"One last job?"
"No. I'm done. I'm getting too old for this, and I'd rather find a hole in the wall that I won't have to shoot someone from," The Doctor says. He's packing up the last bits of his stuff from a hotel room, his work phone—well, his only phone—open and on speaker.
"Oh, you know you love it…" says the device.
"No, I don't. I'm good at it and it pays. And it pays even more to be as good as me."
"It helps that you don't die," the phone adds helpfully.
"Exactly. And I'd like to keep it that way." The Doctor sighs, looking around the hotel room one last time to make sure there's no real sign of his presence. It's not strictly necessary—nobody would think to connect this room with his latest job—but there's no such thing as too careful. He'd rather not wake up some peaceful morning of retirement and have the law break down his door. "Last job you gave me the bastard fought back. Gave me a nasty cut, too."
"Yeah, well, I got you cleaned up and paid you extra, didn't I?" The mobile's tone is suddenly sharp and clipped. "Look. We need some help here. There's a girl who's causing us a lot of trouble, and I promise you she's not a fighter. She's slippery as all hell, which is why she's a royal pain, but she's not gonna give you any real problems." There's a break of silence, the Doctor knowing to wait for the cherry on top. It's a longer pause than expected, but then the machine sighs, relenting. "I'll make it worth your while."
"Oh, yeah? I've got everything I need. What could you possibly offer me?" He scoffs, but even though one couldn't hear it in his voice, he's smiling. It's all part of the game. He zips shut his suitcase and duffle, the majority of his clothes actually in his carry-on to avoid any security. It was an ironically simple system to get through, even in the toughest airports.
"Free airfare?" The machine laughed at its own joke, then, not hearing any reply, settled down to a real offer, "How about twice your normal rate? Is that enough to catch your interest?"
This is the part he was liked: negotiating. "How about twice my estimate and that free airfare?" He might have been known for his skill with a gun, but Mr. Smith has just as much finesse here. Maybe that's why nobody notices: he's just that good.
"How about one and a half times your estimate?" the phone reasons, "I told you she's not a hard case."
"Twice my estimate but with an itemized list so you can take off what you don't like. And you can pick up my hotel if the airfare's too much."
"Deal," says the phone. "Hell, I might even take you to lunch if you get her out of our hair."
"You might have to make quite a trip. The moment I've collected, I'm going to vanish. Not even a cleaner's receipt with my name, after this."
"You go to the cleaners as 'The Doctor'?" There's genuine shock in the line's tone. If he didn't know his friend and client so well, he would have questioned the man's intelligence.
"Wouldn't you like to know!" he says with a wink. He knows there's no way his friend will see it, but the smirk in his voice can't be missed.
There's a sigh across the line and he knows the security agent is smiling. It's just another game they play. "Just get back here as soon as you can. Where the hell are you anyway?"
"Wouldn't you like to know," he replies again. There's no lightness in his tone, this time, and the man knows that they're done here. Both hang up their phones, and while one goes about his day, Mr. Smith picks up his bags and leaves the mediocre hotel. He checks out easily before going out to the waiting taxi. "Charles de Gaulle Aéroport, s'il vous plaît." His accent is perfect, letting him be just another passenger on their way out. The ride is over before he can blink—but that might just be from lack of sleep—and he tips him alright. The whole point is to be just another face in the crowd, and he's certainly gotten good at it.
While he's only going back to London, there's a less conspicuous flight to Edinburgh that would be about as long and less obviously him. "Un billet à Edimbourg, s'il vous plaît," he says, this time sporting an imperfect lilt: perfectly adopting a Scottish accent instead. Enough time lapses and he can switch accents, suddenly just a vacationer going home. They chat in French while he pulls up the economy ticket, one checked bag. Nothing fancy—did you enjoy your stay? Yep, brilliant food. Molto bene. Just chit-chat, enough little bits of specifics in with the vague to be plausible, but not noteworthy.
Then it's a trip through security, completely boring, and a wait for the plane. He takes out a magazine he got at one of the stands and pretends to read when a young businesswoman takes the seat next to him. She's blonde and in a suit, hair in a no-nonsense and chic braid with enough around her face to suit her. "Mind if I sit here?" she asks in a thick London accent. It's a bit after the fact, he thinks, but otherwise just smiles and shakes his head. "Nah, it's fine," he replies, adopting an Estuary English accent for the young lady. It's one of his favorites and the easiest for him to maintain.
She smiles, tongue showing through the gaps in her teeth. "Oh, good! Another Brit. I thought I'd have to pull out my translator again," she chatters, adding as an afterthought, "Business trip. A bit new at travel, really, but if the job demands…" She sighs and falls silent, opening her briefcase to flip through some papers. He smiles slightly at her, watching as she does so and assessing the young woman. He figures she's in maybe her early to mid-twenties, probably came from a good family, and has been newly appointed to a slightly higher position at some multi-national firm. Probably a PR buff. Well, there are more dangerous people to be stuck next to. This should be relatively easy.
"So, what brings you here? France, I mean?" he asks, just making conversation.
The answer he wasn't expecting was, "Business… And pleasure. I'm a Courtesan."