Out of Time
It Takes a Spy
The Coldest War
Charles Bishop Novels
Kiss My Assassin
Agent Provocateur
Venetian Blonde
Eva Destruction Novels
The Barista’s Guide to Espionage
The Rookie’s Guide to Espionage (novella)
The Amnesiac’s Guide to Espionage
The Dead Spy’s Guide to Espionage
For Piers Morton.
My old housemate who, after one too many sessions of me complaining about some piece of writing, said the words, “Well, why don’t you try and do better?”
That little phrase put me on my long journey as a writer.
What a bastard.
Chapter One
Nash had to concede that for the first time in his life, he was fully content.
Not just happiness, but true contentment. Happiness is fleeting and generated by external factors based on emotion, whereas contentment is a state of mind. Happiness is a reaction; contentment is a lasting calmness. And it had indeed lasted. In the five weeks he’d been in Nepal, Nash had experienced a peace he’d never known before.
It was the state he’d hoped to achieve after he’d retired from MI6 and moved to the English countryside but had never quite attained, in spite of all the yoga and meditation. It had taken total isolation in this far-flung little town to reach this higher level of inner peace.
Meandering down a dirt track beside a small creek, he was in no particular rush. None of the friendly locals he passed appeared to be either. The occasional dog would amble up for a scratch behind the ear and then wander off to find some shade from the midday sun.
Panauti was thirty kilometres southeast of Kathmandu. Nash was staying with a lovely local family in their guest house, as there were no nearby hotels. It cost him the equivalent of six pounds a night including meals, which was fortunate, as there were no restaurants to speak of.
Nash was living his idyllic life. He only wished he could stay, but knew he couldn’t—for so many reasons.
Dressed in the local garb of a linen kurta and three-quarter pants, Nash slowly made his way to the old part of the city with its forty-odd temples. Panauti was laid back and unhurried and nowhere near as busy as the touristy Kathmandu or Bhaktapur. There was hardly any traffic on the patchy roads, and despite being the only Westerner, no one had tried to sell him anything.
Part of the reason Nash was here was to heal, mentally and physically. It had taken weeks for his body to recover from recent incidents, longer still for his mind to start to mend. No matter how comfortable and at peace he was, there was always a splinter in his mind, the reminder that his work was not yet done. There was one task only Nash could complete.
He had to bring down Tartarus.
The evil private spy agency had grown even stronger, more powerful, more ambitious. It had killed hundreds of innocents, manipulated world governments and framed Nash and his friends for the worst of it. Former MI6 espionage agents Nash, Eva Destruction, Charles Bishop and Paul Cavendish were now the most wanted ex-spies on the planet. Every major government was on the lookout for them while the heads of Tartarus only strengthened their grip on power, moving ever closer to legitimacy and acceptance by those they wished to overthrow.
Despite appearances, Nash wasn’t hiding, he was biding his time. Tartarus had their people embedded in every major espionage agency and would be scouring every corner of the globe for Nash and his team. Even with the combined spy networks of the legitimate secret service organisations, they would be hard-pressed to find him in Panauti. They might be good, but he doubted any were that good; although the Himalayan sheepdog nearby was eying him suspiciously. He gave pooch a belly rub and sent him on his way, hoping he’d keep Nash’s secret.
Tartarus were still out there, somewhere, but for Nash to take them on he needed to be whole again; Nepal had given him that. Part of him, a large part, wanted to stay, to ignore the rest of the world and its frivolous global politics and endless wars and just be. But as strong as the pull was, Nash knew deep down he could never stay, not until his role in the story was done. His moral core could never allow that level of malevolence to win. No, this tranquillity he felt was only fleeting. He couldn’t stay, not until Tartarus’s house of lies had been burnt to the ground. But there would be no burning today. He had temples to investigate.
Reaching the old town, Nash took time to admire the traditional Newa architecture. He waved to the local children, who felt comfortable saying hello to the man with the unruly grey beard who had been in their midst for weeks and didn’t seem to be going anywhere.
Today’s trek took him to the Indreshwar Mahadev Temple, which was over seven hundred years old. Dedicated to Shiva, it was Panauti’s oldest and most beloved temple. Nash had deliberately left this pagoda as his last to explore. His thinking was that you don’t start a meal with dessert, you finish strong. This would be his last temple before he left his little isolation bubble for the real world. He wanted to make it count.
Various smaller monuments surrounded the main temple. Stone lions guarded each of the entrances. Several puja, or shrines, containing offerings were scattered around the temple.
Nash slowly circled the ground level, where two small doors were surrounded by round panels with high blind windows positioned near the corners. Roof struts depicted various goddesses, some in sensuous poses. It was a breathtaking building. Using his digital SLR, Nash snapped photos from various angles. Soon, that wasn’t all he was taking photos of.
Over the last few weeks Nash had learned to identify the locals on sight; their mannerisms, their habits. While he didn’t speak the local dialect, a friendly wave or mimes to induce a laugh had endeared him to most. The locals seemed to like the strange tall man in their midst. Nash could spot a tourist miles away. He chuckled to himself. Tourist. He was even beginning to think like a local.
The three newcomers arrived at the same time Nash did. Two women and a man. Under the pretext of photographing the temple, Nash surreptitiously took pictures of each of them. Entering the temple alone, he zoomed in on the images to confirm his suspicions.
By the time tourists reached Panauti they were well and truly dishevelled. No one started a holiday in a town this far from civilisation. It was only the most ardent and dedicated long-term travellers who came this far off the beaten track. So why, then, were these tourists’ backpacks and clothing brand new? Why were their fingernails so clean, their hiking boots straight out of the box and the man clean shaven?
There was a simple explanation: they weren’t tourists.
They’ve found me.
In an instant, all of Nash’s contentment was washed away by the firehose of reality, leaving behind a square-jawed professional. He placed his hemp bag and camera quietly on the wooden floor and did his best to mentally prepare for what was to come. He cracked his neck and stepped outside.
From their facial features, the three were likely of Chinese heritage, though that was hardly a definitive gauge of nationality. All did their best to cast their eyes in any direction but his.
