Saint Death - John Milton #3 by Mark Dawson Page A

when he was twelve, and so there would be no communications to be had with them. There had been a nomadic childhood before that, trailing his father around the Middle East as he followed a career in petrochemicals. There were no siblings, and the Aunt and Uncle who had raised him had died ten years earlier. He had never been married and not was there any suggestion that he enjoyed meaningful relationships with women. There were no children. It appeared that he had no friends, either, at least none that were obviously apparent. Milton, she thought to herself as she dragged the cursor down two lines, highlighting them in yellow, you must be a very lonely man.
    David McClellan, the analyst who worked next to her, kicked away from his desk and rolled his chair in her direction. “What you working on?”
    “You know better than that.”
    McClellan had worked opposite Anna for the last three months. He’d been square––for a hacker, at least––but he had started to make changes in the last few weeks. He’d stopped wearing a tie. He occasionally came in wearing jeans and a t-shirt (although the t-shirts were so crisp and new that Anna knew he had just bought them, probably on the site that she used, after she had recommended it to him). It was obvious that he had a thing for her. He was a nice guy, brain as big as a planet, a little dull, and he tried too hard.
    “Come on––throw me a bone.”
    “Above your clearance,” she said, with an indulgent grin. McClellan returned her smile, faltered a little when he realised that she wasn’t joking, but then looked set to continue the conversation until she took up her noise cancelling headphones, slipped them over her ears and tapped them, with a shrug.
    Sorry, she mouthed. Can’t hear you.
    She turned back to her screens. Milton’s parents had left a considerable amount in trust for him, and his education had been the best that money could buy. He had gone up to Eton for three terms until he was expelled––she could not discover the reason––and then Fettes and Cambridge, where he read law. He passed through the university with barely a ripple left in his wake; Anna started to suspect that someone had been through his file, carefully airbrushing him from history.
    She watched in the mirror as McClennan rolled back towards her again.
    Coffee? he mouthed.
    Anna nodded, if only to get him out of the way.
    Milton’s army career had been spectacular. Sandhurst for officer training and then the Royal Green Jackets, posted to the Rifle Depot in Winchester, and then special forces: Air Troop, B Squadron, 22 SAS. He had served in Gibraltar, Ireland, Kosovo and the Middle East. He was awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal and that, added to the Military Medal he had been given for his service in Belfast, briefly made him the Army’s most decorated serving soldier.
    She filleted the names of the soldiers who had served with him. Emails, telephone numbers, everything she could find.
    McClennan returned with her coffee. She mouthed thanks, but he did not leave. He said something but she couldn’t hear. With a tight smile, she pushed one of the headphones further up her head. “Thanks,” she repeated.
    “You having trouble?”
    “Why––?”
    “You’re frowning.”
    She shrugged. “Seriously, David. Enough. I’m not going to tell you.”
    He gave up.
    She pulled the headphones down again and turned back to her notes.
    The next ten years, the time Milton had spent in the Group, were redacted.
    Classified!
    Dammit! she exclaimed under her breath.
    She couldn’t get into the contemporaneous stuff?
    They were tying both hands behind her back.
    It was impossible.
    She watched McClellan, scrubbing a pencil against his scalp, and corrected herself: impossible for most people. Hard for her, not impossible.
    Anna picked up the fresh coffee and looked at her précis for clues. Where should she start looking? Nothing stood out. Control had been right about him: there was