You Know My Name

The slow, delicate ticking of the grandfather clock engulfed the sitting room as Albert Campbell shuffled through the doorway and slumped into his favourite high backed, green leather chair next to the ornate fireplace. Thin slits of silver fell across the room as moonlight burst through the heavy curtains. He sat in the darkness for a few moments, raising a hand to stall the butler as he skittered across the rug to light the fire. 

“Sir?”

Albert Campbell’s fingers twitched as he cocked his head, cutting off the butler’s question as he listened. The gentle murmurings of insects mingled with the sighing of far-off cars as they wound their way down the country lanes.

“Sir?” 

Albert turned to the butler with a smile. 

“Nothing Bateson, just an old soldier’s mind wandering”.

Bateson’s eyes flicked over his employer as small wrinkles of worry infested his forehead.

“Everything’s fine Bateson, all according to plan. Now then, if you would”. He gestured over at the dark fireplace. 

The butler’s expression did not change, but he did as instructed, busying himself with lighting the fire. 

“Do you know you’ve worked here for seventeen years, Bateson?” 

“I was aware, sir yes,” laughed the butler as he retrieved a box of matches from the mantlepiece. The mote of flame creating a spot of dazzling light in the gloom. 

“They had me in Iceland for the last time, a wonderful part of the world. Made a complete pig”s ear of things, but still...”

“Indeed, sir,” mused the butler, striding from the room and returning with a small silver tray laden with a bottle of rather expensive bourbon along with a chilled glass and a tray of ice cubes.

“Your nightcap Mr. Campbell”

“Good man” Smiled Campbell as Bateson returned to the fireplace to stoke the flame.     

 Soon tongues of flame lapped at the rising air in the hearth, devouring huge sections of crackling logs as they radiated pleasant waves of heat. 

Campbell settled himself further back into the chair, luxuriating for a moment in the minute creaking of the upholstery and the comforting warmth.

“Will that be all, sir?” asked Bateson as his master drained his first glass. 

“Pour me another,” said Campbell, his gaze fixed on the fire. 

“There’s a fresh bottle in the kitchen pantry and a little extra in your pay packet”.

“Sir, I couldn’t...” sputtered Bateson. 

“You can and you will, consider it a thank you for your faithful service”.

“Thank you, sir” grinned Bateson, but Campbell waved it away. 

“You’re a good man, always have been. There’s no need for thanks. That will be all.”

The Butler composed himself and bowed, retreating into the hall. 

As the door to the sitting room boomed closed, the fingers of his right hand drifted through the haze for a moment before finding the edge of his glass balanced on a silver tray at the edge of the side table. The island of ice let out an array of semi-musical tinkling sounds as it clinked against the side of the glass. He held it to toward the fire for a moment, the light burst through it in a series of intersecting golden lines, transforming the drink into liquid amber. 

The faintest of smiles crossed his lips. 

“To Britain’s finest,” He whispered, toasting the room, and quaffing half the glass in a single swallow. It tricked down his throat, coating it in a deep yet all too familiar heat that coiled in his stomach like an ageing serpent.  

Campbell let out a deep, resigned sigh as he let the warm, honeyed flavour of the whiskey wash over his tongue. 

He eased back the drawer of the side table, retrieving a small pair of ornate, gold-rimmed spectacles which he regarded with an expression of mild annoyance, slipping them on and returning to his book. 

His ears pricked up at the heavy click of a pistol’s hammer as he flipped to his bookmarked page, a thin smile breaking over his face.

“Don’t turn around,” hissed a youthful voice behind him. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” replied the old man, his voice calm, laced with a hint of false cheer.

“I take it you’re the new blood? You’re late by the by. In my time, we would have been in and out within three minutes. Do they still time your first mission?”

The pistol rattled a little before the intruder placed the barrel of the gun against the old man’s head. The chill of the metal broke through his thinning, silver hair, bursting down his spine like an electric current.

“Bateson?” asked the old man with the air of a man asking for the time. 

“He’ll wake up with a headache,” said the younger man.

“Mmmm” mused the old man. “Standard CQC?”

“Of course”

“The tech boys give you any new toys? I’d ask them about the speedboat when you get a chance”. He let out a dry chuckle. 

The younger man eyed him with suspicion, flexing his fingers along the grip of the pistol. 

“Whatever agents procure in the field, standard security choke hold.”

He flashed the younger man a thin smile. 

“I’d expect nothing less. I was afraid you’d use the bust in the hall on him. The one before me was far more brutal.” He tipped the younger man a sly wink, which caused the pistol to waver for a moment. 

“You have my respect” 

His hand drifted towards his dressing gown. The figure drilled the pistol against his head yet the old man appeared not to feel it, letting out a long, disappointed sigh. He regarded the younger man with the air of a father admonishing his son. 

“You wouldn’t begrudge me a smoke, would you?” he asked, flashing another disarming smile. The old man’s eyes sparkled with an unmistakable charm that had won a more than a few ladies hearts in his younger years. The other man relented and Campbell retrieved a silver cigarette case from his inside pocket. Instead of a slim cigarette, he produced a stout cigar, producing a cigar cutter from between his fingers with a stage magician’s flourish. His eyes sparkled as he cut off the end and retrieved a box of matches from the small side table next to his chair. He struck the match and lit the cigar in one smooth movement.

“I always loved Clint Eastwood you know, ever since I was a boy” he said, drifting into memory for a few seconds. “No rules, no one telling him where he could go or what to do. All he needed was one of these and a pistol and he could make the world right again.”

He eyed the assassin. 

“They’ve probably got you on the Turkish ones, haven’t they? Or have they changed the style since my time? What do you think of the vodka? I much prefer bourbon myself. I’m told it was a favourite of the first, the second enjoyed a good scotch. A little cliché perhaps, but still...” he drifted away again for a few moments before his eyes snapped back to the man in the shadows. “Put that away, will you?” he growled, gesturing to the pistol. “And step into the light where I can see you. I thought we were having a civilised conversation.”  

The younger man padded around the chair with a shadow’s grace, his black-gloved hands slipping the pistol back into the holster as the shifting light of the fire illuminated his face. 

“Right handed,” said the older man in an air of mock surprise. "Well, that is novel” 

The younger man's face gave an unconscious twitch of surprise as the firelight shimmered across Campbell's amber eyes. 

"Contacts. Simple as that. Bloody nuisance too, itched like a bastard every night. It's a wonder my eyes didn't fall out”

The younger man grimaced at the frankness of the older man's words, eliciting a scoff of derision. 

“Oh, come on! You must have heard worse than that in basic”. A superior grin broke over his face as the realisation dawned. 

“Oh of course, you have to follow the script don't you?”

A slight flush broke out across the younger man's face. 

Campbell shrugged. 

“We all had to do it at one point or another, stiff upper lip, Queen and country and all that. Speaking of Queens, how is she? I tried to keep in touch, but they like to keep her as sterile as possible. Once you're out, any correspondence gets destroyed before it sees the inside of the building, let alone her desk”. He smirked. “She was a good woman, a hard bitch but always made sure they did right by me. Mother instinct, I suppose. She’ll look after you, I’m sure”.

Campbell took one last mouthful of his whiskey, then decanted a second glass, sliding it to the edge of the table to his counterpart. 

The young man eyed it with distaste. 

“You’ll have to get used to it soon enough. There’s not a one of us without a battle-hardened liver”. He gestured to the glass. “Go on, it’ll help”.

The shooter snatched the glass and drained it in three greedy gulps, letting out a satisfied sigh despite himself as he replaced the glass, wiping his lips. 

“He enjoys his whiskey,” said Campbell, raising an eyebrow. “That’ll serve you well”.

The assassin drew back the glove on his right hand and checked his watch. “Two minutes', he said. 

“Right then,” said Campbell, straightening up. “I must say it’s been enlightening to meet you, but before I go can I ask you one question?”.

The man gave a curt nod. 

“What’s your name?” 

“You know my name,” he replied. 

“No, no! Not the name THEY stamped on you like a brand. What’s your real name?”

The man remained silent for a few moments before drawing the pistol again and aiming it square between his target’s eyes. 

“Ian,” he said, thumbing back the hammer. 

Campbell let out a guffaw and clapped his hands together. “OF COURSE IT IS, oh lord it couldn’t be anything else!” After a fit of cackling, he composed himself, smoothing his robe down and straightening up.

“Well, my friend, it only remains for me to say, welcome to the club. It’s all up to you now.” He raised his right arm in a salute. “Thank you for that. It’s been an honour. Give the bastards hell for me.” 

“The honour was all mine, Commander.”

The single shot rang out through the house and with that the torch was passed.