Run for Home

by Dan Latus

  It wouldn’t be happening again, though. It struck him then that Unit 89 had effectively ceased to exist. Three dead and him on the run. It was almost as if it had never been.

  Could that be the plan, the reason? Make their team not only deniable but non-existent, a figment of the imagination?

  He shook his head. He had no idea. Anyway, the why of it didn’t really matter right now. Not to him. What he needed to do was focus on protecting himself. And Lisa. Always Lisa.

  He wondered if they would find him. Hard to say. But he knew it was possible. He had stuck a pin in his mental road atlas and covered a lot of ground to get here, this place he didn’t know and had no previous connection with; but randomness wasn’t everything. No guarantees came with it. He would just have to be careful, and avoid slip-ups. Otherwise, Lisa….

  He shuddered. Best not to think of her right now, hard as it was. Or Landis and the others either. Keep things simple. Do the best he could, and hope it worked out.

  He opened the holdall Landis had kept stored beneath the floorboards and stared at the money. He shook his head. Then he started counting it, which was something he had not dared to take time out to do until now; he had just grabbed it and run. There was ample, he soon decided, more than enough for the foreseeable future. He stopped counting and zipped up the bag.

  There might be even more money, if he needed it. He knew where there was an emergency fund. Electronic banking, though? He grimaced. Activity could be monitored, and it left traces. Anyway, why bother? Money was the least of his worries right now.

  He really would need to be careful, if he wanted to live – which he did. Very much so. Mostly for Lisa and himself. But he also wanted the chance to hit back. He owed it to the others not to take this lying down. They had always been one for all, and all for one. In their line of work, you couldn’t operate entirely alone. You depended on a handful of people, and they became important to you. He wasn’t going to forget them now.

  He shook his head and yawned. God, he was tired! He wondered about sleeping just as he was, fully dressed. But some of the fear and the urgency had left him now. He felt secure enough to risk undressing. Besides, he needed to look after himself – and his clothes, until he could buy more – to avoid attracting attention. He got up off the bed, undressed and took a shower. After that he could put off sleep no longer.

  In the morning he didn’t feel so good. He had slept, off and on, but he hadn’t been able to escape the horrors. Back from exhaustion, he was on edge again – hyper. He got up as soon as it was light and stood beside his window. Easing the curtain slightly aside with one finger, he checked that his car was still there. Then he studied the street.

  There were plenty of people about. They were all moving purposefully, walking dogs or heading for their work or their morning paper. No one was just standing, watching and waiting, in the shadows. Still, why would they be? He shrugged and let the curtain go, and turned away from the window to get washed and dressed.

  This place had been good for him but his mind was made up. He would get moving again. Movement might not solve anything but he needed it. An illusion, perhaps, but he wanted the feeling of being in control that movement gave him.

  He wasn’t hungry and declined the offer of a full English. He just wanted enough calories to put something back into the fuel cells.

  The landlady, Ellie, seemed worried.

  ‘If you’ve got far to go,’ she said, ‘it might be better to have a proper breakfast before you set off. You were very tired when you came in last night.’

  And not much better now, she implied. That seemed to be the subtext.

  He smiled and shook his head. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said. ‘I’m fine. I don’t usually bother much with breakfast.’

  She seemed about to argue, but instead, she smiled and turned to bring him the coffee and toast he had requested.

  ‘I hope we’ll see you again,’ she said when he settled up prior to leaving.

  ‘Anything’s possible,’ he told her.

  Another smile. ‘Safe journey,’ she said.

  He felt she meant it.

  Afterwards, he got back on the road as quickly as he could and concentrated on the driving to the exclusion of everything else. There were people he could have called – emergency contact numbers, and so on – but he no longer trusted them, and couldn’t bring himself to take the risk. He feared what they might say, and he doubted they would be concerned about his welfare anyway. Not now he had seen Jackson and Murphy at the scene.

  More practically, a landline call would reveal his area code, and generally where he was, while a call from his mobile would allow them to pinpoint his location exactly. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want them to have any idea of his whereabouts, or his direction of travel either. When he did make contact, which he would do when it suited him, he would do it from an internet café.

  He would have preferred them to be unaware that he was even back in the country, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. He had to assume that routine passport monitoring at entry points would have told them that anyway. It would be stupid to hope that they might not have noticed, or that checks might have been suspended again because the Border Control Force still wasn’t up to the job.

  By 9.30 he had crossed the border just north of Berwick-upon-Tweed, and was pressing on into Scotland. Happily, the Scots still didn’t require passport checks on entry. How much longer would that last, though, he wondered sourly.

  He kept his speed down, not wanting a digital camera to record his passing. From now on, he reminded himself yet again, he had to be careful about every little thing.

  In Edinburgh, he found an internet café and put out a message. I need help, he said to all the contact points. Something has gone wrong. Terrible things have happened.

  Where are you? was what he got back. He sat and watched the replies come in. Where are you? Three of the four were quick. At the other station they must be having morning coffee, he decided. The thought wasn’t amusing.

  Where are you? It wasn’t the response he had hoped for. How can we help? or What do you need? would have been better.

  He closed down the connection and went to the counter to buy a coffee. Then he sat and watched George Street pass by. He sat at a little table towards the back, well away from the high seats in the window, but he wasn’t comfortable. If anything, he felt even more vulnerable here, in a city. Anonymous, perhaps, but that also meant he didn’t know who was observing him. It would be hard to see trouble coming.

  And it would be. It would be coming. Trouble would have followed him home. It wouldn’t have stopped at Calais. Not trouble like this.

  Where are you? he thought again, bitterly. Fuck that!

  So first they wanted to locate him. Why would they want to do that before asking what was wrong, discussing how they could help or assuring him of their unswerving support? Only one reason he could see; their priorities were higher than his personal safety. Probably, he was a nuisance, perhaps even a danger, to them. Foot soldiers like him didn’t count for much. They never had done.

  Moodily, he stirred his coffee. They were not like the other lot. The Russians brought their people home and looked after them: celebrated them; respected them. He had always known that. It made you wonder if you were on the right side.

  Bastards!

  ‘Have you finished with your cup?’

  He looked up warily at the girl come to clear his table.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your cup. Are you…?’

  He shook his head and pushed the cup towards her. She smiled and took it. He wondered what was wrong with her, smiling like that. Then he made an effort and smiled back.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, before turning away.

  He ought to practise that, he thought ruefully. Smiling at people. It might stand him in good stead. Not everybody was his enemy. Just the people who had always mattered most to him.

  He would try them again,
he decided. Maybe he’d been too hasty with his suspicions, and was being too cynical. Maybe – God forbid! – he was a touch paranoid.

  But the answer was more or less the same. However he phrased it, all they ever wanted to know was where he was.

  For the last time, he typed with some frustration: I need help. Can you provide it? Back came the standard response:

  We need to know where you are first.

  Fuck that!

  Angrily, he studied the messages, all four of them now. Coffee break must be over.

  You could say that any offer of help would inevitably be constrained by consideration of his whereabouts. You could say that they really did need to know where he was before they could offer to do something. But his instincts said that was crap. They wanted to know where he was so they could send Jackson and Murphy after him, as well. Complete the tidying up. Leave no loose ends.

  He frowned with thought. It was possible that he might be wrong – about every bloody thing! – but he was going to assume he was right. If he was wrong, nothing was spoilt. If he was right, then looking after himself his own way would give him – and Lisa – a better chance of surviving.

  So he would go with his instincts. They had served him well so far.

  Chapter Four

  In Musselburgh he changed cars. He swapped the big Skoda that he was used to for an 8-year-old Land Rover Discovery, plus two thousand pounds that he paid in cash. Where he was headed next, he thought the 4-wheel drive would prove useful. He would have preferred a newer vehicle, but that would have required a bigger cash contribution, and he didn’t want to flash too much of that about. As it was, the small-time dealer was happy to get his hands on a cash deal. He even knocked a bit off the price of the Land Rover in gratitude.

  When he drove out of the yard he felt a bit better. If ever they caught onto the car he had been driving – perhaps through the ferry company – it wouldn’t do them much good. He had broken the link.

  He headed north, glad to put the city and its congestion behind him. The A9 took him up to Inverness that afternoon. Still he kept going, on into the darkness of early evening, on up the east coast until he could go no further. He had reached Thurso, and the adjacent harbour at Scrabster. It was too late to cross to Orkney, but he was well satisfied with his progress and content to settle down to spend a chilly night in the Land Rover.

  The next morning, he was first in line to buy a ticket for the early ferry to Stromness. It was just as well because it took a little time, and the experience was worrying.

  ‘I need to see your passport,’ the woman in the ticket office said.

  He was taken aback and stared at her for a moment. ‘My passport?’

  She nodded. ‘Please.’

  ‘For a journey inside the UK?’

  ‘It’s security regulations.’

  It was hard to believe.

  ‘I haven’t got my passport with me,’ he said desperately.

  ‘Something official with your photo on it, then.’

  He shook his head. The woman shrugged, and said she was sorry but there was nothing more she could do. They were required to be very security conscious these days.

  He walked away. Outside, he stood grim-faced at a railing overlooking the harbour. Shit! Of all things. If he used his passport, it could give his whereabouts away to anyone looking for him. His trail would no longer be cold.

  On the other hand, he decided eventually, this could also be a handy way of assessing the threat level.

  Back in the office he handed over his passport.

  ‘You found it?’ the woman said.

  He nodded. ‘It was in the car, after all.’

  Three hours later, he was on deck as the ship entered the harbour at Stromness. He felt good again, better anyway. Almost as far away from London as he could possibly get in the UK, he hoped to find sanctuary here, at least for a while.

  But no sooner was he ashore than the doubts set in. His intention had been to head out to a small village, where once he had spent a little time on holiday. But now he felt he daren’t leave Stromness. He had to stay, to see who came off the next couple of ferries.

  There was all day to wait before the next ferry came in and by the time it did, the light wasn’t very good. He stationed himself on a seat not far from the ramp that the vehicles used to leave the ship. They crawled past, giving him ample opportunity to see who was inside. There was no one who looked the part. None of the foot passengers or cyclists did either. You could never be sure, but he was pretty confident that nobody on this ferry had come after him.

  He stayed where he was for another hour, in case of stragglers, but none came. That should have made him feel better, but it didn’t. Not really. This was only one ferry. There would be plenty more.

  He roused himself, got up, and found a B&B establishment not far away. For three nights, he said. Maybe more. He wasn’t sure. The woman smiled and said they all said that, but they changed their minds when the magic of the islands got to work on them. Well, perhaps it would on him, too, he said.

  The next morning, he was back at the quayside long before the ferry arrived. He stationed himself on the same seat, now wearing a fisherman’s hat to shield his face from the bright sunlight, and identification.

  He watched visitors inspecting the harbour, and the gulls inspecting them. Small boats left, some for a day’s fishing, others for sightseeing or purposes unknown. Surprisingly, there were plenty of visitors, even at this time of year. Lots of English voices on all sides, too.

  Orkney was like that, he knew, and very different from the Western Isles. No Gaelic spoken here, and altogether busier and more populated. Something to do with the modern oil industry, and a lot more to do with a different history featuring better farmland, Norse settlements and a railway all the way up the east coast of Scotland.

  The hours passed. Eventually, he saw the ferry appear in the distance across Scapa Flow, and watched it steadily draw near and begin the big curving turn that would bring it safely into harbour. He adjusted his hat, straightening the peak to shadow his face, and sat still, waiting and watching.

  They were in the third car to leave the ship: Jackson and Murphy. He winced, and ducked his head to study his newspaper as they passed without seeing him.

  So they were here, he thought almost with satisfaction. His instincts had not let him down. The worst had come true. They were after him.

  He left Mainland, the largest Orkney island, via the road across the Churchill Barriers, and took the Seacat from South Ronaldsway to Scotland. He landed near John o’Groats in the late afternoon and then headed south, leaving the Northern Isles to Jackson and Murphy. No way could he stay there now. They would find him if he did. Eventually they would. They were good at finding people who didn’t want to be found.

  The Land Rover was slow, too slow. Soon he regretted having it. Fine over rough country and local roads, but no good for getting anywhere fast. So back in Musselburgh that evening he changed vehicles again, trading in the Land Rover and another chunk of cash for a 3-year-old VW Passat.

  ‘I’m not going to read in tomorrow’s papers about a Land Rover having been used as a getaway vehicle in a bank robbery, am I?’ the dealer asked with a chuckle.

  ‘That was what I wanted it for,’ he replied, ‘but it didn’t work out. That old tin can wouldn’t do much more than 35.’

  The dealer smiled. ‘If you don’t like this vehicle either,’ he said, ‘come back and see me again. Anytime. I’m always home to a good customer.’

  He drove south, and then west, for a long time. In the small hours, he reached a place where he had kept a caravan for many years; more a retreat than a hideout, it was where he kept some personal stuff. Not valuable or confidential things, but clothes and equipment he needed when he headed into the mountains. Things he might need in an emergency, as well.

  The caravan was on a long-stay site on a farm at the foot of Blencathra, midway between Penrith and Keswick, in the English Lake
District. It wasn’t an idyllic rose-covered cottage, this rural retreat, but he was attached to it. Lisa had liked it, too, which was another good reason to keep it.

  He paid ground rent in advance, a year at a time, and rarely visited more than once a year. Sometimes not even that. But even in the years when he didn’t come at all, he always knew it was there if he needed it. Given the way he lived, he needed somewhere like that. He felt he did, at least. And he needed it more than ever now, after the Prague disaster, and after Orkney hadn’t worked out as he’d hoped.

  He switched off the engine and lights when he was a couple of hundred yards away from the site and let the car roll slowly downhill on the track to the farm. He had no wish to wake anyone up in the middle of the night or to advertise his arrival. Someone would notice in the morning that he was here, but hopefully without much interest. Comings and goings were an everyday event, though more so in the summer months than this time of year. It was what helped to make it a good place for him to lay his head.

  The gate leading on to the site was closed, as was usual at night; a security precaution. He gently slowed to a halt beside the farmhouse and got out to see if he could open the gate. A big padlock said no. That was a pity. But he wasn’t seriously put out. The car could stop here for what remained of the night. That didn’t mean he was denied the comfort of a bed. He could reach the caravan on foot, and get in using the key he kept taped to the underside.

  He climbed over the gate and walked the twenty yards to the gap in the hawthorn hedge that sheltered the site from the worst of the winds. No tourers on site at this time of year but there were perhaps thirty static caravans, none with lights on just now. It wasn’t a problem; starlight and a wispy moon let him see well enough. And what he saw brought him to a sudden halt.