Summary

Following the unsatisfactory elimination of the Iranian nuclear scientists Yehya Moussa and Sameera Najeeb, John Milton (aka G15/No. 2/ aka “John Smith”/ aka “Cartwheel”), the agent responsible, has gone AWOL. Location presently undetermined. Milton is extremely dangerous and must be recovered without delay.

Analysis

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Control records that Milton evinced a desire to leave the service on returning to London following the completion of his assignment in France. The meeting is said to have been heated and ended with Milton being put on suspension prior to a full assessment and review.

<redacted>

His subsequent behaviour was observed to be erratic. He began to attend meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous (almost certainly in contravention of his obligations under the Official Secrets Act). He rented a house in a poor part of Hackney, East London, and is believed to have become emotionally involved with a single mother, Sharon Warriner. Our investigations are ongoing but it is believed that he was attempting to assist Ms. Warriner’s son, Elijah, who is believed to have been on the fringes of a local gang. We suspect that Milton was involved in the death of Israel Brown (the successful rapper who performed under the nom de plume of ‘Risky Bizness’) whom we understand to have been the prime mover in the relevant gang.

<redacted>

The order to decommission Milton was given on Monday, 15 August. A second G15 agent, Christopher Callan, (aka G15/No. 12/“Tripwire”), had located Milton at a boxing club set up for local children by a Mr. Derek Rutherford. As Callan was preparing to carry out his orders, he was disturbed by Mr. Rutherford. In the confusion that followed, Callan killed Mr. Rutherford and shot Milton in the shoulder. This was unfortunately not sufficient to subdue him and he was able to overpower Callan — shooting him in the knee to prevent pursuit — and then make his escape. ANPR located him driving a stolen car northwards. The last sighting was on the M62 heading into Liverpool. The working hypothesis is that he boarded a ship to leave the country.

<redacted>

Analysis of Milton’s psychological assessments (attached) suggests that his mental state has been deteriorating for some time. Feelings of guilt are not uncommon in Group 15 operatives and Milton has worked there for a decade. It is regrettable that warning signs were missed, but perhaps understandable: Milton’s performance has always been superb. He was perhaps the most effective of all our operatives. Subsequent analysis has led us to the conclusion that he is suffering from insomnia, depression and possible re-experiencing of past events. PTSD is a fashionable diagnosis to make but it is one that we are now reasonably confident is accurate.

Regardless of his mental condition, Milton is far too dangerous to be ignored. He was a key part of several key British and NATO intelligence successes, not all of which have been reported in the press, and his value to the enemy is difficult to assess. The damage that he could do by going public is similarly incalculable.

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From: <redacted>

To: <redacted>

Date: Wednesday, September 19, 5.21 P.M.

Subject: Re: CARTWHEEL

Dear M.,

Thank you for the report. I have shared it with the P.M. who is not, as you might well imagine, best pleased with its contents. You are to convey his displeasure to Control personally and to remind him that it is of the highest importance that Mr. Milton is located. We simply cannot have a man with his skills and knowledge running around outside of the reservation, as our American cousins would undoubtedly say. I am not sure which grubby little euphemism our mutual friend would prefer, but let’s settle on ‘retirement.’

All due haste, please.

Regards, etc,

James

1

John Milton got off the bus and walked into the parking lot of the first restaurant that he found. It was a hot day, baking hot, brutally hot, the noon sun battering down on Ciudad Juárez as if it bore a grudge. The sudden heat hit him like a steelyard furnace. The restaurant was set back from the road, behind a wide parking lot, the asphalt shimmering like the water in an aquarium. A large sign, suspended from a tall pole, announced the place as La Case del Mole. It was well located, on Col Chavena, and near to a highway off-ramp: just a few miles to the border from here, plenty close enough for the place to snag daring Americans coming south for a true taste of la vida loca. There were half a dozen similar places all around it. Brightly painted, practically falling to bits, garish neon signs left on day and night, a handful of cars parked haphazardly in the lot. Awful places, dreadful food, and not the sort of establishment that Milton would have chosen to visit. But they churned through the staff so fast that they were always looking for replacements, and they didn’t tend to be too picky about who they hired. Ex-cons, vagabonds, vagrants, it didn’t matter. And there would be no questions asked so long as you could cook.

Milton had worked in places like this all the way up through Mexico. He knew that they appealed to tourists and the uncritical highway trade and that this one, in particular, was still in business for three main reasons. It was better advertised than the tumbledown shacks and chain restaurants around it; the parking lot was big enough that it would be almost impossible to fill; and the daily seafood special was just $19.95, three dollars cheaper than the seafood special of any of the nearby competitors. Milton had worked in a place in Mazatlán until he had had to move on two weeks ago, and he was willing to bet that this would be just the same. The special would be the same every day: cold crab salad (made with a cheap fish, not crab), a fried fillet of haddock that was just about on the turn, a couple of crab legs, a fruit cup and half an onion instead of a baked potato.

It would do him just fine.

He crossed the parking lot and went inside. The place really was a dive, worse when viewed in the middle of the day when the light that streamed through the grime-streaked windows revealed the peeling paint, the mice holes in the skirting and the thick patina of dust that lay over everything. It was seven hundred miles west to the Pacific and eight hundred east to the Gulf but the owner wasn’t going to let small details like that dissuade him from the nautical theme he obviously hankered after: a ship’s wheel, netting draped down from the walls, fronds of fake seaweed stapled to the net, lobster pots and shrimper’s buoys dangling from the ceiling, a fetid and greening aquarium that separated the bar from the cavernous dining room beyond.

A woman was sitting at the bar, running a sweating bottle of Corona against the back of her neck.

“Hello.”

She nodded in response: neither friendly nor hostile.

“Do you work here?”

“I ain’t here for the good of my health, baby. What you want?”

“Came in to see if you were hiring.”

“Depends what you do.”

“I cook.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, honey, but you don’t look like no cook.”

“I’m not bad. Give me a chance and I’ll show you.”

“Ain’t me you gonna have to show.” She turned to the wide open emptiness of the restaurant and hollered, “Gomez! New blood!”

Milton watched him as a man came out of the back. He was big, fat and unhealthy, with a huge gut, short arms and legs and an unshaved, pasty complexion. The T-shirt he was wearing was stretched tight around his barrel chest and his apron was tied right to the limit of the strings. He smelt bad, unwashed and rancid from rotting food.

“What’s your name?”