by Andy McNab
As I filtered forward I saw the problem. The junction ahead was sealed off by DC police bikers, and we were being rerouted to the right. As I made the turn, a fleet of black Lincolns with darkened windows screamed through the crossroads. At the rear of the convoy was a bunch of four-wheel-drive Chevy escorts and two ambulances, just in case the principal cut his finger. It looked as if either Netanyahu or Arafat was already in town.
The grid system in DC works with the lettered streets running east–west and the numbers north–south. I found the junction I wanted easily enough, but there was no way I could stop. The one-way circuit on M street had a mind of its own, and Metal Mickey was right, parking was a gang-fuck. The street was lined with cars that had a firm grip on their meters and weren’t letting go for anyone; another three laps of the block and I finally found a Nissan pulling away from a space on M, just past the junction I wanted.
I locked up, fed the meter and walked. Bread and Chocolate turned out to be a small coffee shop on the street level of an office and apartment building, just fifteen metres further down on the left side of 23rd. There was another coffee shop opposite, attached to a grocery store, but this was the better of the two. The interior looked so clean I felt I should have scrubbed up before going in. Long glass display cases were filled with Danishes and a million different muffins and sandwiches, and on the wall behind them was a coffee selection menu which went on for ever. Everything looked so perfect I wondered if people were allowed to buy anything and mess up the displays.
The tables were white marble, small and round, just big enough to seat three. I sat facing the glass shopfront and ordered a mocha – a small one after the mother lode at the airport. The place was about a quarter full, mostly with smartly dressed office workers talking shop. I nursed my caffeine for the ten minutes that remained before our RV.
Right on time, in he walked, and a beach ball he certainly was. He had skin that was so clear it was virtually see-through, and black hair that was slightly thinning on top, which he’d gelled and combed back to make it look thicker. On his cheerful, chubby face he had fashionably round, black-rimmed glasses, behind which a pair of clear blue eyes were looking twice their natural size because of the thickness of the lenses. He was wearing a shiny, grey single-breasted suit, bright blue shirt and red tie, all set off nicely by a little bum-fluff goatee beard. He must have been about three stones overweight, but was tall with it, over six feet. His jacket had all three buttons done up and was straining to contain the load. He spotted me just as easily and came over, hand outstretched.
‘Well, hellooo. You must be Nick.’
I shook his hand, noticing his soft skin and immaculate, almost feminine, fingernails. We sat down and the waiter came over immediately – maybe Metal Mickey was a regular. Pointing at my coffee, he looked up and smiled. ‘I’ll have one of those, please.’ The aroma of the mocha was no match for his aftershave.
The moment the waiter was out of earshot, he leaned forward, unnaturally close to me. ‘Well then, all I’ve been told is to help you while Sarah’s away.’ I was about to reply, but he was off again. ‘I must say, I’m quite excited about it. I’ve never been involved with someone else’s PV review before. Just my own, of course. Anyway, so here I am, all yours!’ He finished in a grand gesture, with his hands in the air in mock surrender.
Grabbing my chance, I said, ‘Thanks, that certainly makes things a lot easier. Tell me, when was the last time you saw her? I’m not too sure how long she’s been away.’
‘Oh, about three weeks ago. But what’s new? She’s here, there and everywhere, isn’t she?’
The coffee came and Metal Mickey’s head turned as he said thanks to the waiter. The light caught it just right and I could see the scarring where the plate had been inserted – an area about three inches by two of slightly raised skin. I just hoped that no-one on a nearby table answered their cellular phone, because he’d probably leap up and start doing the conga.
He picked up his coffee cup, got his podgy lips over the rim, and sucked away at the froth. He put it down again with a big, ‘Ah!’ and smiled, then was straight back into it. ‘Yes, three weeks ago was the last time. I don’t worry much about her comings and goings. I just make sure things are running smoothly here.’ He hesitated, like a child who wants something from a parent and is trying to pluck up courage. I was almost expecting him to start playing with his fingers and shuffling his feet. ‘I’ve been thinking, is her review because she’s due to return to the UK? If so, it’s just that I wondered . . . would I have to go back too? I mean, not that I wouldn’t want that, but it’s just . . .’
I caught his drift and cut in. ‘I don’t think she, or you, will be going home soon, Michael. Unless you want to.’ I decided not to hit him with any questions at the moment. He was too nervous, and would naturally be loyal to Sarah. Besides, I might as well get to grips with the apartment, then hit him with everything in one go.
There was visible relief in his face. I went on, in a more upbeat tone, ‘You have the keys for her apartment?’
‘Sure do! Shall we go up there now?’
I nodded, and sucked down the rest of my coffee while he pulled some notes from a slim, tidy wallet to pay for the coffees. At the paydesk he carefully folded the receipt and tucked it away. ‘Expenses,’ he sighed.
He carried on as we walked out onto 23rd. ‘I don’t know when she’s coming back. Do you?’ He held open the glass door for me.
I thought, Who’s supposed to be asking the questions here? ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. I’m just here to do the review.’ I thought I’d leave it at that. I didn’t know if he’d seen how a PV review was really carried out – which wasn’t like this – but he nodded as if he knew it was all part of the procedure.
‘Did you manage to park near?’
‘Just round the corner, on M.’
‘Well done, good boy!’
I started to go to the right, towards the car, thinking we were about to go for a drive.
‘No, no silly,’ he said, pointing the opposite way. ‘She lives at the end of the block, on N.’
It was strange; the one thing I didn’t get from Lynn was Sarah’s address. Mind you, I didn’t ask. It must have been shock at the thought of seeing her again.
As we walked the short distance along the narrow, tree-lined street to the next junction, I saw what he was pointing at. The apartment block was right on the corner of 23rd and N. Its jutting balconies and combination of red brick and white stone made it look like a game of Jenga played with Liquorice Allsorts. I couldn’t make up my mind whether that was how it had been designed, or if the builders had been pissed when they put it all together.
We carried on towards the junction and I decided to chance a question. I knew I’d resolved not to press him just yet, but this was one that I was very curious to have an answer to. ‘Tell me about boyfriends,’ I said.
He looked at me with a mixture of surprise and disapproval, and sounded quite defensive. ‘I don’t think that has anything to do with this PV.’ He paused, then said, ‘But yes, as a matter of fact, I do . . .’
‘No, no, not you,’ I laughed. ‘Sarah. Do you know of any men that she’s been seeing?’
‘Ohhh, Sarah. None at all. Well, not after what happened last time.’ His tone just begged the question.
‘Why, what happened?’
‘Well, poor Sarah was in love with a guy from the real Foreign Office. He was back in London, but he came here from time to time. They would disappear for a week or two, to the middle of nowhere. Not my sort of stamping ground, let me tell you.’
I looked at him expecting to share a smile, but he was thinking of the next bit and had begun to look sad. ‘Something very unfortunate happened, and I’m afraid it was me who was the bringer of bad news . . .’
He was waiting for the panto reply, and I obliged: ‘What bad news?’
‘Well, I get a call from Sarah, telling me that Jonathan’ – he took a breath, getting really spar
ked up about him – ‘is arriving at the airport and she wants me to pick him up and take him straight to the restaurant she’s booked for a surprise dinner. They planned to leave for the lakes the next day.’
I nodded to show that I was hanging on every word.
‘I get to the airport to pick him up. He’s never seen me before, of course, but I’ve seen photographs of him. Anyway, so there I am, waiting. Out he comes, arm-in-arm with another woman. All over her like a wet dress, I ask you! I put my name card down sharpish, I can tell you, and followed to see what happened next. I even got in the taxi line with them and listened. She was called Anna . . . Ella . . . Antonella – that was it. Anyway, a stupid name if you ask me, but spot on for a Sloaney slapper, which was what she looked. Too many pearls round her neck; didn’t suit her . . .’ He left a gap. Maybe he wanted me to feel part of the show.
I said, ‘What happened next?’
‘Well, what was I to do? I call Sarah at the restaurant an hour later to say that I couldn’t find him. She says, “Not a problem, he’s called me on my cellphone.” You can imagine, Nick, I struggled all night about what to do. Do I tell her or do I not? Well, it’s none of my business, is it? Anyway, the next day the decision was made for me.’ The smile on his face told me that it had been a good one. He was trying to suppress a giggle.
‘Go on.’
‘Well, poor old Anna whatsherface had been mugged downtown. In such a mess she was, lost her money, cards, the poor girl was in hospital for days, you know. Well, who does she ask the police to contact but dear Jonathan, care of the embassy? The call comes through, I get to hear about it, and guess what – it only turns out he’s her fiancé! So, I had the contact number and she was in hospital. Poor girl. I suppose I feel sorry for her now.’
I laughed, but wondered who in their right mind would two-time with another woman when they already had Sarah. ‘What happened?’
He held his hand up, with his index finger folded down. ‘The bitch lost his finger; she slammed the car door on his hands! That will teach him to mess with Sarah. If you knew her like I do, Nick, you’d know that she’s a wonderful woman. Far too good for a man like that.’ Someone must have powered up a mobile near us – Metalhead was off on a tangent. ‘And she wears such wonderful clothes, you wouldn’t believe!’
As we got to the junction I saw that the entrance was on the N Street side. A Latino in a blue polo shirt and green work trousers was hosing down the street directly outside the main doors, while the greenery along the front of the building was getting a drenching from the irrigation system.
The main doors were made of copper-coloured alloy and glass. To the left, a brass plate welcomed us to the building; to the right, a touch-screen TV entry system made sure the welcome wasn’t abused. Metal Mickey took out a long plastic key, which looked as if it should be used to wind up a kid’s toy. He slipped it into the keyhole and the doors parted.
We walked into a world of black marble floors, dark-blue walls and ceilings you could freefall from. The elevators were ahead of us, about twenty metres further down the atrium. To the right of them was a semi-circular desk – very Terence Conran, with a shiny wooden top and black marble wall beneath. Behind it sat an equally smart and efficient-looking porter, who would have looked at home on the door of a five-star hotel. It appeared that Metal Mickey knew him quite well. He greeted him with a cheery, ‘Why, hello, Wayne, how are you today?’
Wayne was fortyish, and obviously having a really good day. ‘I’m very good,’ he smiled. ‘How are you doing?’
It was obvious that he didn’t really know Metal Mickey’s name or he would have said it, but he recognized the face.
‘I’m just Jim Dandy,’ Mickey grinned. Then he looked over at me and said, ‘This is Nick, a friend of Sarah’s. He’s going to be using the apartment for a few days while Sarah’s away, so I’ll show him what’s what.’
I smiled at him and shook his hand, just to prove to him that I wasn’t a threat. Wayne smiled back. ‘Anything you need, Nick, just dial H–E–L–P on the in-house phone and it’ll be done.’
‘Thanks a lot. I’ll need Sarah’s parking space, if she has one.’
‘You just tell me when you want to collect the pass key.’ He beamed.
There was one more thing I needed. I leaned towards Wayne, as if letting him into a secret. ‘If Sarah comes in, please don’t tell her I’m here. I want to surprise her.’
Wayne gave me a knowing, between-men sort of nod. ‘No problem. Tell you what, I’ll call you on the in-house if I see her.’
Metal Mickey and I took the elevator to the sixth floor. The door opened onto a corridor that was every bit as plush as the entrance hall downstairs, with the same coloured walls and subtle, wall-mounted lighting. You could see the vacuum marks on the thick blue carpet.
Metal Mickey was quiet for a change as we walked along the corridor, his hands in his pockets as he sorted out some keys. He stopped outside the door to apartment 612. ‘Here we are.’ He undid the large, five-lever deadlock first, then the equivalent of a Yale lock, and pushed the door open for me.
I stepped in before him and blocked the doorway, which opened straight into the living room. He got the message, dangling the keys between his thumb and forefinger in front of me. ‘Do you want me to stay and make you some coffee, or do you need anything else?’
I said, ‘There will be a few things I need to talk to you about – work stuff, you know. Later on. But apart from that, mate, no. But thanks a lot for everything. I just need a little time on my own, to sort myself out; it’s my first one, I need to do a good job.’
He nodded as if he knew what I was talking about, which was just as well because I didn’t; it had just come into my head. It was nothing personal, I just didn’t want him around.
He gave me his card. ‘My home and pager.’
I took it from him. ‘Thanks, I’ll try not to call you out of hours. I can’t imagine there’ll be any need. It can all wait until Monday.’
It always pays to be nice to people, because you never know when you might need to use them. And besides, Metal Mickey was harmless. As he started to walk back towards the elevator, I poked my head round the doorframe and called out, ‘Thanks a lot, Michael.’ He just waved his right hand in the air and said, ‘Byee, and remember, anything else you need, just call.’
I closed the door and remained standing on the threshold while I keyed Metal Mickey’s numbers into my 3C – cards always get lost. Once done, I looked around at nothing in particular, just tuning in to the place rather than charging in and not noticing anything. I knew there wouldn’t be any letters under the door, because they all went via the central mailbox. I also knew that there’d be nothing tangible, like a notebook with a detailed plan of what she was up to, but if you don’t take your time you can go straight for the sixpence and miss the five-pound note.
I went to lock myself in so no-one could enter; it was a natural reaction to being in someone else’s house when I shouldn’t, but on this occasion there was no need. I wanted her to come in; it would certainly make my job a lot easier, and if Wayne kept his eyes open I’d get a warning.
A strange thought struck me. I’d seen Sarah so many times in short-term accommodation, when we’d stayed in hotels or flats, but this was the first time I’d seen where and how she lived for real. I felt like a voyeur, as if I was watching her undress through her bedroom keyhole.
Basically it was just a large one-bedroomed apartment, furnished, I could see at once, by the ‘accommodation pack’ – the standard furniture provided on the diplomatic circuit. Very plush, very expensive, very sophisticated, but not much of it, which the FCO (Foreign and Commonwealth Office) probably called minimalist because that way it sounded fashionable. The rest of it you bought yourself with an allowance. She obviously hadn’t got round to that yet.
In the main room there was a slightly lighter blue carpet than in the hallway outside, and a matching blue sofa and chairs. In the far left-hand
corner was a long sideboard with three drawers, facing a large window which looked out on to the rear of the building and one of the creeks that ran into the Potomac. Next to the window was a bookcase, its four shelves filled with hardbacks. I went over and scanned the spines. Quite a few titles seemed to be concerned with the Middle East and terrorism, and there was a complete set of the 1997 Economist world reports. One shelf started with biographies – Mandela, Thatcher (of course, she would have that), JFK, Churchill – and ended with a couple of Gore Vidal’s books, plus a few heavy-going ones on American history and a collection of Oscar Wilde’s plays. The bottom shelf held what looked like large-format, coffee-table-type books. They were lying flat because of their size and I had to twist my head to see the titles. I recognized The Times World Atlas because it was the free offer of that which had enticed me into one of the book clubs I’d used when becoming Nick Davidson, and then there were several pictorial ones on different countries in the Middle East, and one about the US.
The sideboard and bookcase were both made from a light wood veneer, and the walls were emulsioned off-white. There had been no effort whatsoever to personalize this flat. It was as anonymous as my house in Norfolk, though at least she had a sofa and a bookcase.
There were a few society, news and what’s-on-in-Washington magazines beside the sofa on the floor, piled on top of each other. A phone was lying on top of the mags, its digital display telling me there were no messages. The walls were bare apart from some bland views of DC which were probably taken when JFK was boss. There were two lamps: a normal table lamp on the floor just in front of the sofa, its wire snaking away across the carpet, and a standard lamp over by the bookcase, both with matching white shades. That was her all over; she might be highly professional in her job, but when it came to her personal admin she was a bag of shit. But what did I expect from someone who wouldn’t even know her way around Tesco?