by Andy Maslen
“Hi, Gabriel,” she said. “Sorry about the aircon. The waitress told me it went down just after lunch. There’s a heating guy out back hitting something with a wrench.”
She held out her hand and they shook. Gabriel marvelled at how her skin could be so cool when the bar was so hot. Her dark skin glowed rather than shone; her hair was straight and cut in a short bob that accentuated her cheekbones and strong jawline.
“Hi, Lauren. Can I get you a drink? Something cold, I’m guessing?”
She laughed.
“That’s very kind. A margarita, please. They’re the best in Chicago.”
He caught the eye of a waitress bustling past with a tray of beers held aloft out of the way of elbows and arms gesturing with glasses.
“Be right back,” she chirped over her shoulder, shooting him a professional smile.
He’d always had this ability. Even in army bars, crammed with thirsty soldiers, or clubs throbbing with music, he’d drawn the attention of bartenders, waiters and hostesses as if they were on strings. He ordered a glass of Chablis alongside Lauren’s margarita then leaned across the tiny table towards her.
“So, Lauren. ‘Britta’. Is that really how you think it’s pronounced? Because you seem far too educated a woman to make a slip like that.”
She took a moment to answer, sipping her cocktail. She put it down on the scalloped cocktail napkin and looked up again.
“I needed to send you a signal. Not a pick-up line you could be flattered by and then ignore. I had to make sure you’d meet me. I know Britta. And I know the people she’s working with at the minute.”
“So is Corvair Security a thing or not? Is Lauren even your real name?”
He was guessing the two questions would get answers in the negative. He was half-right.
“Sorry. Corvair is just a bit of cover. Though I thought the ship was kind of nice. But that’s my real name. And, before you ask, you say it, ‘Klim-shack’.”
“That’s quite an unusual name for a,” he hesitated, just for a moment, “woman of colour, isn’t it?”
“Very good!” she said, her voice applauding his attempt to use the correct phrase. “You been studying how to talk PC in your spare time, Gabriel?” Now she was teasing him, but it felt good. “You know,” she said, laying her manicured fingers on his left hand where it lay on the table top, “some of us still just say ‘black’. It’s OK, I won’t tell if you don’t.”
She leaned back and laughed at his momentary confusion – a thrilling, full-throated sound that had people round them turning to see who was having such a good time.
“I was married to a Polish guy. They used to call us the black and the Polack when we were knocking back a few beers. I took his name but I liked my own, so I just handcuffed ’em!”
“Was married?”
Her face stilled, the corners of her upturned lips straightened out and she looked past him. Way back past him, somewhere that wasn’t in the room at all.
“Michael was a cop. A good cop. A rescuing kittens out of trees kind of cop before he made Detective and got his gold shield. One day he was pulling a nightshift and they got a call. Some sorry-ass white supremacists were bringing a truckload of explosives into the city from Michigan. They were planning to blow up City Hall, kill Mayor Daley, hell, kill everyone they could. Guess they liked what that McVeigh asshole did in Oklahoma City. You know, people have a downer on Muslims because of 9/11, and don’t get me wrong, those people were evil, pure evil. But before that? Do you know who this country’s worst terrorists have been? White guys. Christian guys. Guys who worship in Church on a Sunday, then go home and fill oil drums with home-made explosives and pack scrap metal round the outside.
“Anyway, Michael was waiting at a warehouse where those neo-Nazis were planning to drop off their bomb. There were SWAT teams, FBI, ATF, the whole alphabet soup. People said there were Army guys there too: Delta Force. There was a firefight like you would not believe. Those boys from Michigan opened up with assault rifles, machine guns, the works. We put them all down in the end but Michael took a round in the chest from a lousy handgun. The bastard was using hollow-points. Damn near took poor Michael’s heart out through his back.”
“I’m sorry,” was all Gabriel could manage. He offered Lauren the handkerchief from his top pocket and she pressed it to the corners of her eyes, careful to avoid smudging her makeup.
“It’s OK, I’m fine,” she said. “So I kept Michael’s name. He served his country and I want people to ask why I have this crazy name.”
They sat for a minute. Composing themselves to resume the conversation. The first D-minor chords of St James Infirmary were drifting from the stage as the pianist, a teenager, warmed up. There were three other musicians with him on stage: guitar, bass and drums, the classic combo. Pulsing with the beat, the others joined in, the bass and drums anchoring the whole song in a slow and steady 12/8 rhythm: four tight groups of triplet notes, ba-da-da, ba-da-da, ba-da-da, ba-da-da. There was a stand mic front and centre, and the guitarist dropped the neck of his battered guitar and grabbed the stem of the mic stand.
“Ladies and gentleman, please welcome to the stage the best new jazz singer in Chicago.” He paused for a count of three, then lowered his voice. “Marie Scott.”
There was a wild burst of applause, hooting, a few whistles. From a door at the back of the bar Gabriel hadn’t noticed, a young woman appeared, her head down, climbed onto the stage, accepting the guitarist’s hand, and squeezed between the bass player and drummer to her place at the mic.
She looked up shyly from under her fringe. Her gold sheath dress came down almost to the floor, a long slit revealing a tattoo of a butterfly on her right thigh. Then she opened her mouth and sang the opening words of the first song. Her voice reached inside Gabriel’s chest and connected to some primitive part of him, making him sigh. A smoky, mournful sound with the slightest hint of vibrato: the opposite of the TV talent-show wannabes with their operatic, pleading voices.
Lauren said something and Gabriel had to tear his eyes away from the woman now commanding the stage and the room beyond it.
“Sorry, Lauren, I missed that.”
Lauren leaned in and put her mouth very close to his ear.
“I’m with a Government department that cooperates with our allies on counter-terrorism,” she said.
She slid an ID out of her purse and cupped it in her palm so Gabriel could get a look at the cheap plastic photo card and more substantial gold crest stitched into the opposite leather flap of the folder.
“Which one?”
“Oh, we’ve got a bunch of initials just like everybody else. They’ll change next year. Right now we’re just part of the DoD.” The Department of Defense: a catch-all name that encompassed any number of shadowy agencies that might or might not have links to the FBI, CIA, DEA, NSA, ATF or the US Army.
Lauren continued. “Britta and I studied law together at Harvard. It was a kind of unusual partnership you know? This redhead Swedish babe and then me, a ‘woman of colour’ as you put it, from right here in C-town. But we always said we’d keep in touch and somehow we got linked up on this operation to investigate your charming Lord Toby Maitland”.
Gabriel couldn’t resist the correction.
“He’s just a Sir, Lauren. Though he probably bought his way to the honour anyway.”
She bridled, caught out in a misunderstanding or some poor intelligence and glanced over at him sharply.
“Oh, well forgive me, Jeeves! I’ll jest go orf and poe-lish the silvah, shall oi?”
It was a terrible attempt at a British accent but it broke the tension that was threatening to build after Gabriel pulled her up. Maybe she’d done it on purpose. Maybe all British aristocrats were “Lords” to the more egalitarian-minded Americans. Either way, she was mollified and ready to resume.
“He has links to militias here in the US. The Illinois Patriots, who sound like a football team but, believe me, they ain’t. Michigan Christi
an Alliance. Patriotic First States. Basically, a whole bunch of God-fearing folks with private arsenals and bunkers full of canned pork and beans who believe in the literal truth of the Bible and want to return us to some crazy-ass vision of paradise with no Federal taxes or laws telling them what to do. We think he’s here to meet some of ’em, maybe do a little private arms dealing or money laundering. So you’re the man on the inside. And I’m your woman on the outside. My cell’s always on and always with me. Call me any time of the day or night.”
Chapter 15
Later, in his room at the University Club, Gabriel tried to make sense of what he’d got himself into. A billionaire British knight was using a run for Parliament as a democratic fig leaf while he planned to create racial strife by attacking community centres or mosques, maybe. Questions crowded into his mind, jostling for position. The big one, the one that even a child would ask, was, how is he going to do it? And what would he do next?
As he turned the questions over and over, his phone beeped. A text. He traced the unlock pattern on the screen – a simplified rendering of a Chinese character meaning ‘to write’ – and saw it was from Julia. Delayed somehow, as it would be midnight back in the UK. Maybe she’d forgotten where he kept the new bags of food.
Seamus had an accident. At vets with him. Can’t bear to tell you this. He chased a rabbit across the main road up by the hospital. He got hit by a car. God I’m so sorry Gabriel. They’re putting him to sleep now. Can’t talk. Too upset. Much love. Jools.
Gabriel put the phone down on the nightstand. Its plastic case clicked on the pale wood. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. There was a fine crack meandering from the wall directly over his head across the ceiling to the central moulded plaster rose where the light fitting hung. His throat swelled, as if someone had stuffed a lump of something hard and indigestible down him.
Not Seamus. Please not Seamus. He felt a cold tickle on his neck, behind the angle of his jawbone. Tears were rolling from the corners of his eyes then tracking across his skin and dropping into the soft cotton of the pillow. He pulled another from the space next to him and held it tight over his face as wrenching sobs forced their way past the obstruction in his throat. Ugly sounds that jerked out of his mouth, alien, more croaking than crying. Even when men he fought alongside, or commanded, had been killed in front of him, he’d never cried. Now, 6,000 miles away from his dog, grief overtook him in a rush. He hugged the pillow tighter over his face as if to suffocate himself.
But every initial burst of grief expends itself, even if it returns to gnaw at your insides again and again. And Gabriel was jetlagged. In the end he just let his mind go where it wanted to, picturing the rangy dog nosing among hedgerows, playing with his friends or just curled up, sleeping, like a fantasy illustration of a dragon, limbs twitching in dreams. He heaved a great, shuddering sigh, and let all the breath leave his body. His breathing slowed, though he felt no need to use any of the old meditation techniques; he was asleep seconds later.
Gabriel awoke from a dream where he’d been throwing a stick for Seamus. This Seamus was a puppy though. And he could talk. I’m OK, he’d said. Don’t be sad. Do your work. Gabriel yawned and rubbed his face. He touched his cheekbones where he could feel fine trails of crusty powder sticking to his skin. He licked one fingertip experimentally: salt. The memory of Julia’s text hit him like a slow, cold, rolling wave. He needed to be focused on his job: why had this happened now? He reached for his phone and texted Julia.
Sorry you had to deal with that. How are you? Where’s Seamus? Gabriel.
Julia texted straight back.
Mike fetched us in his car. We buried him in your back garden. It took ages! He was a big boy! Oh God, I’m so sorry Gabriel you’re not here. We held a wake. Finished two bottles of wine in your kitchen afterwards. Got a shitty hangover now. Serves me right. When you home? xxx
Few days, Gabriel replied. Thanks Jools. At least he was with you when it happened. Can’t text much here. See you when I get back. Gabriel.
Gabriel showered and shaved, then got dressed and headed down to get some breakfast. Despite everything, he was hungry. Really hungry. Forgetting where he was for a moment he asked the white-jacketed waitress for a “full English breakfast”. She looked bewildered.
“Sir?”
“Realising his mistake, Gabriel tried again.
“Sorry. Er, please could I have a fried egg, over easy, some bacon, sausages, grilled tomato and some toast and butter please?”
Now she was on familiar territory the young woman stopped frowning.
“Yes, of course, Sir,” she said, looking relieved. “Would you like tea or coffee?”
“Tea, please.”
As he sat eating, Gabriel’s phone vibrated and rotated through forty-five degrees on the polished wooden table. He spun it back towards him and checked who was texting him. It was Maitland.
Gabriel. Be ready to go at 10.30. Will meet you outside University Club. Look for black Lincoln Navigator. T
It was only 7.30. Gabriel finished eating, swigged his tea and wiped his mouth with the thick linen napkin. He went back to his room, cleaned his teeth carefully, packed his bags then reclined on the bed to watch some morning news until it was time to go. The tag team of news anchors was the classic combination: older guy, younger woman, both sporting tans and millions of teeth. To look at them you’d think working in a TV studio under artificial light was the healthiest profession on earth. In truth, he’d not seen many people who looked as pleased with themselves as they did. Must be the salaries, because the demands of the job weren’t enough to make anyone truly happy. He texted Britta to report in. Nothing to report. Today sounded like a glorified shopping trip but you never knew.
At 10.20 he pulled the door closed behind him and was out on the street waiting for his ride with five minutes to spare. It was as hot as the previous day but mercifully the humidity had dropped to something approaching bearable, thanks in part to a cool breeze blowing off the lake. He’d heard Midwesterners were more easy-going and tolerant than New Yorkers but there were still plenty of car horns sounding as traffic shuffled along the street and jockeyed for position at the lights controlling the turn onto Lakeshore Drive. The light bouncing off windscreens, office block windows and the vehicles themselves made Gabriel squint. A big man carrying a sheaf of plastic-wrapped dry cleaning bumped into Gabriel then apologised in a booming voice, asking if Gabriel was OK. He was reassuring him that no damage was done when a huge black SUV pulled into the curb beside them. The rear window rolled down to reveal a familiar face.
“Gabriel! Good morning,” Maitland said in an over-loud voice. “Hop in and let’s get going, shall we?”
Gabriel thanked the man with the billowing laundry bags again and walked round to climb in the Navigator. The leather seats were like armchairs. Maitland had a small laptop open on his lap.
“It’s not far to see the D-Type,” Maitland said. “The current owner lives just outside the city. A suburb called Glencoe, about a fifty-minute drive from here.”
“So can you tell me more about our mission?” Gabriel, said, calculating that Maitland would love the quasi-military vocabulary to describe his scheme. “Or,” he nodded forward at the driver.
“Don’t worry about Shaun. He is a full member of my team, just as you are. I trust him with my life.”
You may have to, Gabriel thought. He looked at the back of the driver’s head. The man was what the American army called a jarhead: neck as thick as the skull, giving the impression of a solid column rising out of his shirt collar. His head was shaved, revealing lumps and bumps and a jagged scar running round the back of the scalp from ear to ear.
Maitland caught the look. He said, “Shaun, why don’t you tell Gabriel how you got that scar on your head?”
The man answered immediately as if Maitland had fed a coin into a slot. His voice was flat and unemotional with just a hint of a southern twang.
“Colombia, 2006.” He pron
ounced the year as twenty-aught-six, as if it were a calibre of rifle. “My unit was up-country, tracking Medellin cartel soldiers transporting a heroin consignment destined for Miami. We were ambushed. I was captured. They tied me to a chair in the middle of a clearing and took out a razor. Said they were going to give me a haircut. What they do, they slice your scalp and then pull it forward, over your forehead, then take your face right off. They put a mirror in front of you and make you watch.”
“Tell Gabriel what happened next, Shaun.”
He sounded like a proud father encouraging a shy son to describe some schoolyard exploit.
“We had support. They arrived just as the Colombians were getting started. I had a tactical knife taped inside my sleeve, which they’d missed: they hadn’t searched me properly. I cut the rope. Then it was game over for those sons of bitches.”
“A truncated version of the story,” said Maitland. “In fact, there were some haircuts delivered that day. The news media were directed to a little spot in the jungle where they found five rather gruesome customers of the US Army’s Delta Force First Mobile Barbering Division.” He laughed, a harsh bray. “Thank you, Shaun.”
The driver said nothing, just kept staring straight ahead as the big Lincoln purred its way northward along the freeway. Maitland spoke again.
“Listen, Gabriel. What our country needs is a strong, charismatic leader. Somebody prepared to stand up and say, this is Britain, and we decide who comes here, who works here and who does not. We decide who we fight and who we defend. We decide. Us. The people who made this country great will make it great once again.”