Exposure

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  He grimaced.

  “They said it so you’d be more likely to give me up. So that you’d be more likely to turn to them. Classic interrogation tactics, Helene. I would have thought you’d know that… and I would have thought that after everything that we… I would have thought that you’d trust me.”

  He sounded really angry now. Almost upset.

  “I do trust you,” she said, aware how feeble and insincere the words sounded. Somehow trust between them had been suspended. She didn’t know how or when or why, just that it had somehow happened. Maybe it had been his silence amongst the Gene Genies. Maybe…

  “I do trust you, Charlie. But… you’ve been so… distant and… and quiet since… well, since…”

  She trailed off, unsure how to continue.

  He looked at her sideways.

  “I prefer to pick my own team,” he said.

  Helene wasn’t certain what he meant by that. Sure, they’d rather stumbled into a group encounter with the Gene Genies, but it had been enormously beneficial. Unless, unless he meant that he’d preferred it when it had just been the two of them. Helene felt irritated with herself.

  She still wasn’t convinced by his answer, but she knew she couldn’t ask him again without causing a serious and maybe permanent rift. Besides, once she got back home, she could check the information herself.

  Home. That still seemed an impossibly long way away.

  “What will you do when all this is over?” she said, neutrally. “Will you go back to Suse?”

  He smiled. “I rather think that boat has floated.”

  “Then what? Will you go back to… to work?”

  “Let’s get you to New York first,” he said.

  Helene sighed. If he didn’t want to talk, there was no way she could make him.

  “Maybe I’ll come and see you in Cornwall,” he said, quietly. “After all, I know where you live.”

  Helene laughed out loud. It felt good to laugh. Charlie smiled quickly, glancing over at her, his eyes crinkling the way they did when he was happy.

  “Yes, you certainly know that. I shall expect a knock on my door when I least expect it.”

  She turned her head and gazed out of the window, smiling to herself.

  The traffic flowed by as they oozed onto the I-80 and Pennsylvania swept past in a haze of autumnal grey.

  Helene fell asleep and only woke when she felt the car slowing down, several hours later.

  Clearly there hadn’t been a lot of choice for places to eat, but Charlie had found a Buckhorn truck stop that looked clean, if not fancy.

  Helene climbed out of the car stiffly. The high foot-plate gave her some trouble but she managed to get down without being helped. She treasured the hint of independence: it had been too long. Limping slightly, she followed Charlie into the diner.

  “I hope you’ve got a bit more of an appetite, Helene,” he said, “because all these meals look enormous.”

  Helene glanced over at a well-padded family who were giving serious attention to a bucket-sized dish of barbeque ribs. Just the sight of it made Helene feel queasy.

  “I think I’ll stick to the soup and salad,” she said, running her eyes and up down the grease-spotted menu.

  “You sure that’s enough,” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Hank gave me quite a long lecture on making sure you eat properly. I’d hate to have a man like that come after me.”

  The words weren’t entirely ironic. But despite Charlie’s admonishment, she decided to stick with the light meal. The waitress, however, had other ideas.

  “The pancakes are real good,” she said, “if you don’t want fries. And I can do bacon on the side.”

  Letting Helene squirm for a while, Charlie finally came to her rescue and ordered bacon, waffles and eggs, sunny side up for himself. The waitress also pressed him to have the fried green tomatoes and southern-style grits. He agreed, accommodatingly.

  “I have no idea what a ‘grit’ is,” he admitted to Helene, “but I could never say ‘no’ to a woman.”

  “Even one old enough to be your grandmother?” queried Helene.

  He leaned back smiling and Helene shook her head in amusement.

  When the food arrived it was well cooked and hearty. Even Helene’s salad was surprisingly tasty and fresh, although rather too drenched in blue-cheese dressing. She scraped off what she could and enjoyed the thick, crusty bread and spicy soup.

  She waved away the offer of a jug of coffee and sipped a glass of tap water instead. Her body was still on the mend and the thought of a stimulant, even a mild one such as caffeine, was a bit too scary at present.

  When they got back on the road, Helene felt sleepy, but something about Charlie’s demeanour had changed. Tension was in the air again.

  “What’s up?” she said.

  “Mmm, not sure,” he said, his voice wary. “There’s a car behind us that was at the truck stop.”

  Helene felt a lurch in her stomach that made her regret the spicy soup. She sat up straighter and cautiously looked over her shoulder.

  “Is it following us?”

  Charlie shrugged. “Not sure yet. I’ll try changing lanes a few times; see if they do the same.”

  Several more miles fell behind them and it still wasn’t clear if the grey station-wagon was tailing them.

  Helene felt increasingly anxious and Charlie remained alert, his eyes flicking to the rear view mirror more frequently than usual.

  As they began to see signs for New York City, Helene almost dared to feel hopeful.

  But when they merged onto the Newark Turnpike, they began to hit heavy traffic. The grey station-wagon was still two cars behind them but that didn’t necessarily mean they were being followed. After all, it was a safe bet that New York City was the destination for most of the vehicles on the road.

  Charlie didn’t say any more, but Helene noticed that his lips were pressed tightly together.

  The traffic began to slow perceptibly, despite a small proportion being siphoned off into the Jersey City suburbs. The majority began the stately crawl down from the toll plaza to the Holland Tunnel, the twin concrete tubes that ran under the Hudson River.

  Charlie was noticeably tense now.

  “Helene: be ready to move if I say so,” he said, quietly.

  “What? Are you serious?” she stammered nervously. “Surely we’re not going to bail out in the middle of the tunnel?”

  “Hopefully not. But that car is definitely following us. If they’re going to try and hit us before we get to the newspaper offices, they’ll have to do it soon.”

  “How do you know?” she said queasily, hoping against hope that he was wrong. “I mean, how do you know they’ll try to stop us getting to Frank now?”

  “Because that’s what I’d do,” he said shortly. He glanced over at her. “Take only what you need: leave your bag. Get ready to run.”

  Helene’s heart began to gallop and she thought she was going to pass out. But his instruction gave her something to focus on. She emptied her shoulder bag and took out the memory stick with all her work on it and her mobile phone. She also had two fresh passports that somehow Charlie had managed to secure: one in her own name, and the other in the name of Ellen Fitzgerald, citizen of Ireland. How, she had no idea. Well, some idea: the Gene Genies were in their element at that sort of thing. So was Charlie.

  Cars around them were putting on their lights, ready for the dim lighting of the tunnel. Suddenly there was a full-beam flash of lights in the rear view mirror.

  “This is it,” he said calmly, his eyes bright with anticipation. “They’re coming.”

  Without further warming, Charlie slammed on the brakes and wrenched the hand-brake, forcing the car to spin 270 degrees in a slow turn. The car following hit them side on, pinning the driver’s door tightly. The front and back were hit simultaneously by cars in the other lanes.

  Helene had braced herself tightly against her seat, avoiding some of the whiplash. But the second and thir
d strikes stunned her.

  Shaking her head like a dog coming out of water, she ripped open her door.

  “Get to the side of the tunnel,” shouted Charlie. “Run! I’ll be right behind you!”

  Helene threw herself from the car and half ran, half crawled to the narrow sidewalk that edged along the tunnel. She hunched down, covering her head with her hands and sprinted awkwardly in a half crouch. Bewildered drivers were starting to exit their mashed cars when the first bullet whined over her head. Someone screamed and a thunder of shots echoed through the tunnel. She kept running, heart hammering, adrenalin spurring her on.

  In the distance, she saw the telltale pin-prick of daylight that indicated she was nearing the exit.

  A squeal of tyres made her dodge into a small recess in the wall and every second she expected to feel the punch of bullets smashing into her. Then she recognised the mop of short, blond curls.

  “Get on!” yelled Charlie.

  A squat, heavy-looking motorbike was clamped between his knees, the original owner probably crudely dismounted somewhere in the tunnel beyond.

  Without a word, Helene staggered to the bike and wrapped her arms tightly around him, pressing her face into the soft suede of his non-descript jacket.

  She ducked lower as she heard more gunshots. Charlie twisted the accelerator and the bike leapt forwards, jerking Helene roughly.

  They sped out of the tunnel and roared onto the Lincoln Highway. Squad cars coming towards them flashed their lights, but Charlie wove between them as easily as the chicane at Silverstone.

  He swung left and roared along the centre of the road, scattering pedestrians at one crossing like confetti. Whistles blew and police sirens sang in Helene’s ears but Charlie didn’t stop. He swerved right, leaving a tell-tale trail of burning rubber as smoke poured from the overheated tyres.

  Canal Street was at a standstill. Charlie jumped the motorcycle onto the pavement, strewing coffee drinkers left and right. He braked hard to avoid a gaggle of children.

  “Why aren’t you at school?” screamed Helene as the children toppled like ninepins.

  The bike skidded and Helene felt herself falling. She landed rolling, the soft palms of her hands torn by the tarmac. Fifty yards away Charlie wrenched the handlebars hard round and the back tyre span out. Helene heard him grunt with pain as the bike’s full weight landed on his leg.

  Charlie abandoned the wounded motorbike and ran back towards Helene. He grabbed her arm, dragging her behind him. Together they staggered across the busy street, dodging the surprised crowds as he towed her down an alleyway. The police sirens sounded nearer now but in the confusion, they seemed to have escaped.

  Helene stumbled and Charlie helped her keep her balance by wrenching her arm upwards.

  “Got to stop!” she gasped.

  “No! Come on!” he urged her in a low voice.

  Helene answered by being violently sick. All the soup and salad and crusty bread found its way back onto the alley. She spat futilely while Charlie held her gently.

  “S..sorry!” she whispered, trying not to gag.

  He didn’t reply, just pulled her up, more gently this time, and half carried her to the end of the alley.

  “Can you walk?” he said, looking rapidly about him.

  Helene nodded and, trying to look as normal as possible, walked as quickly as she could manage down a narrow street past the incurious eyes of customers at Lombardi’s pizza restaurant.

  She felt sick and dizzy, and the sound of her blood pounding was loud in her ears. She stumbled onwards, trusting Charlie to lead her. Trusting him to protect her.

  They hurried past the old cathedral, and the red brick and grey blocks of the Mulberry Library rose from the pavement. Frank’s agency was next door.

  Helene was at the end of her strength. Her legs were trembling and each breath was gulped down, a drowning woman in a sea of city people.

  “We’re here,” he said, huskily. “You’ll be okay now.”

  “You… I…” but Helene was too exhausted to speak.

  Suddenly Charlie pulled her close to him and the heat of his body seared her. He swept her backwards, her arms clinging to his neck and kissed her hard. She responded with her whole body burning, bolts of electricity making her shiver. Her lips pressed to his, breathing his breath, flesh on flesh.

  “Now go!” he whispered, pulling her back to her feet. “Tell the story. Tell your story.”

  She staggered slightly and when she’d caught her balance, he was gone and she was alone again. As alone as you can be in a city, surrounded by a ring of astonished spectators.

  Helene pushed open the street door to the agency offices and half fell into the marble clad atrium of the smart building. Her face was red and sweaty, her hair a matted nest, clothes torn and stained. The horrified receptionist’s expression said it all. But this was New York: the receptionist recovered fast.

  “May I help you?”

  The woman sounded extremely doubtful and Helene herself thought it was likely that she looked beyond help.

  “Frank Milson, please,” she gasped. “Tell him it’s Helene La Borde: he’s expecting me. Sort of.”

  Helene’s face felt frozen in shock.

  The receptionist hesitated just long enough to show that she thought an appointment with Mr Milson extremely unlikely. But the insolent glance bounced off Helene’s slight shoulders. It was liberating not to care. Especially when she knew she looked like Hell and that her hands were dripping blood onto the polished parquet floor.

  She barely listened to the receptionist’s brief conversation and increasingly bemused high-pitched voice.

  Eventually, in a tone that suggested God himself was descending in the elevator, she informed Helene that Frank was on his way down.

  Helene collapsed into a new-looking Mies van der Rohe chair and kept an eye on the street door in case her followers hadn’t had enough of shooting up lower Manhattan.

  The lift doors opened and Frank appeared in a haze of cigar smoke, ignoring the ban that every other office building was obliged to abide by.

  “Jesus wept! It is you! You look like shit, Helene!” he grunted.

  A deep, deep laugh was building inside her.

  “Stop the press, Frank,” she said, smiling thinly. “Have I got a story for you!”

  Chapter 27

  It was strange to be home again. Although this home-coming had been very different from the last time Helene was in Cornwall.

  For one thing, the story of her abduction and torture had been on the front page of every broadsheet and tabloid newspaper across the Western world. Her questions about fake gold and the dollar debt had been more quietly recorded, but the White House press office had been in full denial, despite the damning evidence provided by the doctors’ reports and the circumstantial evidence elsewhere.

  Smiling Clive Jackson had found himself in the middle of his own scandal, when photographs of him with an underage boy had been published on the internet. His denials had sounded hollow and Helene had the satisfaction of seeing him fall on his sword, nanoseconds before he was pushed. She knew the Gene Genies were exacting revenge – or more specifically, she recognised the light touch of Hank’s work – whether or not the accusation were true.

  Every TV channel, radio programme and web media site wanted to interview her. Helene had told her story so many times that it began to feel unreal.

  Frank had been delighted with the scoop and made a small fortune handling the story rights. Helene let him manage access to her, as well. It helped to have him bulldoze reporters and organise media bodyguards, and his office also gave her someone to manage her phone and email.

  Now she was weary. Tired to the bone.

  After a fortnight of the media circus in London, Helene headed back to Cornwall. She was immediately swamped by local reporters who normally only got to report on fun runs, fishing rights and car boot sales. Helene fielded their questions thoughtfully and became a nine-day wonder in he
r village.

  The Jenkins were stalwart in helping her: Mrs Jenkin became a celebrity in her own right, recalling the day she had driven off intruders, probably armed, from Helene’s cottage. Helene was more than glad to hand the limelight over to her neighbours and had the deferred pleasure of seeing Mrs Jenkin bask in the unfamiliar glow of stardom, whilst Mr Jenkin hovered in the background, growling at any reporter who came too close to his own Celtic Boudicca. Even their dog, Alfie, had become a minor celebrity, and had somehow become a canine hero of mythic proportions, nipping at the heels of the CIA or NSA or whoever. No-one seemed to care much about that detail. The small, round dog took fame in his stumpy stride.

  As promised, £100,000 plus a small sum in per diems was deposited into Helene’s account by Frank’s agency. It was enough for her to take early retirement if she was careful, despite the fact that Helene was now more in demand as a celebrity reporter and interviewee than she’d ever been in 25 plus years on the job.

  She was considering several potentially lucrative contracts as a columnist. Even one of these would give her a steady income before her newly bright star began to wane, as it inevitably would.

  But for one thing, Helene would have been content: she’d heard nothing from Charlie.

  Each day she’d checked her private email as well as the Helene of Troy website which had remained secret.

  Each day she was sure that this would be the day when he would contact her, or, better still, knock on her door as he had almost promised.

  The memory of that kiss was burned into her brain. But he didn’t come and even Hank, contacting her in code, reported that he had no word of him, let alone from him.

  There was no-one else she could talk to about him. She was tempted to write down what she was feeling, but that would make it seem more dream-like and unreal. And she very much wanted it to be real.

  Worse still, her contacts at the MoD had come up with nothing: no trace of a Charles Paget existed in any of the armed services; not even the police could find anything of him.

  So who was he? Who was the man she had followed, who had followed her, who had saved her over and over again? Nobody seemed to know, and as each day passed with no news, he became more and more shadowy.