Zara's Game

by Jo Black

  Hunter departed outside, Bashir waited until Hunter was in the Tahoe before hurrying out into the street, hailing a black cab and getting in.

  ‘You get fixed up?’ Jack asked.

  Hunter held up the packet of ulcer medication Bashir had given him. ‘Should take care of business until I can get some treatment stateside.’

  ‘Heathrow,’ Jack instructed the driver. The convoy made its way up Marylebone Road to the Westway before heading for the M4 and Heathrow Airport. Jack stared out of the dark tinted side window. ‘Your doc, I swear I know that face from some place.’

  ‘Yeah? You know what those guys are like. They all look the same...’ Hunter said with a dismissive shrug.

  4

  The scene at the American Airlines first class check-in desk was chaotic. Hunter was lying in a pool of blood and vomit, body twitching with a seizure as paramedics tried to get an I.V line into him and stabilise him whilst a crowd of onlookers stood staring. ‘How is he?’ Jack asked.

  ‘I think he’s having a cardiac arrest, but that doesn’t explain the blood in his vomit, do you know if he is suffering from any medical conditions?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s been complaining about an aggravated stomach ulcer, he went to get some treatment from his doctor before the flight.’

  ‘I think his ulcer might have burst, and maybe triggered a heart issue. In any case we need to get him into surgery urgently. I’m sorry but your friend won’t be flying anywhere today. We’ll get him to the Royal London Hospital. They’ll take good care of him. Lucky for him it didn’t happen over the middle of the Atlantic or he’d be a goner for sure.’

  The paramedics loaded Hunter onto a stretcher trolley, now wired to oxygen and a suction line to keep his airway from choking on blood. Jack patted him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry buddy, they’ll take good care of you. We’ll make sure they get you a good surgeon.’

  Hunter nodded then passed out.

  ‘Doctor Al-Rahman, your patient is awake now,’ the nurse told Bashir, who was sat waiting patiently outside the intensive care post-operative room at the Royal London’s private wing. Bashir folded his newspaper up and set it down.

  ‘Thank you,’ Bashir said. He got up and walked over to a doctor’s changing room and put on a green gown, surgical mask, and hat. He headed over past two C.I.A door guards into the private room where Hunter was rigged up with a nose line ventilator and wired to an E.C.G. Bashir closed the venetian blinds over the glass corridor window and sat down on the chair next to Hunter’s bed.

  ‘What time is it?’ Hunter asked groggily.

  ‘Ten p.m.’

  Hunter frowned. ‘How long was I out for?’

  ‘A little more than two days.’

  ‘Two days? What the fuck did you give me?’

  ‘There were some complications. It seems your ulcer was much worse than expected. The drugs aggravated it a little more, but when you got to hospital they opened you up and...’ Bashir trailed off.

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘It was a tumour.’

  ‘Cancer?’

  Bashir nodded. ‘They removed it, but it had spread so they’ve removed part of your digestive tract and a third of your stomach.’

  ‘So that’s it?’

  ‘For now...’

  ‘I see...’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You don’t have to be Bashir. From the sound of it you just saved my ass. If you hadn’t over-cooked that micky-finn they’d have never have known. I never go to the doc.’

  ‘They’ll prescribe drugs. Possibly some chemotherapy, it could return. They have to wait and see.’

  ‘Yeah. Fuck it I guess. You’ve got to die of something right?’ Hunter felt down at the stitches on his side and grimaced as he tried to move.

  ‘I don’t think you are in a condition to be going to Paris my friend.’

  ‘No, fuck that Bashir. This is the perfect opportunity. My friends from Langley still making their presence felt?’

  ‘Two outside the door.’

  Hunter bit his lip as he tried to sit up. ‘I guess that means I don’t have to worry about pissing my pension up the wall. How long they give me?’

  ‘Twelve months...two years...they don’t know. They never know. Whatever Allah wills you.’

  ‘I’m not sure Allah and I are on exactly favourable terms given how many of his devoted I’ve put three feet under. You fix up my out?’

  ‘Everything is arranged. You need me to come with you?’

  ‘No, I need you to stay here and buy me an exit window.’

  ‘Whatever you wish.’

  ‘You have everything with you?’

  ‘Yes. Vincent is expecting you.’

  ‘When’s the last train?’

  ’12.15 a.m. from Waterloo.’

  ‘It’s tight, but that should buy me until morning. Okay. Help me up.’

  Bashir got up from his seat and disabled the audible alarms on the E.C.G, he helped Hunter sit up and remove the various monitoring pads from his chest and ventilation line from his nose. Bashir quickly undressed and swapped his clothes for Hunter’s hospital gown. ‘Your ticket and clean passport are in my jacket pocket. Vincent will meet you in the usual place tomorrow evening at 8:30 p.m. The address for the safe apartment is in my wallet along with the key.’

  ‘Thanks Bash, I don’t know I’ll be able to pay you back for this.’

  ‘You already have. Many times.’ Hunter pulled the surgical mask up to hide his face as he rigged Bashir up to the E.C.G monitor. Bashir smiled at Hunter. They shook hands. ‘Allah be with you my old friend.’

  ‘Thank you, Bashir. You’re a good man.’

  Hunter made his way to the door. He opened it and headed out. The two Agency guards looked up briefly, but then returned to their reading. Hunter made his way to the lift at the end of the corridor. The pain was excruciating and he could barely stand up, fortunately the mask was doing a good job of hiding the cold sweat he was breaking into. The lift arrived and he punched the button for the reception floor. As soon as the doors closed he removed the surgical gown mask and hat then stuffed them into the waste bin trap built into the side of the lift. Jack hadn’t considered him much of a flight risk given his post operative state, so Hunter was relieved to find no further Agency guys waiting in the hospital reception. He made his way out front to the taxi rank. ‘Waterloo Station,’ he said to the driver. ‘Quickest route, I need to make a train.’

  ‘Right you are guvnor,’ the driver replied before tearing off out from the hospital courtyard apron.

  At the late hour there wasn’t much traffic so they made quick progress across London, arriving at the Eurostar concourse well in time for Hunter’s check-in. Being the last train of the night and mid-week there was barely a handful of passengers waiting in the lounge. Hunter quickly checked in and made his way through passport control and security before heading to the gent’s toilet, he found a cubicle on the end and collapsed into a heap, resisting as best he could his body’s repeated demands to pass out into a semi-unconscious stupor. He took a small bottle of painkillers out from his pocket and swallowed three of them, hoping to get enough respite for the three or so hours he needed to reach the safe house in Paris where he could get some much needed rest in bed.

  It was the sudden, and seemingly loud, bi-lingual announcement for final boarding that brought Hunter back to life. He quickly got up in a panic, headed out the cubicle, washed the cold sweat from his face and patted it dry with a paper towel then headed down the platform to the first class carriage where his seat had been booked. The entire carriage was devoid of passengers. Hunter collapsed into a wide comfortable seat and reclined it as far as he could, removing his shoes and putting his feet up on the opposite seat to try and get as comfortable as possible.

  An attractive and over-cheerful French stewardess arrived and deposited a glass of complimentary champagne as the train pulled out of the station. ‘Are you okay Sir? Is there anything I can get you? A blanket
perhaps, it is a little chilly non?’

  ‘A blanket would be great. And could you do me a favour?’

  ‘For sure.’

  ‘I’m kind of tired so if I go into a deep sleep, can you make sure I wake up when I arrive? I’ve been ill for a few days.’

  ‘Sure. No problem. Can I get you anything to eat or drink?’

  ‘No, I’m good for now.’

  ‘If you need anything then I’m at your service.’

  The stewardess returned a few minutes later with a complimentary wool blanket and a pillow. Hunter stared at the champagne wondering if he dare risk it, not having had any kind of medical guidance beyond what Bashir had told him, he wasn’t sure if it was safe to eat or drink, or if his digestive system was even functional, but craving the sleep-inducing affects of alcohol he decided it was worth a punt. If he was going to go to his grave then death by champagne en-route to Paris seemed a fitting end. He took a gentle sip — thankful it was a lighter Moet type affair rather than some full 4-star Bollinger rocket fuel. As the champagne slid down his neck he waited for some kind of burning and exploding pain from his stomach that never came, so elected to gently sip it little by little hoping that it wouldn’t take vengeance on him some time later.

  The combined effect of the champagne, painkillers, soft rocking of the train carriage and silent whoosh of the air going past all contributed to quickly sending him into a deep sleep, not that his body needed much encouragement at that point, but the pain had finally subsided enough to let him have some shred of reprieve. Hunter’s sleep was at once deep yet broken and fitful, his body suddenly bursting into consciousness, grasping flickers of the world around him — the dark countryside — the bright lights of the Eurotunnel complex then the dark endless tunnel. The soft glow of the carriage lights mixed with conversations from the past jumbled out of order like a surreal remix of the past and present rolled into a montage of sights and sounds.

  Good to her word, the stewardess gently rocked Hunter awake with the delicacy of a mother waking her sleeping infant. ‘I’m sorry to wake you Sir. We are in Paris Gare du’Nord.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Hunter said politely and nodded he understood.

  ‘Do you require any assistance?’

  ‘Assistance? No I’m good.’ Hunter frowned. Forgetting momentarily what he’d just been through until he caught his own reflection in the window and saw what seemed like the face of a near-dead seventy year-old man staring back.

  ‘We have a senior’s assistance program, they can bring a wheelchair,’ she offered politely. Normally Hunter would have been mightily offended at the notion, but two things occurred to him. Firstly, that the state he was in he’d probably not make it to the end of the platform before passing out, and secondarily, it would make a much better cover to be passed off as an infirm or disabled passenger than a guy who looked like he was about to die of something hideous and possibly contagious when crossing a nation’s border — especially given his American nationality didn’t give him the same freedom of movement as the E.U members, and the last thing he wanted was to get picked up by the radar of the local U.S embassy.

  ‘You’re very kind thank you.’

  ‘You can wait here, I will call for someone.’

  Another ten minutes passed and a bright young Frenchman accompanied by another bouncing ponytail’d young female arrived, both clad in matching smart Eurostar uniforms. They helped Hunter out of his seat and off the train carriage before depositing him on the back facing seat of an electric golf buggy. The young girl insisting on sitting next to him and holding him in place in case his decrepitude caused him to fall off at the heady six k.p.h pace the cart managed towards the end of the platform, complete with flashing beacon and warning hooter to ensure the few passengers milling around the 2 a.m. scene weren’t mowed down in a catastrophe. They made their way to the nearby taxi rank where a Mercedes taxi had already been summoned. Hunter thanked them politely in French, wondering how they managed to be so cheerful at past two in the morning, and slid into the back of the taxi. Hunter gave the driver the slip of paper with the address on and then relaxed back in his seat, drifting in and out of sleep aided by the soothing jazz music that seemed to be some government-mandated requirement for all French taxis.

  The safe house apartment was in the grand, and expensive, Golden Triangle district where financiers and business tycoons rubbed shoulders with the political and famous. Hunter was relieved to find the apartment building had a lift as the apartment was on the grand first floor, the stairs being completely beyond his capability to do anything but crawl up. Having made his way inside, he found a small note from the apartment housekeeper and a box of fresh groceries on the kitchen table. He took the large bottle of Evian water and headed straight to the bedroom, he reached the bed, crawled onto it and immediately passed out unconscious.

  5

  Hunter squinted as bright shafts of late afternoon light streamed through the tall Haussmann windows. The pungent smell of smoke from a Gitanes hanging in the air immediately assaulted his nostrils, as the hushed exchange of French conversation from either side of him registered. He focused on the soft kindly features of the half-Algerian half-French middle-aged man sat next to his bed, dressed in a leather jacket, cigarette hanging from his lip. Hunter’s eyes passed across to the smart-suited doctor with a stethoscope listening to his chest and the pair of French intelligence operatives sat on Napoleon baroque chairs over towards the far side of the room.

  ‘Vincent.’

  ‘You are lucky to be alive,’ Vincent replied in a soft Gallic-accented English. ‘The doctor tells me if you move again it is likely you will rupture your internal stitches and haemorrhage to death.’

  ‘That might be preferable to a long death at the hands of cancer,’ Hunter replied dryly.

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘It’s nothing. Who called you?’

  ‘The housekeeper. She called Bashir. Bashir called me. We’re all very worried.’

  ‘The embassy?’

  ‘They don’t know you are here. Bashir explained what he could. But I’m curious, why are you not in hospital. What is so important to risk and suffer all this for?’

  ‘You know Zara Scott?’

  ‘Of course. Zara is my good friend.’

  ‘Then you know why it is important. She’s been taken. In Pakistan.’

  ‘That is not good news. By whom?’

  ‘Someone from our side.’

  ‘That is worse news. I can see now why you would not seek help from your own people. What can we do?’

  ‘I need to reach someone who can help. I need to speak to The Frenchman. I’d go to the Russians, but I don’t trust them. The problem is I have nothing to trade with, and I can’t afford his finder’s fee. I have a little put by for my retirement but it won’t be enough.’

  ‘Don’t worry. For Zara there will be no finder’s fee. I will make sure of it.’ Hunter tried to move, the doctor protested to Vincent vehemently in French. Vincent calmed him down then turned his attention back to Hunter. ‘You cannot move. He thinks if you rest, sleep, then he can stabilise your condition, but if you try and move again you will not last the day.’

  ‘I don’t have time for that Vincent. Zara doesn’t have time for that.’

  ‘She is lucky to have such a devoted friend.’

  ‘I’m maybe her only chance.’

  ‘Tell me what you know, and maybe I can help.’

  ‘She was working a jacket on The Saudi Group with Bishop. Our Agency guy on A.Q. Bishop’s been framed for the murders of a Ben Kaminski, Jewish finance kid from New York, and his girl. The F.B.I say he and Zara made off with a hundred and twenty million U.S.’

  ‘And you don’t believe them?’

  ‘Bishop’s gone to ground. Zara’s gone missing. I met with Gilad ben David, You know him?’

  ‘Mossad.’

  ‘Zara’s surveillance team caught a guy, Clark Sanders, maybe State Department, maybe just his cover. He kill
ed Ben’s business partner Elijah Goldstein. They were involved in a trade, according to Mossad, to fund a missile defence system for the Israelis, the trade was based on intelligence provided by the Saudis.’

  ‘Why would the Saudis help the Israelis?’

  ‘The enemy of my enemy. They both want to fuck the Iranians. They both want Saddam gone. They both have friends in Washington.’

  ‘An interesting alliance of temporary mutual interest.’

  ‘You got it. Ben David said the people who have Zara will trade her for the tape.’

  ‘So who has the tape?’

  ‘Bishop.’

  ‘Who is missing...’

  ‘I went to London to meet a guy who was tight with Bishop. I didn’t get anything out of him other than that he thinks Bishop has a daughter: Megan. That’s all I have. College age, works at a bar called The Firehouse or the Fire Station in Mountain View outside San Francisco. Bob thought he might be in touch with her, or she might have a way to get in touch with him.’

  ‘So what is your plan?’

  ‘Try and leverage the daughter, get Bishop to come out of the grass so I can get the tape, make the trade via Gilad and get her back. It’s slim, but that’s all I have.’

  ‘So what do you need the Frenchman for?’

  ‘Alex Green.’

  ‘The Dragon?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Do you think that is wise?’

  ‘I’m in over my head Vincent, I don’t know who I’m dealing with or how far the rot’s spread in the apple tree. Alex is the only person I trust, ironically, given his vested interest in Zara’s well being. Pretty much everyone else has burned me, he’s the only guy who’ll go out to bat for her without any question where his loyalty is.’

  ‘But you know his methods. That is something of a scorched earth strategy.’

  ‘It’s all I’ve got. It’s maybe all Zara has got.’

  ‘Then we must all do what we can to help our friend. But you need to rest. This place is safe. I will speak to Dufort. Are you sure you want Alex Green’s involvement? You know once he is told, there is no turning back from this course.’