CHAPTER 11
Jameson
London, England
The bulbs still flickered over the same walnut booths.
Uneven light pooled across the tables, and the bar carried the dull sheen of years of elbows instead of polish. Voices stayed low here. The bartender kept his eyes on the taps and his ears to himself.
I slid into the back booth facing the door out of habit.
A pint landed in front of me before I asked, foam already settling. The glass felt cool against my fingers. I gave the barkeep a single nod.
Two minutes later, Whitaker walked in.
His coat was tailored, his shoes hand-polished, every inch of him arranged with the quiet precision of old money and government access.
He didn’t wave.
He just crossed the room and sat opposite me.
“Mercer,” Whitaker said.
“Whitaker.” I took a drink.
His glass arrived before he had to ask. He glanced at it, then at me, faintly amused. “Still on the house, then?”
“Apparently.”
He lifted the pint. “Good to know some traditions survived.”
We settled in like we’d done this last week instead of years ago.
For a while, that was all it was.
A drink and low voices. Two men avoiding the real reasons we were there. He was likely trying to work out why I’d come back to England after so many years. I was deciding how much I was willing to give him.
Instead, we played the game.
He asked about Philadelphia. I offered more than enough to make the answer feel complete. Teaching, term schedules, and the quiet boredom of academic politics.
He seemed to enjoy that.
“You? In a faculty meeting?” he asked.
“Occasionally.”
Whitaker tilted his head. “And they permit you to speak?”
“Only when they want the meeting to end.”
That earned a small smile from him. “Still efficient, then.”
“Still impatient.”
He leaned back. “God help them.”
He looked past me toward the bar. I let my gaze move with his. Two men near the front booth. One regular at the end of the counter. The bartender had his back turned, rinsing a glass.
Rain moved softly against the windows. The pub smelled like damp wool, old beer, and heat trapped in wood.
Whitaker finally set his glass down. “So what brings you across the pond?”
There it was.
The hidden agenda. What could possibly bring Jameson Mercer back to Europe?
“Equipment,” I said.
“For academia?” he asked, raising a brow.
“No.” I almost huffed a laugh.
His mouth curved faintly. “Still arranging private contracts, then?”
“Periodically.”
Whitaker settled back against the booth. “I thought Philadelphia was meant to make you respectable.”
“It made me less visible.”
He studied me for a moment. “And the university tolerates your extracurricular interests?”
“They don’t know about them.”
“How reassuring,” he said.
I took another drink.
His smile returned, restrained but real. “What do you teach them?”
“Systems risk. Failure points. Financial networks.”
“So, the cheerful subjects,” he said.
“They’re practical.”
“I’m sure your students find that deeply comforting,” Whitaker said.
The exchange settled easily between us.
He told me about a reshuffling inside MI6 that had changed titles without changing much else. He mentioned two former colleagues who had retired badly and one who had discovered gardening with the intensity of a man trying to interrogate soil.
I listened more than I spoke.
That had always been enough with Whitaker. He could carry the space without demanding I fill it.
He asked about the contracts again, but lightly this time.
“Anything interesting?” he asked.
“Occasionally.”
Whitaker traced one finger through the condensation on his glass. “Dangerous?”
“Not usually.”
His brows lifted.
“Not unnecessarily,” I corrected.
“That sounds more like you,” he said.
I turned the glass once against the table. “And you?”
“Still employed,” Whitaker said.
“I gathered.”
He gave me a dry look. “Still underappreciated.”
“That seems unlikely.”
Whitaker lifted his pint. “It is a burden I carry with considerable grace.”
I almost smiled.
Then Whitaker looked at me over the rim of his glass. “You look tired.”
“I flew overnight.”
“That would account for some of it,” he said.
I let the silence answer the rest.
His attention stayed on me for a moment longer before he set the glass down.
“Harrison’s anniversary is approaching,” Whitaker said.
My hand stopped against the pint.
“I’m aware.”
Whitaker studied me carefully. “And are you managing?”
“I’m fine.”
His expression didn’t change. “That was not quite what I asked.”
I took another drink, though the beer had gone warm. “It is the answer I have.”
He let the silence sit between us.
“I do not mean to intrude,” he said finally. “I only wanted to be certain you were not carrying it alone.”
The conversation had moved beyond anything I knew how to answer.
I set the glass down and reached for my coat. “I should get moving.”
Whitaker gave a small nod. “Of course.”
I stood and pulled on my coat, then turned toward the door.
“Mercer,” Whitaker called.
I stopped and looked back.
He let out a quiet breath. “Take care of yourself.”
I gave him a small nod.
Then I left.