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If life in the Intelligence Service has taught John Bachelor anything, it's to keep his head down. Especially now, when he's living rent-free in a dead spook's flat.
So he's not delighted to be woken at dawn by a pair of Regent's Park's heavies, looking for a client he's not seen in years. John doesn't know what secrets Benny Manors has stolen, but they're attracting the wrong attention. And if he's to save his own skin, not to mention safeguard his living arrangements, John has to find Benny before those secrets see the light.
Benny could be anywhere, provided it serves alcohol. So John sets out on a reluctant trawl through the bars of the capital, all the while plagued by the age-old questions: Will he end up sleeping in his car? How many bottles of gin can he afford at London prices?
And just how far will Regent's Park go to prevent anyone rocking the Establishment's boat?
58 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 9, 2020
Reaching Desk level required drive, ambition, contacts, dress sense, and at least a glimmer of sociopathy.
Agents were joes. Desk jockeys were suits. They were different ways of fighting the same battle. But while each had been known to look down upon the other ... they shared a commonality neither would deny, a sense of purpose.
"Milkman" was a term of contempt, of course. A milkman though had failed to make a mark in either endeavor and could be trusted to do no more than to make weekly rounds, touching base with the pensioners and the walking wounded.
If they'd been thugs, he'd have known he'd be in for a kicking. But they were suits which suggested a more vicious outcome.
"Whatever it is you've think I've done, I've done it. Can we go home now?"
'And democracy, anyway,' Nash said, 'isn't the PM's favourite institution.'
Anyway, never let it be said that the Service turns its back on those wounded in its employ, even when the employ is unofficial, and especially when the wounded suggests appealing to the court of public opinion, or Twitter, as it’s now known.

