by Andy McNab
There was a pause; I could almost hear the cogs churning as he linked this to Sarah and her country breaks. I was expecting a reply along the lines of, "I don't feel comfortable with this, Nick," but instead got a very nonchalant, "When do you need this by?"
"Later this afternoon would be great. Do you think you can?" I had to turn back toward the booth to hear him as three trucks thundered past.
"No, but I know a man who might. I can't wait to call him."
"Thanks for that, Michael, I really appreciate it. There is no one else I can ask you know how it is. But I would like this one to be just between you, me and the gate post, OK?"
"You, me and the gate post, mmm, sounds interesting. Byeee!"
I stepped back into the booth and hung up. I would rather have been talking with Josh, but I couldn't until he got back from the U.K." Metal Mickey would have to do.
The rain had given me a new layer of wet on the shoulders of my jacket and hair. My forearm was starting to sting again. Walking to the car, I lifted up my jacket cuff to investigate. Not good. There were scabs forming, but the bites were deep and needed cleaning and dressing by someone who really knew what they were doing. At least when it scarred I wouldn't have to explain anything. The teeth marks said all there was to say.
I did a drive-past of the motel, checking to see if there was anything abnormal, such as sixteen police cars and twice as many shotguns, ready to pounce. Nothing. I parked up and walked past the reception. Looking through the glass doors, I could see that Donna was still at reception, still reading whatever was so riveting below the desk. There was a tray of Danishes next to the coffee machine for the guests, and a bowl of big red apples.
Everything looked absolutely normal.
I put my relaxed face on and headed through the door. Three children were fighting over who was going to carry what bag. I smelled the coffee and remembered I was hungry. Leaving the family to sort out its shit, I walked over to the machine, picked up coffees, four apples and the same amount of pastries, and then went back over to Donna.
"We've decided to check out early now we have a replacement car," I said, breaking the corner off one of the Danishes and taking a bite.
"Sure, no problem, but I'm afraid I'll have to charge you full price."
She printed out the bill and I checked it to see if there were any phone calls logged. There weren't. I signed the card counter foil
I went to the room. The two telltales were still in place. Knocking on the door, I made sure she could see me through the spy hole as I pulled them out.
The heat was stifling, and the moisture from the drying clothes and bodies had made it as humid as a greenhouse. She'd gone back to watching Tv sitting on the edge of the bed, still with a towel around her. She took her plate and coffee without looking at me, her eyes glued to the screen.
"It's the third bulletin I've seen."
As I joined her on the bed, I could see that it was a rerun of what I'd heard on the radio. A reporter was talking with a background of police cars and vans, and then the woods. He was wearing a brand-new blue Gore-Tex jacket, probably bought on expenses at Sears on the way to the lake; the hood was down so that you could see his very perfect, plastic hair and face, and he was talking in that earnest here-weareatthe-scene tone of voice. The shootings had happened hours ago, but he had to make it sound like the bad guys could reappear any minute.
I said, "Have they mentioned any details?"
She was sounding quite excited.
"Yes. They've all said it was two men at the gas station, but there are unconfirmed reports that one of them could be a woman. The FBI are at both scenes, but there's been no official statement yet." She took a bite of Danish and spoke through a mouthful of pastry.
"That woman in the blue Mazda must have been really scared if she couldn't see I was female."
I had to agree. But then again, maybe they were going on the dogs finding Sarah's underwear. After another mouthful she added, "There's been no mention of Lance."
I wasn't bothered by that; I knew they wouldn't be giving the media everything they knew. Unless they hadn't found him yet. The main thing was that no police had been killed.
I stood up and walked over to the window. Her clothes were mostly dry now.
"It's time to move. Get your kit on, let's go."
She pulled her jeans on, and I knew what they would feel like stiff and horrible. She got them on, bent her knees and did little squats to make them a bit more pliable, dusted off the mud and got her top back on. As she put on her size-eleven trainers she looked up at me.
"Where are our new clothes?"
"I forgot. Let's go!"
We got into the car and I drove. She didn't seem to notice to start with, because she was busy eating her apples and drinking coffee, but when we got onto the highway it was obvious we were driving away from the airport, not toward it. She frowned.
"Where are we going?"
"Fayetteville."
She picked up the map sheet of the state that the hire company had left for us.
"But that's even farther away from Washington. Why Fayetteville?"
"Because that's what I want to do: I want to be out of here and in a safe area that I know. Then I'll sort my shit out." I kept my eyes open for signs for the 401 south.
Her face fell.
"You are going to help me, aren't you, Nick?"
I didn't answer.
Keeping to the speed limit so as not to attract any police attention, I drove along the same road as before toward the city. Crossing the Cape Fear bridge, I noticed a car park on the other side, on the riverbank below the bridge, to allow fishermen and boats to get to the water. As we reached land and passed the exit down to it, I made a mental note.
Soon afterward we hit Fayetteville city limits, which seemed to consist entirely of fast-food joints.
"Why Fayetteville, Nick? Why are we here?"
It was the sort of America she'd never seen, nor wanted to, by the look on her face.
"This is the only place I know in North Carolina. I plan to stand off here until London decides how they're going to get you, and me, back to the U.K. They'll have to sort this gang-fuck out with the State Department before we go anywhere, or do anything. Until then, we need to keep out of the way of the police--in fact, everyone."
I glanced across and thought I saw her stiffen. I knew she was rattled about all this, but she was fucked if she was going to show it.
I drove down Skibo, and Century 21 was just as I remembered it, a logcabin-style converted home set amongst pine trees, with a small car park in front and a large neon sign jutting out from the side of the road. But I wasn't ready to go in yet; I needed to sort my act out and look at least halfway presentable.
I drove some more and found a shopping area set around an open square. Beyond that, way over to my left, I saw the "Pentagon," and realized that this must be part of the shopping mall I'd been to before. A large
banner hung from a York stone facade the size of a row of houses. It announced that Sears department store was ready and waiting to take my money any time with its fantastic sportswear sale. I pulled in and buried the car amongst a whole lot of other vehicles.
She was staring at me.
"What now?"
"Clothes. I'll go on my own. What size are you?"
"I've already told you I'm an eight, and my shoe is six, both U.S."
Then she gave me a look that said, Can't you remember? You used to know that stuff.
Looking at her as she smiled, I closed the door and walked toward Goody's Family Clothing Store.
Half an hour later I came back with two bulging nylon sports bags. We went into the Pentagon and changed in the public toilets. I washed my face and made an attempt to dress my arm injuries with some of Goody's finest dishcloths. I should have found a pharmacy, but I just couldn't be assed; there seemed to be more important things to do. Besides, I was the original one-stop shopper. Once washed and changed I waited outside the
washrooms with my bag of old clothes. Nearby was a cell phone shop; I went in and bought two $20 call cards and stopped off at the ATM.
Sarah and I looked quite the devoted couple in our matching suburbanite jeans and sweatshirts, with neat nylon bomber jackets for the rain. It certainly made me feel a lot better to be out of my mingy old kit, but my eyes were stinging with fatigue and I had trouble focusing on anything for too long. We got back to the car and threw the old stuff in the trunk.
I was now into a new phase of the job.
"You drive," I said, throwing the keys at her.
"I'll tell you where."
We drove onto the Century 21 lot and parked up amongst the fir trees.
The engine was still running, and I looked across the carriage way toward a gas station, not really concentrating, but getting myself ready for the next few minutes. These things have to look natural, and that can happen only if you act natural. That takes just a bit of preparation.
She was confused.
"What are we doing now?"
"Like I said, we are doing nothing. / am getting us somewhere to stay.
The fewer people that see us together, the better. Wait here."
I left the keys with her again. It was no drama, she was going nowhere;
she wanted me to help her. Besides, she knew that if she drove off I'd have to call it in, and she would then be OTR (on the run) not only from me, but also from the police, and the Firm would have no option but to stitch her up.
I left her counting trucks and went inside the office. I recognized Velvet from her voice as she took another phone inquiry at the speed of sound.
Her hair was long, past her shoulders, and she had a dyed-blond perm that was long overdue for a refit. It had so much spray on it that the hairs looked like strands of nylon. The skin on her arms and hands showed that she was in her twenties, but her fingers were yellow and she already had crow's-feet from screwing up her face to stop the cigarette smoke getting in her eyes. She looked pretty enough on the outside, but I wouldn't have wanted to look down a fiber-optic scope into her lungs. My eyes were stinging more than ever.
She finished her call and looked up.
"Hi. How may I help you?"
"Hi, my name's Nick Snell. I booked an apartment with you this morning."
Before I'd finished she was already going into her files, and moments later she nourished a key.
"I'll need you to fill out this form. I forgot to ask if you have any pets. If so, they mustn't weigh more than twenty pounds each and you are only allowed two. How are you paying?"
"No, I don't, and cash."
At last, a reaction from her that wasn't fully automated; maybe she liked the way I pronounced the word "cash." Two minutes later I was heading back to the car.
I opened the map and looked for North Reilly Road, which Velvet had told me was only a few minutes' drive away. Stewart's Creek turned out to be a private "community" with just one road in and out; it opened up into an area of about forty acres, on which sat twenty or so blocks of green, wooden-facaded apartment blocks, three stories high. We observed the 15 mph limit as we entered our new neighborhood.
"It's apartment one seven one two," I said, looking from side to side.
"I
guess that's building seventeen." Sarah nodded and we splashed our way through the puddles, looking at the numbers on the large gray mail boxes arranged outside each block. We passed the community pool and tennis courts, beside which stood a row of call booths and Coke and newspaper machines.
"Got it." Sarah turned into number seventeen's parking lot.
We climbed the wooden stairs and entered the apartment. The first impression was, brown. There was a brown sofa and chair around a tv and a log fire in the fake-stone fireplace, with a chain-mail curtain to protect the brown carpet. The living area was open plan, with the kitchen area facing us as we went in. At the far end of the room was a set of sliding patio doors with insect mesh on the outer side, which led to a small balcony.
The place smelled clean and looked comfortable. In the bedrooms, blankets, sheets and towels were all laid out, ready for use. In the kitchen there was a welcome pack of coffee, powdered creamer and sugar. Sarah went into the bedrooms, closing the blinds. I slipped into the kitchen area and switched on the freezer, turning the dial to "rapid." The sound of the motor powering up was too noisy, so I put the fridge on as well.
She came back into the living room as I was putting the kettle on.
"Now what?" she asked, closing the patio-door blinds to cut out prying eyes.
"Nothing. You stay here, I'll go and get food. I'm starving. The kettle's on, why not make a brew?"
I drove to the nearest store, which was part of a gas station, and bought the normal supplies a couple of subs, chips, canned drinks, washing and shaving kit. Then I used my call card to dial Metal Mickey from a phone booth on the forecourt. There was no answer from his extension at the embassy, not even voice mail and the switchboard wouldn't take messages.
Baby-G told me it was 18:36. He must have finished for the day. I tried to remember his home number; I couldn't, shit. It got binned with the 3C.
I returned to the apartment. Sarah was lying on the sofa half asleep, TV on and with no coffee made. I threw her a sub and a bag of chips, and turned to reheat the water. The yellow freezer light told me it was still working overtime to achieve quick freeze.
Sarah eventually reached out and started to pull open her food. I poured water into the coffee mugs.
The annoying thing was that everything she'd said made sense; she'd done nothing to show she was lying. Why should she trust anyone back in London? I knew from firsthand experience that the Firm was as slippery as an eel in baby oil.
I turned around to face her as I placed the coffee on the breakfast bar.
She was lying back with the sub on her chest, one mouthful missing.
She'd closed down. I knew how she felt. I was knackered and my head was starting to spin. I desperately needed sleep. I checked that the front door was locked and crashed out on one of the double beds, on top of the piles of sheets, towels and blankets.
It was still dark when I woke. I turned and felt another body next to me. I hadn't heard or felt her come into the room.
As my eyes adjusted to the dull light from the street lamps through the blinds, I could make out her shape. She was facing me, curled up, her hands together, supporting her head. It sounded as if she was having a bad dream. She mumbled to herself and started to move her head against the folded blanket. She'd never appeared more vulnerable. I just lay there, looking at her.
Her skin glowed in the warmth of the room, but her brow was furrowed.
For a moment, she almost seemed to be in pain. I reached out to touch her, just as she gave a small cry, tossed and turned once, then settled again. I could still smell the scent of apple shampoo in her hair.
I figured I'd been pretty good at keeping people at arm's length ever since I was a kid. It didn't make life completely fucking brilliant, but it kept me going and it sure as hell helped avoid disappointment. This was different, though. Very different.
She murmured again and snuggled closer to me. I didn't know how to deal with this at all. First Kelly, now Sarah. Any minute now I'd be checking out real estate agents' particulars for the dream cottage with roses around the door. The full catastrophe. It scared the shit out of me.
I'd never been the world's best when it came to staying in one place, and I started to have this uncomfortable feeling that keeping on the move suited me so well because it meant I didn't have to think too much about what I was running away from, or what I was heading toward.
I could hear the TV still going in the next room. A woman was trying to sell us a great deal on a barbecue set. I rolled over, sat up and pulled at the corner of the blinds. It wasn't raining, but I could see from the rivulets on the windows that we'd had another downpour during the last few hours.
The back lighter of Baby-G told me
it was 02:54.
I stood up slowly, trying not to disturb her, and made my way toward the kitchen. Rubbing my eyes back into life as I passed the mirror on the living room wall, I saw the face from hell; creases and blotches from sleeping on the towels, and my hair thick with grease, sticking up as if I'd had a good burst from a Tazer. I shuffled to the kitchen, scratching every fold of skin I could reach. It was coffee time.
Sarah must have heard me banging about. Her voice behind me matched the way I felt and looked.
"I'd like one of those, please." The TV went quiet as she hit "off" on the remote.
She sat on the sofa, looking sheepishly at the carpet, her arms between her legs, as if she'd been unmasked as human after all. I was expecting her to say, "Please don't tell anyone," but she didn't. Instead she said, "I'm sorry about that. Nick, I just felt so alone and scared. I needed to be close to you." She looked up at me. Her eyes were full of pain, and something else I couldn't quite identify, but found myself hoping was regret.
"You did mean a lot to me. Nick. I just didn't know how to deal with it at the time. I'm sorry for how I behaved then, and I'm sorry for being so stupid now." She paused, searching my face.
"I won't do it again, I promise."
I turned back to the coffee and tried to sound upbeat.
"That's OK, no drama."
What I really wanted to do was grab her, hold her tightly and pretend for a moment that I could make everything all right. But I was frozen between my memory of what she'd done to me in the past and what my orders were for the future.
I plugged in the kettle, feeling more and more confused. I had a crack at dragging myself back to the present.
"I need Michael Wamer's home number."
It didn't register with her at first.
"Who?"
"Michael Warner. I want his home number."
I turned and glanced at her. It dawned on her that I'd been to Washington.
She said, "What did you tell them?" I didn't think I'd ever seen her look more miserable.
"That I was reviewing your PV Anyway, I've talked only to Metal Mickey."