by Andy McNab
I could see the passion in her eyes as she continued. ‘Nick, the source has access to Intelink. Not only does that mean he would know before virtually anyone else of any contact I made, but just think about what information is being passed on to Bin Laden and anyone else he then decides to sell or give it to. Don’t you think I would love to call this in?’
Well, if all this was true, that was the phone call question taken care of. Intelink is a top-secret network, through which all the US and some Allied intelligence agencies share information, very much like their own private Internet. Within it, all agencies also have their own intranets, separated by firewalls from the main system. There are about a hundred sites that need top-secret security clearance to get access to. Whoever the source was, if he or she had access to it, then they must be big time.
I washed, thought and said nothing. If she was telling the truth and Netanyahu was killed and the source did exist, it would be a drama, but it wouldn’t make much of a dent in my life. Come to think of it, would it affect anyone else’s very much?
I could still see her reflection in the mirror. ‘Hey, kill one Israeli prime minister,’ I said, ‘another pops up. So what?’
It seemed that something I’d said had amused her, because her nose twitched and a big smile lit up her face. ‘They’re not going to kill just Netanyahu, Nick. The main target is Arafat. Bin Laden hates him – hates him even more than Netanyahu, for reining in Hamas and other Islamic fundamentalists and supporting the peace process.’
I looked down at my arm, trying to hide my smile. ‘He’s not too keen on making friends, old Bin boy, is he?’
My joke wasn’t appreciated; she just carried on as if she was Elizabeth giving me a brief. ‘For Bin Laden, the important thing about this attack is what it will say to the world. When CNN asked him about his plans, he said, “You’ll see them and hear them in the media, God willing.” Since then, the Islamic Jihad group have sent the United States a warning: that they would soon deliver a message to Americans “which we hope they read with care, because we will write it, with God’s help, in a language they will understand”.
‘His message is that nowhere is safe for United States citizens and their friends. It’s the logical extension of the bombing of American interests overseas. The one place that should be safe – here in the US – isn’t. Think about it, Nick. Two world leaders killed while guests of the most powerful nation in the world. A perfect demonstration that Allah’s avenger can strike wherever and whenever he wants. Just think what a boost that would be for the fundamentalists. As you would say, there’d be shit on. And the source is there, Nick, every step of the way.’
She stood up and started to walk towards me. I concentrated on dealing with my arm. I said, ‘And what about the guy we were sent in to lift in Syria? Where does that fit in?’ I hoped I wasn’t sounding too interested. ‘And you changed the data. London told me everything.’
She was now standing next to me. ‘Ah, London again. I killed him because I had to, Nick. He knew the real data. If he’d come back to the UK the corrupt stuff I gave them wouldn’t have stood up.’
‘Why change it in the first place?’
She sighed. ‘To try to confirm if the source really existed, and where in the NSC food chain he was. Those were early days, Nick, nothing was confirmed. At that point he was just a myth.’
She clearly felt more had to be said. ‘Look, I needed to do it so that when the source – if he existed – got a look at the data, he would have to inform Bin Laden that everything was OK, nothing had been compromised. That way, not only did it confirm he existed, but meant that perhaps he could be tracked down. Whoever sent you here will not know everything, Nick.’
There was a lull. I knew she was waiting for me to ask another question. I patted my arm with a hand towel, turned and leaned back against the sink. I looked at her, two feet away. ‘We should have been told there was a change of plan once on the ground. You fucked a job up that killed Glen.’
She looked at me, confused.
‘Reg Three, remember?’
There was no reaction in her face. ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry about that.’ I knew she really didn’t give a shit about Glen. Come to think of it, nor did I any more. It was a long time ago. Even in the Regiment he would have been long forgotten, apart from by his family and a few close friends on Remembrance Day. His wife would probably have married another member of the Regiment and would be getting on with her life.
I got back into the present. ‘So why are you in the shit about all this, if it was part of the job?’
She looked at me with her small-child-in-trouble face. ‘That’s the problem.’ She hesitated. ‘They didn’t know. I thought that if no-one was aware there would be no leaks.’ She was starting to look depressed, as you would if you’d severely fucked up. ‘In fact, it was a cock-up from start to finish. The FBI confirmed shortly afterwards that the source did exist. They call him Yousef, but they didn’t know at what level of the NSC he was. I decided not to tell them about anything I was doing. In fact, they don’t even know about what I was doing at the lake.’
It was all making sense now. It was so typical of Sarah to be going it alone, hoping to collect all the Brownie points and smoothe her way up another rung of the career ladder. ‘So now you want me to help you get out of your fuck-up.’ I couldn’t help smiling. Actually, it felt good.
‘I couldn’t tell anyone, Nick. If I had, the whole thing might have been compromised. I wouldn’t – couldn’t – risk it.’ But she was risking it with me. That also felt very good, which was making things even more difficult for me.
She turned back towards the bed, sat down and hit the ‘off’ button on the TV remote control, knees drawn up and her arms around them, counting the number of piles there were per square inch of carpet. ‘The problem is, Nick, I still don’t know the identity of the source – no-one does. No matter how I did it, that has been the aim of this last four years: to find him, and to force the whole network down.’
She had finished with the carpet and turned back to me as I continued to tend my arm. ‘The two others who were arriving at the lake today are the only ones here in the US who know who he is. I’ve only met them once. I don’t know their names, contact details, nothing. But my plan was to play along with the hit, and get them lifted – I wasn’t quite sure how. But once we had those two, we’d get the source as well. It won’t stop at Netanyahu and Arafat, unless we can neutralize the top man.’
She brushed back her hair with her fingers as it was drying. My breathing was very slow and heavy as I tried to think of questions to help me feel right about what I was thinking.
‘Nick, you are the only—’
The phone rang. Sarah jumped up and started to throw her things on, picking up her weapon and checking chamber. With her jeans halfway up her legs, she pulled the curtain slightly to see outside. She shook her head. I picked up the phone. She carried on dressing.
It was reception; we exchanged a few words and I replaced the receiver. ‘It’s the car. Take everything, get into the shower room and wait.’ She picked up the rest of her clothes, towels and bag and took them with her. I put my jacket back on to hide the wound and the fact that my shirtsleeves were missing and changed channel, checking it wasn’t on a news programme. I turned up the volume to cover Sarah.
There was a knock on the door. As I walked across the room, even I couldn’t help noticing how dank the room smelled. I looked through the spyhole. It was a young black guy wearing a blue T-shirt. He had all the forms on a clipboard under his left arm, and a runner for the credit card in his hand.
I sat down with him on the bed to fill out the forms. Showing my driving licence was always a bit of fun, as most people outside the UK don’t have a clue what they’re looking at – a damp piece of pink paper that says nothing much at all, and doesn’t even have a picture. He was turning the page over for the details he needed, trying to appear as if he knew what he was about. I couldn’t be
ar to see him in pain. ‘The number’s there.’ He smiled at me in relief.
As he got up, I could see him trying to work out the smell. I laughed. ‘We were using a friend’s car for our holiday. It broke down last night in the middle of nowhere.’
He nodded, not really caring. When he left, Sarah came out of the bathroom, taking her jeans off again to dry.
If she was telling the truth, maybe I would take her back to London. The problem was that although I hardly knew where I was with Sarah, I did with Lynn and Elizabeth. It might be G&Ts at seven, dinner at eight for them, but if I didn’t carry out my job they would fuck me over big time, maybe even organize my own personal T104. I needed more information from Sarah; the fact that she’d killed the American gave me a pretty clear idea of whose side she was on, but I needed solid evidence. I sat on the bed as she finished undressing and put her clothes back on the heater.
‘When are they going to do the hit?’
She came and sat next to me. She looked up at me with excitement, then her face changed. ‘You still don’t believe me, do you, you bastard?’ She gripped my arm with her hand. ‘You must help me. I’m the only one who can identify the two who are left, and I know them, Nick. They won’t rest until they’ve finished the job.’ She stared at me. I didn’t answer; I knew she was going to continue. ‘What are we here for, Nick? How will you look at yourself in the mirror if you don’t help me to stop it?’
Mr Spock would have been proud of her. The emotional stuff didn’t work too much for me, but the story did sound logical. But she’d already fucked me over once, and looking at myself in the mirror had never been high on my list of priorities.
I got to my feet and went towards the door. ‘I’m going for a cruise round to see if I can get us some clothes. What size are you?’
‘Eight US, shoes six. Why don’t I just come with you?’
‘They’re looking for a couple now. They may even have a video grab from the gas station. Sit here, I’ll be back.’
Out in the corridor, I closed the door behind me but didn’t walk away immediately. Ripping two matches from the book I’d picked up I wedged them between the door and the frame, one a foot above the lock, one below. I heard the locks being closed from the inside as I went downstairs.
The rain came down in a constant drizzle as I got into the car, a red Saturn, and turned over the ignition. The heater blew at its highest setting, the radio blared and the windscreen wipers thrashed from side to side. The urgent bing bing bing told me to put my seatbelt on. I did, inhaling the new-car smell, put it into drive and headed for the road.
In case she was watching, I drove out of her line of sight before going round the back of the motel, crossing over the main drag and parking up in the lot for Arby’s, a hot sandwich shop. Looking through the power, telephone and stop-sign lines which hung above the main drag I now had a trigger on the motel door; I’d even be able to see where she walked to, as I had the stairs and ground floor in view. If she did something that showed she was lying, at least I’d know, and then I’d have control again. Plus, I could see if the police turned up. What Sarah was going to do once that happened I didn’t know, and I wouldn’t wait to see. If she followed her usual pattern, she would probably kill a couple of them and hopefully get killed herself. It was a risk, not keeping her with me, but worth it. Besides, there was something I had to do alone.
I kept watching the motel door as I turned on the power of the mobile, hit the PIN and eventually keyed in three digits. An operator answered. ‘Yes please,’ I said. ‘North Carolina, Century Twenty-one Realtors, on Skibo Road, Fayetteville.’
Century 21 was a family-owned estate agency franchise, letting out apartments. I’d gone there once when I was in the Regiment, when a couple of us were staying in Fayetteville for six weeks. We spent one week in Moon Hall, a military hotel on the base, which was fine enough, but with the allowances we’d been given we decided to treat ourselves to an apartment. The only reason I could remember the name was that the ‘Ski’ in ‘Skibo’ was pronounced Sky and I always got it wrong.
I kept the engine running so the window wouldn’t fog, and my eyes on the trigger. As I waited, I hit the wiper arm to clear the windscreen. The number was given to me and I dialled.
The call was quickly answered by a female voice in turbo mode. ‘Century Twenty-one, Mary Kirschbaum and Jim Hoeland Property Management Inc. How may I help you?’
I switched to my bad American. ‘Hi, I’m looking for an apartment to rent – three bedrooms, maybe.’ The bigger it was, the more chance there was of the kitchen having the facilities I was going to need.
I heard the sound of a keyboard being tapped at warp speed, and within a nanosecond she replied, ‘I only have one or two bedrooms available. Do you require furnished or unfurnished?’ She gave me the feeling this wasn’t her first day on the job.
‘Two bed, furnished, would be fine.’
‘OK, how long do you require the property for? I need a day’s notice for weekly rentals and a week’s notice for monthly rentals.’
She had obviously decided that for someone like me, who didn’t seem to have a clue what he wanted, it would be better to explain right away instead of wasting her time.
‘Two weeks, but could I get it today?’
There was a pause. I’d fucked up the procedure, but she recovered with style. ‘Right now I have a two-bedroom apartment available to rent for one seventy-five a week or five fifty a month, plus electric and tax. If you decide to stay longer the monthly rental rate would start on month two.’
Once I’d heard the first nine or ten words I didn’t even listen to the rest. ‘OK, that sounds great. What’s the kitchen like? Does it have a freezer?’
I thought she was going to ask if I’d just arrived from Mars. ‘Yes, they all have a full kitchen. Freezer, dishwasher, range—’
I cut in before I got the whole list. ‘And I can definitely have it today?’
There was another pause.
‘Sure.’ The computer keys were going into meltdown. ‘You need to come into the office today before five thirty so I can book you in. It will be a two-hundred dollar deposit in cash, plus one week’s rental, plus tax in advance, cash or card only. Can I have your name?’
The keyboard was given another brief respite as I slowed the process down by talking at a normal speed. ‘Snell. Nick Snell.’
By the time I’d finished, it was on the hard disk.
‘OK, I’m Velvet, the rental assistant. I’ll see you here before five thirty.’
I came off the phone feeling dizzy. I had to hit the wipers again as I kept both eyes on the motel door. I looked at the half washed-out ‘K’ on my wrist, then at my watch. It wasn’t too early. I dialled call number two and got the answer, ‘Hello, lower school office.’
‘Hello, Mr Stone here. I’m sorry to call outside of social hours, but is it possible to talk to Kelly? I’m working and I—’
Before I’d even finished a very prim and proper voice, straight out of a 1950s black and white film, said, ‘That’s perfectly all right, Mr Stone. One moment.’
I was treated to an electronic version of ‘Greensleeves’. I’d thought that had been banned by the music police years ago.
I knew it wasn’t ‘perfectly all right’. The secretary would have to drag her out of class, or whatever goes on in boarding schools at that time of the evening. Him calling again, the wrong line, wrong day and always with excuses – but I paid the bills, and on time. It must piss her off. I made a mental note to find out who this woman was and what she looked like next time I visited. I imagined a cross between Joyce Grenfell and Miss Jean Brodie.
She came back on the line. ‘Can you ring back in a quarter of an hour?’
‘Of course.’
‘Not bad news, I hope. She’s been so excited today, because they sang a belated “Happy Birthday” in assembly. She’s feeling a very special young lady indeed.’
I turned off the power with fifteen minutes
to kill, while keeping my eye on the motel and listening to the radio, feeling really pleased that I’d got it together to call. It would surprise her. I was cut out of the daydream by a news headline.
‘ . . . the deadly gun battle only minutes away from vacationing families. We’ll bring you more from the scene after these messages . . .’
Once I’d listened to an important announcement about this week’s sportswear specials at Sears, a very serious voice tried to give weight to the popcorn-style report he was presenting. They had found bodies at the house, and they were thought to be Middle Eastern. However, police were not yet releasing further details. His voice dropped an octave for extra gravitas. Unconfirmed reports suggested that the dead men could be terrorists.
At least there was no mention of any dead police, which meant no pissed-off cops hunting for the Bonnie and Clyde who’d murdered their best mates. I sat and listened to the rest of the news, very aware of the uncomfortable dampness of my jeans.
It was about seventeen minutes past twelve. I powered up the phone and called the UK again, flicking my eyes between the keypad and the motel door. I got the ringing tone and turned off the radio.
Our conversations when she was at school were normally quite strained, because she was in the office and people were listening in, and, like the grandparents, they still didn’t understand how someone as erratic as me could be in charge of a child’s welfare.
It rang, she answered. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi, how are you today!’ I always tried to sound really happy to put her at ease.
‘Fine. Where are you?’
I could hear phones ringing and Miss Grenfell-Brodie fussing around in the background.
‘I’m in London, still working. How’s school?’
‘Fine.’
‘And Granny and Grandad? Did you have a good time?’
‘It was OK.’ Her tone suddenly shifted. ‘Hey, Nick, it’s really cool you called!’
It was great to hear her voice as well. ‘See, I promised I’d ring you, and I have, haven’t I? You see, a normal person’s promise. Are you impressed, or what?’