Crisis Four ns-2

by Andy McNab

  "Will you still call me next week?"

  "I promise. Don't worry, this isn't instead of next week's phone call. I'll see you soon, no worries." I was just about to carry out our normal routine at the end of a call, but checked myself. This one was different. Shit, this could be the last time I spoke to her.

  "Hey, Kelly."

  "What?"

  "I love you."

  She sounded slightly quizzed at me saying it first, but very happy nonetheless.

  "I love you, too!"

  "Bye bye." I slowly took the phone away from my ear and switched it off, not too sure how I felt about letting it all hang out.

  "How old is she?"

  "Nine last week" "You kept that quiet, didn't you?"

  "She's a friend's child."

  "Of course."

  "No, she is." I thought about telling her about Kev and Marsha, but decided against it.

  She sat next to me on the sofa and cupped both hands around her coffee, still puffy-eyed.

  "You OK?"

  She nodded, trying to regain some sort of composure.

  "Yes. Look, thanks for ... I don't know what came over me."

  As we drank our coffee I explained my plan. We would go to D.C." and I would look at what Metal Mickey thought was so worth looking at. Depending on what I found, I would then decide whether to tell Josh, or just go for it ourselves.

  I was feeling uncomfortable about the Josh situation, but cut away by trying to justify it to myself by the fact that he wouldn't be back until early this afternoon, and by then I'd be with Mickey. So it wasn't as if I was abusing our friendship. I took another sip and decided that was bollocks.

  Deep down, I knew I was.

  Everything we did now would be paid for and ordered by Sarah, in the name of Sarah Darnley. It was part of her security blanket. There must not be any movement detected on my credit card or phone. We went back

  down to the call box and called the ticket line. We were going to leave for Washington National on the 8:50 a.m. from Raleigh.

  After showering and sorting our shit out we drove north, back toward Raleigh. There was a constant flow of early morning commuter traffic. It was cloudy, but no need for wipers yet. First light had passed us by as we headed out of the city, stopping only to buy some coffee and a plain blue baseball cap for Sarah from a gas station. I had one hand on the wheel and was sipping coffee through the gap in the top of the container when Sarah, who'd been keeping one eye on her wing mirror, turned off the radio.

  "Nick, we have a problem."

  Behind us, and to our right, was a Fayetteville blue and white. I stopped at the lights as Sarah started to draw her pistol, placing it under her right thigh. On the basis of her performance so far, the mere sight of it got me flapping.

  "Sarah, let me do this."

  She didn't reply. The cruiser came up level. My heart started to pound big time. Both of the patrolmen, one black, the other Hispanic, were wearing black, short-sleeved shirts and sunglasses, even at this time of the morning. Their chests looked bigger than they actually were, due to the protection they wore under their shirts. The driver was staring at us both, the Hispanic was facedown, looking at a screen attached to the dash, probably carrying out a plate check on our car. I smiled like an idiot at the driver. What was I supposed to do? He wasn't giving me any instructions.

  It was Sarah who switched on. She opened her window, and at the same time I could see the black trooper doing the same. His mustache met his glasses, with acne-scarred cheeks each side. I couldn't see his eyes, only what he was looking at in his mirrored lenses, but his demeanor told me that I wasn't on his Christmas card list.

  Sarah came to the rescue.

  "Hello, Officer, can I help you? Is there something wrong?" Her voice was outrageous; it was the fluffiest damselin-distress impression I'd ever heard.

  The policeman would have heard it many times before, only not in Cambridge English. He drawled, "Yes, ma'am. The driver of this vehicle is violating the Federal Highway Code by consuming a beverage while at the controls of a moving vehicle."

  She said breathily, "I'm so sorry, Officer, we didn't realize. We're just on vacation from England and ..."

  The black policeman got the OK from his mate. The check had come through. He nodded back at him, then turned toward us. He looked at me and jutted his jaw.

  "Sir?"

  The lights had changed to green, but no one was going to hit their horn.

  I smiled like the dickhead tourist I was determined to be.

  "Yes?"

  "Sir, please don't consume beverages on the highway. It's an offense."

  "I'm sorry, Officer, it won't happen again."

  Trying hard not to let a smile reach his face he drawled, "Y'all have a nice day," and they drove off.

  At the airport I abandoned the car in the long-term car park. Formalities such as handing it back to the rental company didn't figure on my list of things to do today.

  I waited outside the terminal while Sarah went in and got the tickets. I needed to call Josh's number, hoping to leave a message. Getting it clear in my head what I wanted to say, I hit the keypad.

  A heavily Hispanic female voice answered, "Heelo? Heelo?"

  "Oh hi, is this Josh's number?"

  "Jish?"

  "Yes. Can I leave a message for him?"

  "No Jish."

  "Can I leave a message?"

  "Jish no here."

  "I know that. I want to leave a message."

  "I say to Jish. Goodbye."

  The phone went dead. I felt as if I'd wandered into Fawlty Towers. I redialed as Sarah came out of the terminal. She saw me and headed over.

  She passed, handed me my ticket and carried on walking. We were going to travel as two separate individuals.

  "Heelo? Heelo?"

  I could hear a vacuum cleaner in the background. I said, "Please say to Jish, Nick is flying to Washington today."

  "OK. Ees Nick."

  We were getting warmer.

  "What... time ... is ... he ... home?"

  "He no home." Maybe not so warm.

  "Muy bien, much as gracias, senorita," I said, using rusty stuff I'd learned while garrisoned on Gibraltar as a young squaddie. Then I added the only other Spanish phrase I knew: "Hasta la vista, baby."

  I checked in and made my way to the gate area. The front pages of the state newspapers glared at me as I passed the newsstand. The main picture seemed to be a fuzzy black-and-white still from a CCTV video of Sarah and me lifting the van. She was still looking like a sperm, T-shirt over her head; I was side-on with my head uncovered. It must have been taken at the point when the dog and I were about to have a major disagreement.

  I decided not to buy the paper or hang around. The newsstand was part of the shop where I'd bought the maps of the lakes; maybe it would be the same woman behind the counter, and she could put two and two together.

  I walked to the gate area and waited.

  The hour-long flight was late landing. The Ronald Reagan National Airport, Washington's main domestic terminal, is a stone's throw from the capital, on the west bank of the Potomac River and southwest of D.C." near the Pentagon. You can see the traffic jams around Capitol Hill as you land.

  I disembarked behind Sarah, who was following the rest of the herd toward the baggage area. We'd both packed our weapons in our bags; being a domestic flight, there wasn't much of a risk. I collected my holdall from the carousel and walked off to the phones. It was 10:27 a.m.

  My Mexican friend was quick to answer.

  "No Jish," she said.

  "Mas tarde. He home two o'clock." Then she put the phone down.

  Getting anywhere in D.C. by taxi at this time of day is a wish. If you're in a hurry, the best bet is the Metro. As I headed toward the airport station, Sarah linked up with me with her head down, baseball cap on. At the machines I checked the map and put in two one-dollar bills for my ticket.

  "RV back here, by the machines, at two o'clock?
"

  She shook her head.

  "No, not here. I'll meet you somewhere in town.

  There's more chance of me being seen here." It was clear by the way she studied the instruction panel that, in all the time she'd lived in this city, she'd never used the Metro. I took the change out of the cup with my ticket and put in some more money for her as she looked at the map.

  "I

  need to keep out of town for now," she said.

  "No need to expose myself too much. I'll go south and hold off for a while."

  "Do you know the Barnes and Noble on M, in Georgetown?"

  Still studying the map, she nodded.

  "Two o'clock."

  As we moved toward the barriers, I checked the signs and pointed her to her platform.

  "See you at two." The peak of her cap nodded and headed down the escalators.

  The rules of the Washington Metro are simple: the answer to everything is No. No smoking, no eating, no Walkmans, litter or pets. If you're good boys and girls you can read the newspaper. The station was as stark and clean as the set of asci-fi film, with its streamlined, dark-gray concrete and moody lighting.

  The lights set into the platform flooring started to flash, warning that a train was about to arrive. Moments later, a string of sleek silver carriages whispered alongside and the doors opened silently.

  I was heading north on the Blue Line. It would take me past the Pentagon, which has its own Metro station, and the Arlington National Cemetery, then eastward under the Potomac to Foggy Bottom, the nearest stop for Georgetown and the M and 23rd Street junction. I came out of the Metro and onto the busy street feeling cleaner than when I'd gone in.

  Checking the map on the wall at the station entrance, I saw that I had just over a ten-minute walk to the RV As I headed north, I noticed the improvement in the weather. Only 50 percent cloud cover and no rain. Compared with the downpours of the last couple of days, it was heaven.

  Bread and Chocolate on 23rd was teeming with office workers enjoying a lunchtime sandwich and coffee. I had just crossed M, and was on the opposite side of the road, walking toward Sarah's apartment. Metal Mickey seemed a bit of an airhead and I didn't want to get fucked over and lifted while tucking into a sticky bun and cappuccino. I didn't expect the RV to go wrong, but these things have to be done right; complacency is a tried and-tested shortcut to a disability pension, or worse. Anyone could have been listening to his calls, or he might simply have got cold feet and decided to seek advice. They would then use him to get to me, the K who should have been in North Carolina dealing with Sarah.

  I bumbled on, not looking directly through the window, but checking things out all the same. If a trigger was on the shop and a weirdo walked past staring at the place, it would be a good bet that he was the target.

  Things were looking fine; I couldn't see anyone sitting in cars or hanging about, but that wasn't necessarily significant. Whether or not I was getting set up by Metal Mickey, they could just as easily have put a trigger on him. And if he'd said anything to the Firm, I'd know as soon as I met him;

  I didn't have him down as the sort of man who could tell lies with his body language.

  I walked past the 7-Eleven-type store on my right and noticed it had a small coffee and Danish area, busily taking its share of the office workers' dollars. There wasn't much going on in there, either, just people filling their faces and catching up on gossip.

  I got to the junction and turned left on N. Walking about another thirty meters, I was more or less level with the entrance to Sarah's block. The water system was working overtime again on the flower garden. If I'd been triggered as I did my walk-past they would now be behind me, thinking that I was heading for the apartment.

  Two attractive black women were approaching from the opposite direction, coffee and pretzels in their hands. I would have no more than three seconds in which to check. They passed, laughing and talking loudly.

  Now was the time. I turned to give them an admiring glance in that way that men think they do so unobtrusively. The two women gave me a You-should-be-so-lucky-white-boy look and got back to their laughing.

  There were three candidates beyond them. A middle-aged couple dressed for the office turned the corner, coming from the same direction as me, but they looked more preoccupied in staring into each other's eyes for as long as possible before it was time to go home to their wife or husband.

  Then again, good operators would always make it look that way. The other possible was coming from straight ahead, on N Street, on the same side as Sarah's apartment. He was wearing blue jeans and a short-sleeved, dark-green shirt with the tail hanging out, the way I would if I wanted to cover my weapon and radio.

  I faced back the way I was walking. You can only do so much checking.

  If these were operators, the couple would now be overtly cooing to each other; but instead of sweet nothings they'd be reporting on what I was getting up to, on a radio net, telling control and the other operators where I was, what I was wearing, the color of my bag and which shoulder it was being carried on. And if they were good, they would also report that I could be aware, because of the look back.

  I carried on the last twenty meters to the end of the block and turned left. I was now on 24th Street and paralleling 23rd. This was the second corner I had turned; if there was a technical device or trigger on our RV there could be people stood off around the other side of the block, waiting for the word to move. Nothing seemed to look that way, just lots of traffic and people lining up to buy lunch at the pretzel stalls.

  The couple were still with me. Maybe they wanted pretzels, or maybe they'd told Green Shirt that they could take the target around the corner, toward M Street. Stopping at the last of the three stalls, I bought a Coke and watched the area I'd just come from. The lovers were now at the middle stall, doing the same. I moved off, got to M and turned left, back toward 23rd and the RV Three corners had now been turned in a circular route; an unnatural thing to do. I moved into an office doorway and opened my Coke. If the lovers came past, I would bin the RV, but then again, any good operator wouldn't turn the third corner. I hated clearing an area, especially if it was me going into the RV It was so hard to be sure.

  Nothing happened during the five minutes it took me to finish the can, so now seemed the ideal time to get my weapon out of the bag; apart from anything else, fishing around like a tourist looking for a map gave me an excuse to be standing there now that I'd finished drinking. I sneaked together the Chinese thing and its mag, which I'd split for the flight, and tucked it into my jeans, ensuring that the jacket covered it and the catch was off, so it could be used in the semiauto mode. Moving off again, I eventually turned back onto 23rd and into the 7Eleven.

  I bought a Danish, a newspaper and the biggest available cup of coffee, and sat at a table that gave me a good trigger on the RV There were twenty-five minutes to go.

  I watched as people walked past from both directions, on both sides of the street. Were they doing walk-pasts to see if we were in there? This wasn't paranoia, it was attention to detail; it doesn't work like it does in the movies, with fat policemen sitting in their car right outside the target, engine running, moaning about their wives and eating doughnuts.

  No one went in and came straight out again; no one walked around muttering into their collar. All of which meant either they weren't there, or they were very good indeed.

  Cars, trucks and taxis trundled past from right to left on the one-way system. As the traffic stopped for a red at the junction with M, I pinged Metal Mickey sitting in the back of a cab, well down in his seat with his head resting on the back. I couldn't see his eyes, but I hoped that he was also taking the trouble to clear his route. Maybe he wasn't as much of a numb nut as I'd thought. The traffic moved on and he went with it.

  If there was one thing I hated more than clearing an area before a meet, it was the meet itself. It's at simple events like this that people get killed, in the way that a traffic cop stopping a car
for jumping a red light might land up getting shot by the driver.

  I sat, watched and waited. It wouldn't look abnormal to the staffer anyone else for me to be spending that amount of time there. The place was packed and the size of the coffee signaled that I wasn't a man in a hurry. I checked around me again, just to be sure that I wasn't sitting next to a trigger.

  It had happened to me once, outside Deny; it was late at night, and I was waiting in a car waiting to lift a player, only to discover, as a JCB tried to crush the car and me with its bucket, that I was parked in front of his brother's house. Maybe they'd always done that with any dickhead they spotted picking his nose outside.

  Mickey appeared right on time, but not from the direction I was expecting him to. He came from the right, the same direction from which he'd approached in the cab. He was dressed in the same loud suit and neon shirt as before. Perhaps he thought I'd have problems IDing him. He was carrying a laptop bag, with the strap over his right shoulder. Was what he wanted me to see on hard disk, and the dickhead had actually brought it with him? Maybe he wasn't so switched on.

  I knew from our last meet that he was right-handed, and noted that his jacket was done up; chances were, he wasn't carrying. Not that it meant that much at this stage, but these things needed to be thought about in case things went tits up.

  Having cleared his route, he showed no hesitation about going into the cafe. Good man. He did understand about sponsoring the meet. He knew I'd be watching him, and covering his ass as well as mine.

  I watched for another five minutes past the RV time; if I didn't walk over to meet him he would wait another twenty-five minutes before leaving, then try again tomorrow at the same time. Nothing that I could see told me the RV was compromised. I got off my stool and binned the rest of the coffee and Danish, checking that my weapon wasn't about to clatter onto the floor. I hated not having an internal holster; I'd already lost my weapon twice because of it. I walked outside and checked once more as I crossed the road. Nothing. Fuck it, there's only so much checking you can do.

  As I pulled the door toward me I saw his back in line at the counter. The place was still packed. I walked past him and did my surprised, "Hi! What are you doing here?" He turned and smiled that happy I-haven'tseen-you for-a-while look, and we shook hands.