10/09/2025
C's Monologue: Codename: Whitehall Phantom. The Ghosts I Keep
You want to know about my agents? Fine. I’ll tell you. But understand this, these aren’t people. Not in the way you think. They’re instruments. Precision tools. And like any tool, they’re dangerous if mishandled.
Let’s start with Eileen Evans.
Eileen is... exceptional. Recruited young, shaped by fire and silence. She doesn’t just kill, she erases. No noise, no trace, no questions. I’ve seen her work. It’s not murder. It’s art. She’s the kind of operative you don’t train, you unleash. And God help whoever’s on the receiving end.
But she’s not without her flaws. She’s emotionally compromised, though she’d never admit it. Two men orbit her like satellites, and she plays them both with unnerving ease. I tolerate it because she gets results. But I watch her. Closely. Because if she ever turns, it won’t be a defection, it’ll be a detonation.
Then there’s Matthew Briars. Or as he was once known, Vilan Koslov.
A Russian defector. Brilliant, manipulative, and utterly untrustworthy. But he brought us something we couldn’t ignore, ERV. Extra-Sensing Remote Viewing. Psychic warfare, if you believe in that sort of thing. He trained Eileen in it. Briars is one of the best in the world. That’s his real power, not in what he knows, but in how he infects others with it. He is a killer extraordinaire. He’s Eileen’s mentor. Her lover. Her handler. It’s a mess. But it works. Briars is a snake, yes, but he is our snake. And sometimes, you need a serpent to navigate the underworld.
And Robin Buckland.
Now, Buckland is different. Ex-SAS. Increment-trained. A soldier’s soul wrapped in an assassin’s skin. He’s loyal, methodical, and clean. No theatrics. No ego. Just the job. I trust him more than the others, which isn’t saying much, but it’s something. He’s in love with Eileen. Doesn’t know about Briars, or maybe he does. That triangle is volatile, but oddly effective. They balance each other. Briars brings the mind, Buckland the muscle, and Eileen... Eileen is the blade.
I give them the worst assignments. The ones that don’t exist. The ones that must never be spoken of. And they deliver. Every time.
But make no mistake, I don’t trust them. I respect them. I fear them. And I control them. Because if I don’t, they’ll burn this place to the ground and walk away without a scratch.
You asked who they are. Now you know.
They’re ghosts. And I’m the man who keeps them tethered to the living world.
You know me only as C. That’s all you need.
And speaking of ghosts...
Let’s talk about Agent Scott McCune. CIA. Langley. He’s not one of mine, but he’s worked alongside us enough to earn a seat at the table. McCune’s a sniper first, spy second. Cold, calculating, and lethal at range. He doesn’t miss. Don’t hesitate. He’s the kind of man who can dismantle a regime with a rifle and a radio. I’ve seen him operate in tandem with MI6 assets, and I’ll say this: he’s not British, but he’s damn near one of us.
He’s also tangled up with Evans. Not romantically. but professionally. There’s a tension there. A mutual respect. Maybe even something darker. I keep him close when I can. He’s useful. But he’s CIA. And that means he’s never truly ours.
Then there’s Nicolai. No surname. No past. Just Nicolai. Russian by birth, MI6 by choice. He was one of our best, an expert in communications, surveillance, and psychological manipulation. A handler’s handler. Until an assignment went sideways in Istanbul. Blood on the floor, bodies in the river, and Nicolai... gone.
We feared him dead. Some mourned. I didn’t. I knew better. You don’t kill a ghost, you just lose sight of him.
He resurfaced years later. Changed. Colder. Smarter. He doesn’t speak of what happened. I don’t ask. He’s back now, and he’s mine again. But he’s not the same. He’s quieter. More dangerous. He sees things others miss. Hears things others ignore. And when he moves, it’s with purpose. He’s not just an agent, he’s a phantom with a mission.
I don’t protect my agents; I weaponise them. And when they break, I replace them.
But these five... they’re different. They’re not just tools. They are storms. And I keep them bottled, barely.
Because if I ever lose control... the world won’t know what hit it.
I am C. The last letter before silence. Head of the Secret Intelligence Service. I don’t lead with sentiment. I lead with strategy. The title isn’t ceremonial. It’s operational. I am the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, MI6, if you prefer the old name. I sit at the apex of Britain’s invisible war. I don’t chase headlines. I don’t give interviews. I don’t exist in the way most people understand existence.
My job is simple: I protect this country from threats it doesn’t know it has. I see the shadows before they move. I hear the whispers before they become screams. And when necessary, I send people like Eileen to silence them.
I don’t run agents. I run operations. I authorise actions that never reach paper. I sign off on missions that Parliament would faint over. I make decisions that no one else wants to make, and I live with them. Every day.
There’s a myth that intelligence work is about information. It’s not. It’s about control. Control of truth, control of narrative, control of people. I control the chaos so others can sleep at night.
I don’t believe in heroes. I believe in assets. I don’t believe in justice. I believe in balance. And I don’t believe in loyalty, not in the way civilians do. Loyalty in my world is transactional. It’s measured in results, not sentiment.
I’ve buried agents. I’ve burned agents. I’ve watched good men and women disappear into the fog because that’s what the job demanded. And I’ve never once apologised.
Because I can’t afford to.
I am C. I am the last line of defence. The final signature. The quiet voice that says yes when everyone else says no.
And when the world turns dark, I don’t flinch.
I send the ghosts.
C.
Release Date December 2025. Irene Allen-Block.
