Birth of a Spy

by Duncan Swindells

  ✽✽✽

  Hunter scoured the surrounding area for any sign of Amy or her abductor. The runners were pouring past in ever increasing numbers, a bewildering array of shapes and sizes, styles and motivations. And then he saw her, her hair, her long, dark, beautiful hair, uncharacteristically messy and lank. The telephoto zoomed in close, the camera steady on its monopole. He could see her clearly now. She looked terrible, her eyes puffy, her face drawn and tired. Even the pearls around her neck seemed to have lost their glister. Over her shoulders a silver heat sheet and next to her, obligingly supporting her, the giant with the shaven head. He wore a red tracksuit and running shoes and for the first time Hunter glimpsed a strange swirl of tattoo which bled out from under the tracksuit top and up towards his ear, covering his neck. Wedging the monopole against his foot he zoomed in close on the man and then pulled back to include Amy. Whichever drug the giant had used appeared still to be at work, her movements laboured and lethargic. Hunter felt she was struggling simply to place one foot in front of the other, looking ready to stumble at any moment, but then the tracksuited monster at her elbow grabbed her more firmly and Hunter caught another flash of silver as his hand pulled Amy to him. The giant helped her to the bench where she collapsed, gratefully lolling to one side. Hunter continued to record events as the kidnapper scanned the area, whilst regularly checking his watch. He didn’t leave it long after the appointed time before producing a mobile phone from a zipped tracksuit pocket. He fiddled with it a while, checked his hostage and then, as they had anticipated he would, called Hunter’s phone. The same ugly disguised voice.

  ‘This was not the arrangement. I have the girl. Where is it?’

  ‘Under the bench.’

  Realising that he was being observed the giant looked around, then quickly ducked down and retrieved the envelope. Hunter recorded every moment onto the Cannon’s memory card. The giant, cradling the mobile under his chin, ripped open the envelope and withdrew two sheets of paper; the original code which had arrived so mysteriously on Hunter’s doorstep just days before and the decoded list of names, en clair. He inspected both quickly, folded the sheets and thrust them into his top before taking up the phone again.

  ‘This is not what we agreed. Where is the list?’

  ‘You have them. Now let her go.’

  ‘No. Where is it?’

  ‘You have it. I’m watching you, now let her go.’

  The giant was inspecting the surrounding parkland, straining to locate them.

  ‘This is not the list. Another list. Don’t play games with me boy.’

  Hunter didn’t know what to think and he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. George Wiseman was looking expectantly at him and so he mouthed “other list”.

  Nothing.

  Perhaps the deaf old boy couldn’t make him out. ‘What other list?’ he shouted, his hand over the receiver.

  The old man certainly heard that. His eyes fell to the ground and his shoulders sank, caught cheaply at the boundary waving lazily at the loose ball. He turned to face Hunter, and in that moment, as Wiseman’s tired watery eyes met his, Hunter knew. He knew everything and nothing. He knew something was terribly wrong. Their plan, such as it had been, was falling to pieces.

  ‘For Christ’s sake George,’ Hunter hissed at him, ‘what other list?’

  Wiseman’s face filled with the sorrows of a lifetime.

  ‘I’m sorry, Scott,’ he said quietly letting his gaze return to the park floor. Then Hunter watched horrified as Wiseman turned and slowly walked away.

  The giant had been clever to suggest this spot on this particular day. As Hunter tried frantically to find Amy in his viewfinder, he cursed George Wiseman. He’d been a fool to trust him. He struggled frantically with the heavy lens to try to recapture her. Runners. There were runners everywhere. Hunter forced himself to slow down, to steady his breathing and remain calm. With the naked eye he could see her sat on the bench, the silver aluminium heat sheet around her shoulders. The giant seemed to have disappeared into the crowd. Hunter trained the camera on the bench and put it to his eye.

  At first glance Amy looked as she had done just moments before, but then he watched as her body crumpled and slumped forward, a small patch of red spreading across her stomach.

  ‘No!’

  Hunter was up and running towards the lake, the monument and Amy, screaming at the top of his voice, the camera long forgotten and discarded. The man in the red tracksuit had been moving away, blending in with the sea of athletes around him, but when he heard Hunter’s shouts he turned and in the same movement withdrew the silenced Glock from his tracksuit top. Hunter was running straight towards him, unable to think of anything other than Amy. The giant steadied himself and there was a quiet puff. Hunter felt the air ripple as a bullet whistled past him. The giant advanced, knelt, adopted a firing position, bracing himself against the black railings surrounding the lake and shot again. People were screaming now and scattering wildly. If Hunter continued to run towards the armed man there would be only one outcome and then he would never save Amy. The Serpentine separated them, that had always been the plan. If he were to help her he had to stay alive and find a way around the water, but first he had to find cover. In the distance he saw George Wiseman slowly leaving the park.

  Hunter had chosen the spot because there was clear open water between the oak tree and the monument, but now his carefully chosen location’s advantages would be the very thing which got him killed. He was running away from the old oak, and out into the open, leaving the only available cover behind him. The harder he ran the more likely he was to be shot. He would have to turn around and head back to the safety of the oak tree. As he span around he saw the giant cradling the pistol in one huge steady hand. Hunter started to weave and dodge. He knew if he ran straight to the tree there would be only one outcome.

  As he grabbed his messenger bag a third shot thudded into the tree next to him. He threw the bag’s shoulder strap around his neck, picked up the camera by its monopole and ran. Banking that the gunman would think he had headed south, following Wiseman to the safety of the road, the bridge and the promise of heavily populated museums, Hunter instead swung sharply left and sprinted North towards the Italian Gardens and Lancaster Gate. The trees lining the east side of the lake provided some cover and praying that the giant hadn’t seen him, Hunter pressed north towards the Bayswater Road. If he could just make it to Lancaster Gate, then there was a chance. The shoulder bag was an encumbrance and the camera was probably slowing him down too but he had to have them. They were evidence. If he could stay alive long enough he would need them, he would need them to catch the man who had killed Joth and Amy. Hunter ran. Briefly he lost sight of his attacker as he pounded up the track. He looked over at the heavy foliage on the opposite bank of The Serpentine. His attacker, Amy’s attacker, had disappeared behind a mixture of thick old trees and wild blackberry bushes. Hunter broke cover, running out from behind a gnarled and long dead tree to the marble safety of the Italian fountains. The ground in front of him leapt and kicked as a bullet barely missed him. He didn’t know where to head next. As he reached Jenner’s thoughtful statue he saw the exit to the park. Hunter vaulted the thick railings, colliding with an entirely unlovely council litter bin, sending him staggering to his knees.

  Chris Wilson stood at the rally point in the Italian Gardens wrapped in a heat seet, basking in the adoration of his wife and children. He’d completed his first 10k run. His time had been slower than he’d have liked, but his kids weren’t to know that. Ben leapt into his arms and he hadn’t been able to dislodge Sophie from his leg since finishing. Trish had kissed him with genuine pride and he was enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame, around his neck a medal to show that he had taken part.

  Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye he was aware of a commotion. There was a lot of shouting and screaming, but there always was at these events. Then he saw the young man racing towards them, a wild terrified look in his eye, frant
ically waving his arms for them to get out of his way. The Wilson family looked at him, shocked by his appearance. Certainly not a competitor, from his attire. A freelance photographer perhaps? In the split second it took them to process the information the bullet struck Chris Wilson’s leg, shattering his left femur and sending him to the ground. He would never run again.

  Hunter saw the man drop. He heard him cry out. He wanted to stop, to help, but he had to keep going. He was at the rallying point, tables groaning with sports drinks and branded health bars. He was responsible. He was bringing this armed man into their midst. Another innocent person had been hurt, or worse, because of him, and still he had no answers. There were competitors everywhere. Some on the fringes had looked across at him or the fallen runner and now like a wave, the realisation that something was terribly wrong, began to spread. They started to panic. Slowly at first, but then with a terrifying speed. New acquaintances who only moments before had been exchanging phone numbers, swapping email addresses and posing for selfies, were now trampling over each other in their panic to get away from the shooter. Hunter could hear children screaming for their parents, women crying, athletes only moments before too tired to move, running once more. Hunter wondered if he could afford another look over his shoulder. He easily vaulted a short row of box hedge, before clearing a marble wall. He was amongst the fountains now and heading towards the old pump house and Lancaster Gate. He flicked his head round quickly. The giant was nowhere to be seen. Had he lost him? Had he given up? Hunter stopped to turn properly. Now he could see him. He was emerging from the opposite side of the gardens, briefly obscured by a huge Victorian urn. He was further back than Hunter had expected. Perhaps he had been distracted by the large numbers of people? Perhaps he was worried someone would confront him? Surely there must be police at such a huge event? He seemed preoccupied. Christ, Hunter realised, he was reloading. If he took the path the giant would gun him down for sure. Two fountains stood between him and the slope which would take him from the park and away from the people. Summoning all his strength he ran straight for the nearest fountain, leaping into the freezing water and immediately slipping on the bottom, his feet tangling in roots and tripping over pipes, his body shocked from the cold, but relieved to have dropped by a couple of feet and out of the gunman’s eyeline. The freezing water was up to his chest but he had found some more cover behind a tall bank of reeds. A moment to catch his breath and assess the situation. He must press on, he must get out of the park. As he crawled from the first fountain he looked up at the pump building. If he went in there he would almost certainly be trapped. Another bullet cracked into the building’s 150-year-old façade. He had to get to the tube station. The shortest route should have been the quickest but now his black jeans and desert boots were heavy with water. Behind him another bullet cracked into the Carrara marble and then more screams. If he waded across the second fountain the giant would surely be on top of him. Once he’d been identified as the gunman’s target everyone in front of him scattered, falling over each other in their desperation to get out of his way. Then he was at the steps to the old pump house. He clattered into a table, sending papers and empty drinks bottles flying. Keep going, he had to keep going. Hunter’s muscles were burning as he pounded up the slope and out of the park.

  He’d reached the Bayswater Road. Ahead the pedestrian crossing had just finished counting down and now London’s traffic was running determinedly past again. To the right a bus stop, then diagonally opposite, on the other side of the road, Lancaster Gate Underground Station and where he supposed the giant would assume he was headed, so again, Hunter decided to try and shake him off by taking the less obvious route. And anyway, could he really bring this monster into a crowded tube station? He’d already killed Joth and probably Amy. He’d shot an innocent bystander in the leg. There had to be another way to lose him. If he could only put some distance between the two of them, but his sodden clothes were slowing him down, leaving an incriminating trail behind him. A taxi tore past and Hunter tried desperately to flag it down, but no taxi was going to stop for a soaking wet student. He would have to negotiate the Bayswater Road. He stumbled off the pavement. With everyone he cared about gone there was an overwhelming temptation to give up. If he stayed where he was either the London traffic or the gunman would finish him. Simpler then to just end it all and concede defeat, but something drove him on. Was there really a second list? Wiseman’s actions certainly seemed to suggest so. Hunter had to keep going. He needed to know, now more than ever. He had to find that list.

  His side of the road split into three lanes, two heading North, taking buses to the zoo and Marylebone Station, the third, and the one into which Hunter had stumbled headed West, hugging the top edge of the park. Before he’d gone more than two steps a 94 to Acton almost winged him, sending him scuttling back towards Hyde Park and danger. But then, in the distance, a line of red buses, each, if Hunter understood correctly, heading North. If he could manage a lane of traffic and position himself on the far side of one of the approaching buses that might buy him some time. Another car swerved past him sounding its horn and Hunter dragged himself onto the traffic island in the centre of the road. He turned in time to see his pursuer emerge from the park. Hunter ran, with no thought for himself or for the cars on either side of him. As he reached the pavement opposite the bullet struck. The 9 millimetre came from behind him and to his left, where his shoulder bag hung. It flattened him, knocking the air from his lungs, sending him sprawling to the ground. His hands reaching instinctively to brace his fall. Hunter felt the skin ripping from his palms as he skidded along the pavement, the camera on its monopole sliding away in front of him. One look at his shoulder bag told him its contents had probably saved his life, but that could all be for nothing. Was this it? Was this really where he was going to die, on an anonymous street corner in Central London? The passengers on board the 94 saw only a young man fall to the pavement and struggle to get up, any sound made by the silenced pistol drowned out by earphones and the onset of rush hour. Only a week before, on the same route, passengers on a similar bus had watched dispassionately as a woman had attacked her boyfriend with a stilettoed heel. It was just London. The bus moved on.

  The giant was at the road now. He levelled the gun as Hunter struggled on the ground, the steady flow of traffic the only thing preventing him from pulling the trigger and finishing it.

  Hunter scrambled to get to his feet but his legs wouldn’t hold him, all his strength gone. The first of the buses approached the junction of the A402 where it began slowly to turn before heading north. He had to move now. The camera. He crawled the short distance to where the monopole lay. Ignoring the pain Hunter took it firmly in his hand and using it as a crutch, tried one tentative step followed by another. The second bus passed him. His cover was driving away. He needed to be up and moving before the third bus turned north otherwise it would be over.

  As the last of the buses swept past on its way to North London Hunter tracked alongside, using the monopole as a cane. Gradually he was regaining his mobility and starting to jog. His back was agony where the shoulder bag and its contents had stopped the bullet and his hands felt raw and bloody but slowly he was starting to run. He took one last look to judge the distance between him and his assailant. For the first time he saw the man clearly. His shaven head, the pale eyebrows above mean little eyes and then he raised the gun and Hunter turned and fled up Westbourne Terrace.

  Another busy junction and he was at Sussex Gardens not knowing whether to turn left by the church or keep moving. The gardens themselves were of no use, just a dot of tranquillity where overworked Londoners took their lunch and where he would be easily picked off. Better to keep moving.

  Westbourne Terrace was a never-ending row of white stucco tenements, chequerboard porches and off white colonnades, understated and fragile black numbers finely painted halfway up each pair of pillars unenthusiastically advertising the property’s address. Hunter ran past one after ano
ther, their doors firmly shut, but then, in the distance one block caught his eye. A renovation project, its weary Regency lath and plaster guts ripped out and replaced, its once grand façade wreathed in humiliating scaffolding and panels of blue plastic mesh to stop over curious pigeons from intruding. Gone the carefully painted numbers, exchanged for a folded piece of card espousing that, once upon a time, this had been number 52. Set off the pavement an enormous generator covered with warning stickers and diligently supplying electricity to power tools and the alarm system protecting the precious scaffolding. Amongst the wooden walkways and pipes and much to Hunter’s astonishment, signs of life. One balcony, still open, two potted trees guarding over its entrance, a banner advertising the builder’s name and telephone number fluttering indifferently in the breeze.

  On each external floor ladders secured to the next, creating a zig-zag of tired aluminium, and then, next to the ladders, a snake. A long and winding wooden rubbish chute hastily constructed and descending awkwardly from a fourth floor window into a skip sitting next to the gently humming generator. As Hunter looked up, past the fourth floor he saw, at the very top of the building, dangling precariously in space from the highest scaffolding pipe, a block and tackle, its rope twisting and untwisting with a mind of its own. He almost ran straight into a pair of barechested workmen who had finished emptying a wheelbarrow of cement dust and rubble into the skip and were gingerly guiding it back down a long narrow plank. The place was littered with hard hats, empty cigarette packets, tool belts, the day’s red tops and discarded clothing, the air thick with fine white dust, stale smoke and the smell of hard work. Brooms, chicken wire and abandoned electrical cable lay in an untidy pile alongside signs warning of work overhead. Hunter shoved past a man carrying an angle grinder, through a makeshift entrance and into the body of the house. Off to the right was the first flat, its front door missing. Inside more power tools, ladders and work benches holding rotary saws and routers. Hunter assessed the room quickly, there was nowhere to hide. He shot up the first flight of stairs. From behind him he heard the giant arriving, threatening the men outside.