"So this is your final word, Lieutenant Geoffrey Robertson?" Colonel Orkwel asked me after a twenty-minute recap of my military career.

"Yes, sir," I confirmed.

He visibly frowned, his mustache, defying all modern trends, harmonizing with the shape of his lips.

"Not that I'm surprised," he said finally. "You've been through more than any other three men combined, and that's saying something."

The pen rustled on the paper, adding his signature to the form in the bottom right corner.

"Mr. Geoffrey Robertson, farewell."

He stood up and offered his hand for a handshake.

"Farewell, sir."

After fifteen years with the SAS, I was free. Not that I longed for it too much, they offered me everything I loved - excitement, entertainment, combat... blood. And I still had a few years below the official limit for retiring soldiers from frontline service. But I didn't want to draw unnecessary attention to myself.

The few personal belongings I had gathered over the years were long packed. The sports bag over my shoulder was only half full, including two sets of underwear, a spare shirt, and a sweater that wasn't particularly nice or exceptional. I just got used to it. I wore stretch jeans, military boots, a loose short-sleeved shirt, and a jacket made of waterproof and breathable material, the best one money could buy.

And a kukri knife. About two centuries old, larger and heavier than usual, but it fit perfectly in my hand. I took it from a guy who knew how to handle it damn well.

With all my meager belongings, I headed past the flagpole to the gate. The guard saluted me, even though I was no longer in uniform. I belonged to the oldest in service, and the list of missions, though secret, had earned me a certain reputation.

"Sir, I apologize," he began.

It wasn't pleasant for him, but orders were orders, and we both knew that.

I stopped.

"I need to search your luggage."

I could resist, I could give him a hard time, but instead, I handed him the bag.

"Search with regard to what?" I asked.

"With regard to firearms," he replied.

"Please," I prompted him.

He completed his task and saluted me.

And I was outside.

The bus stop wasn't far, down to the town, as we always called it, it didn't take even twenty minutes. I waved, the driver stopped, I gave him a pound and left him some change. I would have to get rid of them at the nearest opportunity, they would jingle in my pocket.

The bus was almost empty, except for a few seasonal workers helping with sheep shearing. I sat in the seat right by the second door, observed the passing landscape, and wondered why I had really left the unit where I lacked nothing. Was I too long in one place? It couldn't be said that I stayed in one place - Burma, Thailand, Afghanistan, Bali... I only knew the local surroundings from weeks of recovery after injuries. I spent my vacations elsewhere.

Another stop, a guy in a worn work jacket with rolled-up sleeves boarded. He didn't pay attention to me and sat in the seat across the aisle a bit in front of me. He smelled of tobacco, horses, and whiskey.

Maybe I had been part of one system for too long, and I was starting to get nervous because of it. Not drawing attention to oneself was the first law of my kind. What if someone started to wonder how it was possible that Lieutenant Robertson went through so many missions with minimal loss, how he was breaking the statistics? I had encountered a similar approach before.

Before I disembarked, I was determined about what I would do, actually, it had been brewing in me for a long time. Sweep away my tracks as best as I could without resorting to illegal methods.

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And if someone still sought me, I would be sure that they had put a lot of effort into it. And that would make my decision about what to do with it easier. But always one step at a time.

I had the last bounty paid in cash, so I didn't need the money. Still, at the first ATM, I immediately withdrew a larger amount from the account. If someone was looking for me and found out that I withdrew money here, it wouldn't help them much.

Who and why would be looking for me? I suffer from paranoia. It was high time to disappear, change the place, and maybe I would calm down.

At the counter, I asked which platform the long-distance buses were leaving from and then bought a ticket to London from the machine.

There were two hours left until departure, time for a beer or two and something to eat.

The station buffet didn't appeal to me; I headed for the lanes, where, as I remembered, a few places with decent cuisine could be found. And one, in particular. Tucked away, with small round windows resembling ship portholes. I ordered a double rare steak with a child-sized portion of fries and no vegetables. I never got used to that; my digestive tract is simply specialized in meat.

The radio played quietly, the pen rustled on the paper as the waiter solved the crossword.

Peace, except for me, there was only one guest. He wasn't eating, he studied the surface of the beer in his hands intently, and with his finger, he stroked the side of the half-liter mug.

"This is the second pub where I've been looking for you."

Mohandás Bagh moved even quieter than I remembered. I swallowed a curse and replayed the last ten seconds in my memory to see if I could have heard him. I could, but I only realized the shuffling of the sandals he still dragged on the ground afterward. How the hell did he do it?

"Why are you looking for me? How do you know where to find me?" I asked him questions instead of greetings.

"I thought sooner or later, you'd want a change of air. I check every guy leaving the base. And not going on vacation," he smiled.

His teeth were whiter than I remembered, and he was dressed better. Only his brown Indian face remained just as round.

"Because I wanted to say goodbye to you," he surprisingly answered my second question.

"Why?" I didn't understand.

"If you ever need anything."

He handed me a business card with the printed email address.

"Why?"

I was never much for long conversations, and Bagh knew that well.

"You saved my life."

That was true, but most people don't take their debts that seriously. Although, he wasn't exactly a person in the truest sense of the word.

"You seem to be doing well," I observed.

"Yes, I've found," he searched for the right words for a moment, "a new family. They can properly appreciate my talent."

I tucked away the business card, and suddenly I was sitting at the table alone. The rustling of the expensive but still fashionable suit I only perceived with a delay. Was that the ability that Bagh's new family could properly appreciate? I didn't know.

"I saved Mohandás Bagh from impaling on a sun-dried willow stake. The uneducated villagers, submerged in the Bengali jungle, wanted to get rid of a dangerous vampire. Only much later, after the blood bags began to disappear in the hospital where I had transported the impoverished Bagh, did I realize that the villagers were not stupid or narrow-minded, but they were right. But I couldn't do anything about it anymore. I saved him. One of his hidden abilities was that even I couldn't recognize his belonging to his kind.

I devoured all the meat, dipped into the fries, washed down the overly spicy taste with a second beer, and headed back to the station.

* * *

London hadn't changed since the last time I visited, only there were more cars on the streets, and the cocktail of exhaust fumes was richer in many ingredients I hadn't sensed before.

I didn't like this city, but I needed to pick up documents for my other identities from the bank safe, and I also needed to check the dead mailboxes. I didn't expect to find anything in them, but I just wanted to make sure.

In the evening, in the hotel room, I examined my old-new documents; I had hidden the originals under the false lining of a sports bag. I could sew well, and for a very long time. A more useful skill than many people would assume.

I turned on the TV, opened the computer I had bought a few minutes ago at the supermarket, and waited for it to start. I needed to stay informed, to know what was happening where. In today's organized world, I felt best where violence and chaos prevailed, and besides, it was easiest to disappear and reappear with a new identity in such places.

I browsed through BBC news one after another, focusing on places of local conflicts, unstable governments, and the like. None of it appealed to me; the restlessness that usually drove me from place to place had disappeared. Maybe I deserve a vacation, a few months of doing nothing, lounging around. I could go diving somewhere warm, look for places where no one had ever been. Or at least where no one had been for a very long time.

I'll take a holiday, I decided in the end.

I got up and pulled a shot of Hennessy from the hotel minibar. I could get a whole bottle in the store for the local price. But why not, I just declared a vacation.

I continued surfing, now just for fun, without pursuing a specific goal. There was no more Hennessy in the fridge, but Smirnoff vodka was drinkable too. Just before I finished, I checked my old email boxes. I used them for buying and selling interesting things that I occasionally came across. For security reasons, usually only a few times. In the last one, whose password I almost forgot, I found a brief message:

Come, we need help.