cover ripped in places and creased in others. He opened it and flipped through the pages. They bore stamps from dozens of countries all around the world. He tried not to think about it too much; many of those stamps memorialised the assignments that he had been given, the red-ribboned files that had landed on Control’s desk and been passed to him to action.

Thinking of that nudged Milton to do something impulsive. He took out his lighter, thumbed a flame and then held it underneath the passport. The pages caught first, the dry paper quickly consumed by fire. The stiffer covers took a little while to burn; they smouldered at first, then blackened, and then they were alight. Milton held it by the edge until it was completely alight and then dropped it into the ashtray and watched it burn.

Victoria held up her glass.

“Rest in peace, John Smith.”

Milton felt odd. His legend was nothing more than a fiction, a cloak that he put on to glide into the shadows, but he realised—as stupid as it sounded—that he had grown attached to his alter ego and was sad to see him go.

* * *

They stayed and chatted, catching each other up, both of them leaving the uncomfortable territory deliberately unexplored. Eventually, Milton looked at his watch. It was ten.

“Shit,” he said. “It’s later than I thought. I need to get back to the hotel. Where’s the best place to grab a taxi?”

“You don’t need a taxi,” Victoria replied, getting to her feet. “You know how to ride a scooter, right?”

Milton thought back to the bright orange Bajaj. “I can manage.”

“Come with me—I’ve got one you can borrow for as long as you need.”

“I don’t have a licence,” Milton replied. “Or insurance.”

“Don’t be a dick,” Victoria replied with a chuckle as they walked. “You don’t need those. This is Bali.”

28