by Clare Carson
21
She made a dive for the platform at the back of the bus, hauled herself up the steps to the top deck, squished herself next to a thick-necked skinhead in a black Harrington, love and hate inked on his knuckles, and calculated that if she tipped back far enough she would be more or less obscured from the streets below. She fidgeted, glanced nervously over her shoulder as the bus chugged along at a grindingly slow stop-start pace. Down the High Street, past the cop shop, the Mecca bingo hall, the virid dome of the Imperial War Museum looming as the bus approached Westminster Bridge Road and the office of Ventura Enterprises. She needed the next stop. She swayed to the back of the bus and was about to descend when she heard the sudden crack of a motorbike engine. Single cylinder. She automatically bent down to peer through the window. Saw the black thorax of an off-road Yamaha. Jumped back. South African Steve – the rider. It had to be. She flattened herself against the wall of the bus and fingered the Zippo in her pocket nervously; he must have been tailing Jim that night at the Coney’s Tavern when he stopped and asked her for a light. Dutch, of course she didn’t look Dutch. She was marked as a secret policeman’s daughter. The bus pulled into the kerb. Petrified, she stood as irritated passengers pushed past. What if he took a shot at her as she crossed the pavement? She tried to stop herself from panicking. Forced herself to think rationally. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, she chanted in her head. All good children go to heaven. It didn’t help. She looked through the rear window again, but she couldn’t see the bike. Perhaps he had turned off at the traffic lights. She cautiously descended the steps to the back platform, wavered, too scared to leave the safety of the double-decker.
‘Make your mind up,’ said the conductor. ‘On or off.’
‘On,’ she said.
He twanged the bell wire. The bus pulled away and crawled under the iron bridge carrying the trains to Waterloo. The river came into view. She clung momentarily to the pole as the bus straightened to cross Westminster Bridge, then she jumped to the pavement. Hit the ground running and hurtled down the stone steps leading to the embankment path. Off the road, safe from motorbikes. She parked herself on a bench, stared across the Thames at the grimy limestone façade of the House of Lords and tried to formulate a plan. Work out her next move.
The tide was high. Very high. The inward rushing waters were pulling at the dangling branches of the sycamore trees. Nothing but a pale stone wall keeping the river back. What if the bricks gave way? She concentrated, holding the weight of the water with the force of her mind. But the fretful slapping of the Thames against the bank filled her head. Louder and louder. Until she realized the roar was outside. External. In the distance. She squinted towards Vauxhall, trying to identify the source of the noise and saw the black outline of the rider growing rapidly larger. Realized, too late, that there were no steps at the Lambeth Bridge end of the embankment path. No barriers. Nothing to prevent a motorbike using it as a racing track. The flagstones rumbled as he tore down the path. She panicked. Turned. Turned again. Bolted back to Westminster Bridge. Up the flight of steps three at a time. The bike was bearing down on her. He had almost reached the bottom. In a distant corner of her brain she remembered hearing the sound of the single-cylinder bike engine that morning at the train station. She stumbled. He must have hidden in the back of the car. She knew there had been something wrong that morning when she had stood in the station car park, staring at the Cortina. Hijack. Two bullets. Fake the crash. She found her footing. Sprang to the top of the steps. He was her father’s assassin. Behind her she heard the engine revving. Jesus wept, he was attempting to ride up the steps. She sprinted across the road. A black cab honked and swerved to avoid her. The cabbie leaned out of the window, effing and blinding as she bolted under the railway bridge, trains rumbling overhead, pigeons flapping around the shit-stained girders. She pelted down Westminster Bridge Road. The bike roared off. Heading east.
Number 196, the home of Ventura Enterprises, Avis’s office. The revolving glass door moved at her touch, propelling her into the foyer. Face to face with a thug-featured security guard glaring from behind a desk. A badge bearing a yellow stitched V was attached to his shirt just below his epaulette: Ventura must be supplying heavies to man the reception. The menacing physical presence of the company nearly made her retch. But she couldn’t afford to stop and think. There wasn’t time for qualms. She was in over her head. Couldn’t deal with it. South African Steve. Chance. Hitmen. Wet-workers. It was too much for her. She just had to dump the envelope and run. Somewhere in her head she could hear Jim’s voice, see his finger jabbing. Pathetic. What was wrong with her? What the fuck was she playing at? She knew it wasn’t the right thing to do. Handing the information back to a bunch of bloody mercenaries. Trigger-happy killers. Her own father’s assassins.
‘Can I help?’ the guard asked in a way that suggested the only assistance he was likely to offer was a boot in the backside to speed her through the exit. She started to speak, stammered, stopped short. He glowered. She swallowed hard, ran her eye over the companies named in gold plastic letters on the board behind his head, spotted Ventura on the seventh floor, picked out a likely sounding organization on the fifth. Playing for time.
‘I was just trying to find out about Third World Action. I applied for a job with them and I’m doing a bit of background research so I know what I’m talking about if I’m asked for an interview.’
He glared, put his hand to his hip and her throat went dry as she considered the possibility that he was carrying a gun. She tried to smile sweetly. It seemed to do the trick. He let his hand relax, gestured to a small leaflet-straggled table in a corner of the foyer. ‘They might have left something there.’
She thanked him, sidled over to the table, nervously sifted through the pamphlets advertising charities, medical suppliers, market researchers, international shippers and spotted a plain white brochure with ‘Ventura Enterprises’ printed across the front in discreet, grey Arial. Underneath, in a slightly smaller font, the words ‘security solutions’. She opened it and read:
Ventura is a private security company which specializes in problem resolution and the provision of associated consulting services. We are able to offer solutions that address a range of concerns from the most straightforward security needs to more complex situations. Ventura is a privately owned business. It maintains representative offices in London, Washington DC and Johannesburg. It is managed by a number of senior ex-military personnel from the UK and US armed forces and police services. This management team can draw on the services of a pool of consultants with extensive domestic and international expertise. Ventura personnel are highly professional, often former military, police and government employees, recruited from a number of different countries. We also have commercial, financial and legal expertise and experienced media handlers.
She flipped the leaflet, scrutinized the tiny, just legible print at the bottom of the back page. ‘Ventura Enterprises is a subsidiary company of Prosperity Asset Management. Prosperity Asset Management provides management services for a wide portfolio of companies while maintaining a strategic focus on finding security solutions for domestic and international operations engaged in energy markets. Prosperity Asset Management is registered in the British Virgin Islands.’
Prosperity Asset Management. She pictured the torn receipt for services rendered and conjured up the small print: Shaba Security is a subsidiary of – missing word – Asset Management. She slipped the leaflet into her pocket and let the disparate scraps of information in her brain churn. Shinkolobwe. Shaba. Ventura. Prosperity Asset Management, security solutions. Security solutions my arse, said Jim’s voice in her head, almost making her jump.
She looked over her shoulder to check whether he was lurking in some dark corner and, as her gaze swept the entrance door, she spotted a familiar figure on the far side of the road. Leather jacket, faded jeans, Converse high-tops, edging her way into the stream of traffic. Avis. Fuck it. She just had to hand ove
r the envelope and get out of there.
She heard Jim’s scornful tone in her head again: Where were her principles now? Whatever happened to tikkun olam? Sam wiped her mouth with her sleeve. Jesus. She was having her integrity questioned by a dead sodding secret policeman with alcohol issues and a life-long addiction to deception. It wasn’t as if he’d actually provided her with any useful ideas about what she should do with the envelope. He hadn’t helped her find a way out, hadn’t left her with any way of contacting the Commander. He hadn’t even told her his fucking name. All he had done was criticize, mock, been his usual sarcastic self. Death hadn’t changed a thing. Even from beyond the grave he was still a lousy father. It was all his fault that she was in this mess anyway. She could feel herself steaming up, on the verge of storming off, handing the envelope to Avis as she left, giving the two-fingered salute to Jim.
Avis was almost across the road now, close enough for Sam to see the determination painted on her big-featured face; red lipstick, slick black eyeliner, an irritatingly attractive combination of ruthlessness and tomboyish glamour. Watch facing inward on her wrist. Her father’s daughter. Just like Sam. She was her father’s daughter too. Jim was proud of her because she did what was right. Didn’t take the easy option. She was a Coyle. She inhaled. Felt the oxygen flowing. Made a sudden dash for the lifts at the back of the foyer, kick-starting her adrenalin, jamming her finger on the up button, staring manically at the illuminated floor numbers, urging them to shift. Stuck at four. Move. Move. The lift descended slowly. Three. Two. One. Ground. Doors open. Lift empty. She jumped in. Pressed five. The doors jerked together. Through the steel barrier, she could hear Avis barking orders at the guard.
‘Stop her. We have to get her. I’m going up. You stay here. We need back-up. Call head office on the direct number. Let him know what’s going on.’
Him? Don Chance? She watched the floor numbers illuminating. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Doors open. She pressed the button for the ninth as she jumped out of the lift. The thump of footsteps pounding up the emergency exit reverberated around the stairwell. She searched around wildly for a hiding place, clocked the sign for Third World Action above a dull grey door.
She pushed and found herself face to face with a man wearing a Greenpeace T-shirt, gold metal-rimmed John Lennon NHS glasses and a smug smile.
‘We’re not open today,’ he said. ‘I’m just here to sort out some campaigning materials. You can come back on Monday.’
‘But I want to help poor people in Africa.’ She was trying not to sound too desperate.
He smiled condescendingly. ‘Africa is a continent containing a wide diversity of countries, not all of them poor.’
‘Zaire. I want to help in Zaire. I want to volunteer, do something for poor people in Zaire.’
‘I’m afraid we don’t support volunteer programmes. Volunteers without any specific experience to offer are not a very good way to promote development. We prefer to support locally driven community action.’
He threw her the acutely raised eyebrow of a man who was determined to give her the benefit of his superior knowledge. She could hear footsteps on the landing now and then a pause: Avis trying to work out where she had gone.
She leaned towards him. ‘Right. I see your point. But what about women’s rights? What do you do for women?’
He scowled, irritated by her questions. Outside the fire door creaked as it was opened and swung shut again. Avis departing.
‘Thanks for your time anyway,’ Sam said. Gave him a wink as she backed out through the office door, glanced anxiously right and left, saw the coast was clear, dived across the landing and through the emergency exit.
She could hear footsteps running up above her now. Avis on her way to the ninth. She tumbled down the stairs in the opposite direction, cautiously pushed the fire door open a crack, surveyed the foyer; the guard was at the reception desk, phone clamped against ear, fat finger running down a directory page, saying yes to whoever was shouting at him from the other end. She would just have to risk it. She took a deep breath. Shouldered the door. Charged across the foyer. Through the revolving glass and out into the street before the guard had a chance to work out what was going on. She skipped into the line of traffic crawling along Westminster Bridge Road. A car braked. Renault. Green. The vehicle behind it squealed to a halt and honked. Peugeot. Red. She quick-stepped between boots and bumpers. Dashed to the far pavement. Looked behind – nobody was following her. Yet. She dodged right and as she did so, her elbow caught the wing mirror of a car parked badly with its front end jutting out into the road. Rover. Black. MVF 476X .The Watcher. Shit.
She darted left into Lower Marsh Street, scurried along the pavement, keeping close to the shuttered shop-fronts, sensing the shifty spirits of south London’s backstreets jostling her, tugging her coat, calling her to join them underground. She blocked out the whispering, no clear plan in her head except to escape. She lifted her eyes to check the slope of the taxi ramp up to the station. There was the Watcher striding down, cutting off her emergency exit. She glanced over her shoulder. Avis had tracked her down and was standing at the far end of the street, blocking her retreat. Only one route was open now. She would have to keep moving along Lower Marsh towards the Cut and up the far side of the station. She ran, but the Watcher ran too. She lowered her head and charged. He was there before she could reach the other side of the road. He grabbed her arm. She tried to twist free. He closed his hand around her wrist. She felt the dig of his fingernails. Inhaled the rank odour of stale smoke and Dettol.
‘You’re not going anywhere my little friend,’ he said, fag end clenched between his teeth. ‘Not until you’ve handed over the information.’
He stuck his hand in her coat pocket, groped around, pulled out the raven’s feather, snorted with disgust, shoved it back in her pocket again. Somewhere in the distance a single-cylinder motorbike revved.
‘Well, now. We know Jim picked up an envelope from his contact. But it has so far failed to materialize. So we can only conclude that he passed it to you. Correct?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Come on. Come on. I don’t have time for this.’ He reached into her other coat pocket. ‘We’re not in the playground now.’
Playground; the word echoed around the street, bouncing off the narrow brick shop fronts, carried along by the wind blustering south from the river. The gust-harried clouds spread their shadow over the Watcher’s face. His predatory eyes darted sideways and she momentarily glimpsed the bullied schoolboy behind the dodgy cover, the child who had never been unconditionally loved, the boy who had to make underhand deals to forge relationships. She almost felt sorry for the Watcher, a twinge of sympathy for a victim of Jim’s playground bullying. And then she remembered the gleam of pleasure when he had burned her arm. His groping hand.
‘Where’s the fucking envelope?’ he hissed in her ear as he yanked her hard against his body, squeezing out the last residue of empathy, stoking her anger. She was on auto-pilot now, running on sheer will-power.
‘I left it at Ventura’s offices,’ she said. ‘I gave the envelope to the Ventura security guard to hand over to Avis Chance.’
The Watcher plucked the cigarette from his lips, pursed his lips and blew a puff of smoke into her face. She tried not to cough. From the corner of a smarting eye she glimpsed Avis hovering warily at the far end of the street, calculating her next move. He poked his fag back in his mouth, eyes flicking between her and Avis. She thought for a moment he was about to take the bait.
‘Don’t try your stupid games on me.’ He pushed the words out the side of his mouth.
She swallowed nervously, throat parched with anxiety and exertion. He must have noticed her falter; it set him off, he couldn’t resist rubbing her face in the dirt.
‘Unfortunately you’ve inherited your father’s tendency to imagine you are a bit superior to everyone else. A bit of a hero. But you’re no player. You’re just a silly little copper’s daughter.’
He leered at her. ‘So I suggest you hand over whatever you got from Jim and go home before you irritate me further and I decide that you’re a waste of space that has to be dealt with in other ways.’
Other ways. She felt the panic rising. Heard the bike revving again. The rider. The hitman. And then she sensed a prickling in her neck, a slight movement in the air. In the tail of her eye she caught a towering figure, a domineering presence emerging from the shadows: straight back, trenchcoat buttoned, trousers pressed. Lined face below the tilted rim of his trilby, the steel frames of his glasses glinting in the rays of the sinking sun. He took a step up the incline.
‘Leave this to me,’ he said to the Watcher. His voice was calm, educated, consonants pronounced without any audible twang. Golf-club English. It had to be the Commander. She almost cried with relief. Safe. She could hand the envelope over. He would sort the Watcher out.
The Watcher didn’t budge, kept his tight grip on her arm. The Commander glowered at him.
‘Let her go.’ The Commander spoke with an air of tedium which suggested he didn’t have much tolerance for people who disobeyed his instructions. The Watcher twitched, dug his fingers further into her flesh.
The Commander raised a greying eyebrow. ‘I said let her go.’
The Watcher released Sam’s arm and took a step backwards up the slope.
‘I’m really not sure why Intelligence insist on using you.’ There was a hint of tetchiness in the Commander’s tone now. ‘Everybody knows you are incapable of keeping to your mission objectives.’
He glared at the Watcher and the Watcher recoiled. ‘Everybody knows you always end up following your own private agendas. Your own personal grudges. Your own… obsessions. You can’t stop yourself, can you? I can only assume that Intelligence decided to hire you because they needed somebody disposable for this job.’