Crossfire

by Andy McNab

  'Nick, I have to go.'

  So, that was it, then. No more pay cheques from TVZ 24.

  A very pissed-off voice paged a doctor on the Tannoy. They might have installed CCTV since the 1970s, but some things about the place hadn't changed. The woman's voice sounded exactly the same as the reception staff had when I'd been there as a nine-year-old leaking red stuff.

  I lived on the Tabard Estate, a few streets away, in a block of council flats thrown up after the war. They'd been built on a newly vacant site. Demolition had been cheap, courtesy of the Luftwaffe.

  All the houses were given names associated with Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. Apparently the pilgrimage had started from the Tabard Inn or somewhere. We ended up in Eastwell House: Eastwell was one of the stops along the pilgrims' route, they'd said. I'd never read the Canterbury Tales. I'd thumbed through the Canterbury Messenger once while waiting for a train back to Shorncliff barracks when I was a boy soldier, but that probably didn't count.

  I went to a primary school near the chocolate factory, which for some reason us kids thought was owned by Bob Monkhouse. Another rumour flying round was that the sweet shop in Kirby Grove had a shed behind it stacked with Coca- Cola and R. White's lemonade. One dinner-time, a gang of us set off to scale the wall. Like a dickhead, I volunteered to be first up. I hadn't taken account of the broken glass set into the concrete along the top. I fucked myself up big-time. Blood poured from my lacerated hand, but I knew Guy's was just a couple of minutes away. I ran all the way there. They did their stuff, and told me to go home. I didn't argue. After that I was forever grazing my knees and elbows and taking myself off to Guy's, then home for the rest of the day.

  All I needed now were a few new sutures and some more antibiotics to counter any infection in the wound and the shit I must have swallowed. They'd do it, no trouble. This was south London. It wasn't like they didn't know how to treat gunshot wounds. Once they'd sewn me up and handed out some more antibiotics and painkillers, I'd be looking for Dom, and my first stop would be Tallulah and Ruby's. They were the real casualties. My arm would heal.

  I stuck it out for another twenty minutes as old people vomited into plastic containers and called for their forty-something children, who were wandering round, trying to find out why their parents had been abandoned in the corridors.

  It depressed the shit out of me, and reinforced my own plans for old age. I wasn't going to hang about. Once I started pissing in my pants, it was time to drop myself.

  I got to my feet, picked up all my worldly goods in my Bergen, and asked the Polish builders to keep my seat for me.

  At the coffee machine, I scrabbled in my pocket for change with my free hand, when a gravel-voiced Ulsterman piped up behind me: 'It's all right, boy, I'll get that.'

  I didn't turn. I knew who it was. I could feel his roll-up tobacco breath against my ear. My heart sank.

  'Shirley Temple, if I remember right?' A worn brown leather-covered arm brushed past my face and a big freckled hand threw a quid into the slot and punched 'white no sugar' with a nicotine-stained forefinger.

  25

  Sundance saw the expression on my face. 'Don't worry, boy, we're not carrying. We're not going to hurt you.'

  We? Where there was Sundance, you also got Trainers. I looked round and, sure enough, he was sitting a little further down the corridor. He was there to block a getaway, but he seemed more intent on checking out the nurses, cleaners, female patients, anyone with a pair of tits. His forearms rippled below his short-sleeved shirt as he worked a roll-up. His Red Hand of Ulster tattoo had just been lasered off last time I saw him, and all traces of it had now disappeared.

  I didn't care what Sundance said. I was fucking concerned. They had kicked the shit out of me once before just because the Yes Man, the arse-hole they worked for, felt in that kind of mood. He'd given me a brief to kill a kid, which would send a warning to his father. I hadn't complied, so Sundance and Trainers had introduced me to the Yes Man's alternative brief: go to Panama and kill the father. If not, Kelly, a child who was my last remaining link with the human race, would die.

  I'd nicknamed him Sundance because of his thick, blond, side-parted hair and Robert Redford looks, back in the days when Bob was young enough to play Paul Newman's mate. The years hadn't been kind. His face had dropped an inch or two, and the parting had widened to take in much of the top of his nut.

  And Trainers? He'd got his name because he wore them all the time and they were the first thing I'd seen of him when they were kicking me to shit.

  They'd obviously kept hitting the weights since their days in the H Blocks, but still looked bulked-up rather than honed. With their broken noses and big barrel chests they wouldn't have been out of place outside a nightclub in ill-fitting dinner jackets and Dr Martens. But they were in the Good Lads' Club now, and worked for the Firm.

  Sundance nodded down at my arm as the cup dropped on to the tray. 'Had a bit of a rough time there, eh? I saw it on the news. Hit a bone?'

  I shook my head. He glanced up again as the cup filled. 'Fucking chaos out there, eh?'

  As if he'd know. Guys like him were just muscle, not two brain cells to rub together. They stayed local, within the M25. These days, they were probably used to fight the new enemy – anyone with a towel on their heads. They probably went round intimidating young Muslim men, trying to turn them into sources in the mosques.

  'It has its moments,' I said. 'So, what the fuck are you after?'

  Sundance lifted the steaming coffee from the machine and presented it to me. 'The boss wants to see you at the office.'

  I took the plastic rim with my thumb and forefinger, but I'd gone off the idea. In fact, I suddenly felt sicker than I had when I came into this fucking place. 'When?'

  'Eight thirty tonight.' He reached into his jacket and pulled out a white envelope. 'Here.' He slapped it against my chest. The end had been ripped open and I could see cash.

  'It's for being a good boy and agreeing to see the boss. Extension two seven double eight. There's a taxi waiting outside. It'll take you to Harley Street and get that arm of yours sorted.' Sundance pushed his fist harder into me. 'You'll die waiting for these fuckers to take a look at you, and you've got an appointment this evening.'

  I took the envelope and he backed off.

  'See you later, boy.'

  'Don't hold your breath. There's somewhere I've got to go first.'

  Sundance's head leapt towards mine. His face was just inches away. 'The boss said half eight, so be there.'

  It would have been stupid to get big-time with those two, but I was sorely tempted.

  He shifted so his eyes drilled into mine. 'If you're one second late we'll be seeing you again, only without the smile. You understand, boy?'

  Yes, I knew exactly what he meant. 'What's he want to see me for?'

  He pointed to the screen. The tribute to Pete was coming to an end. 'To do with that pal of yours.'

  They lumbered off down the corridor, thighs rubbing against each other. I didn't breathe again until the two brick shithouses had disappeared through the door.

  I opened the envelope and counted eight hundred pounds in fifties. The Harley Street address was written on the back. The wad had started out as a grand, for sure. They'd deducted a few expenses. I headed outside. The cab could take me to Pete's – or, rather, Tallulah and Ruby's – instead. I'd have to get my arse in gear if I was going to make it to the Yes Man on time.

  I usually got dragged in because they had a job no one else in their right mind would take. But I'd have put good money on that not being the case today. I would be there on time, and for reasons that had nothing to do with those two reading me my horoscope.

  26

  It was about four miles dead south from the hospital, a journey that would have taken ten minutes in the middle of the night. I'd been sitting in the cab for the best part of half an hour, and we probably had another mile to go. I had to be back up with the Yes Man at Vauxhall in an hour and a hal
f, and I didn't want to be late. My arm hurt enough as it was.

  I leant forward to the dividing window. 'Mate, can you wait when we get there? I'll be half-hour, max.'

  'No problem for me, son. It's your clock.'

  One of the Firm's alias-business-cover accounts would be picking up the tab. There were hundreds of ABCs dotted round the world. They financed operations, provided cover jobs, and generally acted as conduits for cash the Firm needed to move into various foreign pockets. ABCs spared government ever having to know what was done in its name. Politicians like to hear about results, not how the Firm achieves them.

  The area hadn't changed much, apart from a one-way system and traffic-lights every few yards. We headed round the edge of the park and turned into Croxted Road. Pete was definitely local-boy-done-good. The Victorian three-storey terraced houses came complete with bay windows and shiny door brasses and must have been going for at least half a million.

  'Just drop us here, mate. There's a parking spot to the right.'

  I got out and took a couple of big breaths. I wanted to be sure I said the right thing. These people were grieving. I couldn't fuck up.

  I hit the doorbell.

  A few seconds later there was a voice the other side. 'Is that you, Nick?'

  I'd called earlier to check she was in.

  The door opened. Tallulah was tall, a good foot taller than Pete. She was wearing a baggy red jumper. Her feet were bare. The shock of long, wavy, hippie-girl hair I'd seen in the photographs and movie clips was tied at the nape of her neck.

  She shook my hand blankly. 'Come on in . . .'

  I followed her past a sitting room and stairs, then down a couple of steps towards a new-looking kitchen-conservatory. She steered me into a room just before it on the right. Maybe she didn't want me to comment on how nice the extension was and ask for the builder's name.

  It was a family room, with a sofa, TV, toys, a beaten-up computer. A window gave out on to a small but perfect garden. Pete's seven-year-old was playing on a swing.

  'Ruby?'

  There was no doubting whose block she was a chip off.

  Tallulah stood a couple of steps away from me, arms folded. She smiled. 'I told her Daddy's gone to heaven. You know what she said? "Is he making a film about God?" '

  On the wall behind her were pictures of Pete doing camera stuff, and the three of them on holiday, all the normal gear. A couple of cut-glass cameras stood on the first shelf above his desk; awards he'd won for doing the job he loved.

  She offered me tea but, fuck it, I had no time for that.

  I didn't sit down but Tallulah did, expectantly.

  I unzipped the side pouch of my Bergen and handed her the bag containing Pete's belongings.

  'Thank you so much for doing this, Nick. You don't know what it means to me.'

  She lifted out his things one by one, laying them on the lid of a pink mini-piano at her feet. She almost caressed each item.

  She took out his wedding ring and the tears came. I just stood there, thinking maybe tea would have been a good idea. 'The station's looking after you, I hope?' I said.

  Tallulah closed her fingers round the gold band. She looked up and sort of nodded.

  I didn't understand.

  She pointed at the shelf. An opened envelope stood between the two glass cameras. 'They cremated him in Basra.' Tallulah reached for a fistful of Kleenex.

  'Oh . . .' I thought about the donor card I'd seen amongst his stuff at Basra airport. 'I thought . . .'

  'I know, it doesn't make sense. He always wanted the bits that still worked to go to someone who needed them.'

  Her head dropped.

  'Do you mind if I have a read?'

  She took the memory stick from the bag and plugged it into the PC. As she sat down in front of the screen I took out the single sheet of A4 and unfolded it. The embossed FCO crest was top centre. There was no extension under the main Whitehall number. The signature block belonged to David Morlands, but there was no departmental accreditation.

  I stood behind her and read the six stark, sterile lines that had been sent to a grieving wife. 'I don't understand, Tallulah,' I lied. 'Maybe there was a mix-up and they thought he was a soldier.'

  I was glad she couldn't see me. I was trying to sound compassionate, but really I wanted to scream at the top of my voice that this was bollocks. There wasn't going to be a David Morlands anywhere in the FCO.

  Tallulah stroked some strands of hair away from her mouth. 'But they bring soldiers home in coffins, don't they? I wouldn't have expected them to drape him in a flag or any of that, but they should have got my permission for cremation, surely.'

  The screen filled with the pictures of Ruby that Pete had shown me.

  What was I going to do? Tell her my suspicions? What was the point in making these two's lives even more complicated, especially when I had no proof? 'Have you heard from Dom?'

  'You're the first to come. The station's been sorting out for me to go to Brize Norton to collect the urn. But I don't really care about that, Nick. I just wish he'd been brought home the way he wanted.'

  She clicked on a movie clip I hadn't seen. Pete was in the garden in a pair of orange Hawaiian shorts I could only hope he'd been ashamed of, trying to push Ruby's ice-cream cone on to her nose.

  'Me, too. Maybe if Dom calls you could ask him to get in touch. Maybe tell you where he is.'

  Her shoulders lifted again as she fought back a new wave of grief.

  'You know, Tallulah, I think Pete and Dom might have had a fall-out these past couple of weeks. Maybe that's why he hasn't called – you know, feeling a bit guilty.'

  She bit her bottom lip as she stared out of the window. 'He said Dom had become withdrawn. They used to be so open with each other. It was depressing the hell out of Pete. He said Dom had got one-tracked about some drug story. He made a joke about him being more addicted to the story than the junkies were to the heroin.'

  'That sounds like Pete . . .'

  She tilted her head. 'He was always shielding me like that. A few weeks ago Dom had him filming dirty old men in Dublin. They supplied young guys with drugs, then had sex with them. God knows what was really going on.' She smiled bravely, but she couldn't stop the tears. 'He was going to ask the station about changing jobs. He wanted to spend more time . . .'

  It was all too much. I reached for the box of tissues.

  'Tally! Tally!' Ruby ran into the room. She froze as she spotted the stranger.

  'Ruby, this is Nick. He's a friend of Daddy's.'

  'Hello, Ruby.' I crouched down and held out my hand. A small and grubby one reached out, very shyly, and clung to it.

  'I knew a little girl just like you once. She used to play on her swing, kicking her legs so she got really high. But not as high as you. You were really good.'

  Ruby's hand fell from mine. She shifted from one foot to the other. 'What's her name?'

  'Kelly.'

  I got up slowly.

  'My daddy's with God. He's shooting.'

  She was proud of the jargon her dad had taught her. As she craned her neck to peer up at me I saw Pete craning his to look in the columns outside Basra Palace. She was his spitting image. His legacy was going to be hanging about for another few decades for sure.

  'I know. Your daddy's so good at what he does that God wanted him on his team.'

  She folded her arms and tilted her head. 'Are you a reporter?'