Run for Home

by Dan Latus

  They seemed glad to see him again, especially Ellie.

  ‘We don’t get a lot of visitors at this time of year,’ she admitted. ‘So you can have the same room, if you like.’

  He took it.

  ‘Mr Gibson, isn’t it?’

  He nodded and smiled. That would do for now. His passport, the one he was using at present, said different, but by now he could scarcely recall the name he’d started out with. What was in a name, anyway?

  But he kept ‘Harry’. That would always be with him. You had to have something to cling to.

  ‘It’s Harry,’ he volunteered.

  She nodded, as if that explained a lot.

  ‘Harry,’ she repeated.

  The night was a difficult one. He didn’t feel under immediate threat, not here, but his head was in turmoil. He knew now for sure that he was deep in trouble. There was no longer any possibility of it all being a mistake, or of him being an innocent bystander. He was in the middle of it, even if he had no idea why. He was alone too, more alone than he had ever been.

  There had been four of them in Unit 89, the special unit Callerton had set up after the Soviet withdrawal from Central Europe. He was now the only one left, and if they got him as well, it would be as if Unit 89 had never existed. He doubted there would even be a paper trail for future historians to follow; there would be nothing, nothing at all.

  And he really was out on a limb. No personal contact with London any more, not since Callerton had retired. Callerton’s immediate successor had soon moved on, and now he didn’t even know the name of the man who had taken his place. All his reports went via cut-outs, when they didn’t simply go by post or electronic transmission. Landis had been the only one with direct, face-to-face contact. And now he had a hole in the back of his head, like the other members of Unit 89.

  The elimination of the unit? Harry blinked with surprise as the thought registered. Was that what this was about? The elimination of Unit 89? Could that be the explanation?

  Surely not? It was an absurd notion, but no more so than what had been happening these past several days. Whoever would have thought any of it possible?

  His attempts to make sense of it all won him a sleepless night. It was dawn when finally he got to sleep, and then he missed breakfast and had to settle for lunch instead.

  ‘It’s no problem,’ Ellie said when finally he made his way downstairs. ‘Nothing’s spoiling, and you needed some sleep.’

  She gave him a happy smile and added, ‘Order what you like. The chef is longing to cook something for somebody. So what’s it going to be – bacon and eggs, or steak and chips?’

  He settled for the lamb stew that topped the lunch menu that day.

  ‘You’re very easy-going here,’ he added.

  ‘I’m afraid we are. Some might think it a fault, but I don’t suppose we’ll ever change.’

  He laughed. ‘The whole village is like that, is it?’

  ‘It is. I don’t think you would like it at all.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, you obviously lead a very busy life, rushing here, there and everywhere – and never getting enough sleep!’

  ‘It’s been like that lately,’ he admitted, ‘but it’s not what I would choose. Easy-going would suit me very well indeed.’

  ‘Would it really?’ she asked mischievously before sweeping away to see to new customers in the dining room.

  Really, he thought wearily. In another life.

  Afterwards, he took a stroll around the village. In other circumstances, he thought again, he could have been happy with what he saw here; the village green, the river, the ancient, gnarled trees, and the little school where he could hear children playing in the yard during their lunch break. He was out of touch these days with metropolitan England, but this England he could relate to very easily. At least, he would have been able to if his head hadn’t been full of questions, and pictures of dead bodies.

  He spent a little time thinking about Jackson and Murphy. So far as he could see, there was no way they could find him here. Not unless he made a mistake and unwittingly brought them to his door. To all intents and purposes, he was off the map so long as he remained here and contacted nobody.

  He toyed with the idea of staying, and finding somewhere in the village to live. Fantasy, perhaps, but it had its attractions. He could do it. Live here. Maybe even bring Lisa, in time. Then, when the money ran out, he could get a little job. Deliver mail, or help look after sheep. There was bound to be something he could do. Work in the local abattoir, he thought sourly. He’d be good at that.

  An estate agent’s window caught and held his attention for a few minutes. There were places to rent as well as to buy, and often at prices that didn’t seem absurd. One, in particular, caught his eye: Bracken Cottage, with three bedrooms, a mile outside the village centre. Roses at the door? he wondered with a smile.

  But perhaps he would be better off with somewhere actually in the village; a cottage or a flat with more immediate access to whatever services were available here. The pub notably, he thought with another smile. Oh, well. One day, perhaps. It was something to dream about.

  The trouble was, staying here wouldn’t answer any of his questions. There were no answers in this village, pleasant and safe as it was, and he wasn’t ready to settle for that. He needed to know what was going on. He needed to see Lisa, as well, but that would have to wait a while. It was too risky and dangerous. Forget that, for now.

  Back at the hotel, he picked up another of his disposable phones and began to punch in the numbers. Once he got started, he found he could remember the sequence easily. But there was no reply when he pressed send. He frowned, put down the phone and had another think. Then he began to pack. It was time to go.

  ‘You’re not leaving already?’ Ellie said, visibly disappointed.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘That’s a pity. It was so nice to have a guest,’ she said with a chuckle. ‘It makes a change for us all.’

  He smiled. ‘I’d like to come back,’ he said.

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘I might look at some of the properties in the estate agent’s window,’ he added, wanting to extend the conversation.

  ‘Oh?’ She looked searchingly at him, not smiling now. ‘You really do like it here, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ He stared back at her, knowing then that something was going on between them. ‘I’d like to see you again, Ellie, as well. You’ll still be here?’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll be here. I have to be. It’s my hotel.’

  Then she leant forward and brushed his cheek with her lips.

  ‘Take care,’ she said, looking worried now, and for all the world as if she understood the signs and realized he had an uncertain future, ringed by danger.

  He crossed the Channel from Dover to Dunkirk that night, and didn’t care if they discovered he had left the country again. Hopefully, it would just seem that he had left because inside its borders he had not found the safe haven he had sought. They would have no idea where he was bound.

  Back in Prague, he kept well away from Vyšehrad. He had no intention of going anywhere near the safe house or the flat where he had lived in recent months. He didn’t believe in tempting fate.

  The first night he booked into a pension just off Karlovo Náměstí – Charles Square – in the university area. He felt he ought to be safe enough there for one night. But he still took the gun to bed with him. Somewhere, back there, Jackson and Murphy would be on his trail. And if not them, then others. He was a marked man.

  The room was small and overheated. He opened the window and listened to the night sounds: the crowds and the trams, the traffic, and somewhere the sound of a traditional jazz band playing joyously. It felt surprisingly good to be back, back in this city he knew so well. Familiarity was a great comfort. For a time, it took away thoughts of what had happened here, and of what he had to do.

  He dozed for an hour or so. After midnight, the
crowds dispersed, the traffic stopped and most of the trams went home for a few hours, leaving only the hourly night service to rumble between the buildings. Then, at last, he could sleep properly.

  In the morning, he ate breakfast in a nearby café, choosing sliced cheese and salami to go with the traditional Turkish-style coffee that came in the equally traditional glass mug without handles. Afterwards, he took a tram out to Strašnická.

  It was a dismal journey, out beyond the areas tourists never reached, past the old, run-down blocks of flats and the dilapidated industrial premises, and into the zone of shabby blocks of workers’ flats built in the 1960s and 70s. Beautiful Prague it was not. Strašnická was an area, one of many in the outlying districts, that didn’t feature in the guide books and the celebratory videos. It was as bad, he reflected, as the train journey through north London.

  His fellow passengers didn’t include anyone who looked like a potential assassin. No Jackson or Murphy types, not that appearances counted for much in that regard. Still. … He stayed alert, vigilant.

  Mostly, the others in his tram were either young women with infants or elderly people, the latter often infirm of mind or body, and sometimes both. Everyone else would be at work. He eyed and almost welcomed the bearded, smelly tramp who planted himself in a nearby seat. Definitely not department material, he thought with an inner smile.

  Once a separate place in its own right, Strašnická had a New Town and an Old Town. He left the tram in the Old Town, a busy shopping area with a department store and plenty of little cafés and family-owned shops. It was a working-class, industrial area, very definitely. And he felt better here, better than since the trouble had started. He was back in the world he had long inhabited, and the familiarity of it was like a tonic. Here, he could drift invisibly, and with the growing confidence that came with anonymity.

  He made his way out of the shopping precinct and walked steadily past several large blocks of flats. He knew where he was going. He only hoped this little bit of the world hadn’t changed since his last visit.

  Kosmonauto 68. He was here. This was it, the address. He walked up to the entrance to the ten-storey block of flats and studied the names of the tenants alongside the buttons for the buzzers on their individual front doors.

  There it was! She was still here. His finger moved to the button alongside the name: Novotná.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Just get back to Prague.’

  Jackson pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment and glanced at it with disbelief.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

  ‘I hope you’re not questioning my orders?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ He caught Murphy’s eye and shrugged dramatically.

  ‘Gibson has left the country again. We don’t know where he is but my guess is he’ll end up back in Prague. So that’s where I want you.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Afterwards, Murphy said, ‘What now?’

  ‘He wants us back in Prague. He says that’s where Gibson will eventually end up.’

  ‘So he’s left the UK?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  Murphy grumbled on a bit about all the extra driving. Jackson let him. He was thinking about Gibson, trying to see the world through his eyes. What would he do? Where would he go?

  ‘It’s obvious,’ Jackson announced with some satisfaction. ‘The boss is right. Gibson has to return to Prague. That’s the only place where he knows people. He’s been out in the field too long. We’ve seen it before, haven’t we?’

  Murphy nodded. ‘They used to call it bush happy – going native. In the old days.’

  Jackson agreed. ‘They aren’t happy anywhere else. It gets to them in the end.’

  ‘Then we get to them,’ Murphy said with satisfaction.

  ‘What would they do without us?’

  ‘They’d struggle.’

  And that was the truth of it, Jackson thought. The department would be unable to cope with its awkward ex-employees. It would be on its knees with accumulated lawsuits and enquiries, its operational budget draining away into the sand.

  ‘Remember that one we followed to Patagonia?’ Murphy said.

  ‘The ends of the earth!’ Jackson grinned. ‘Thought he’d got away, didn’t he?’

  ‘They always do. This one will be the same.’

  ‘They don’t get away from us, though,’ Jackson said. ‘They never do.’

  Murphy nodded agreement.

  They were a good team, Jackson reflected. The best. Even the Russians wouldn’t have anybody better than them.

  ‘The thing is,’ Murphy said, equally reflectively, ‘in our line of work, you have to be an enthusiast. You have to like it. The hunt, the kill, everything.’

  Now it was Jackson’s turn to nod agreement. That was the truth of it. You had to like it, enjoy doing it, and they did. They had proved that over and over again. Sometimes he wondered if maybe Murphy didn’t enjoy it too much, but. … What the hell!

  ‘Which airport do you want to go from?’ he asked.

  Murphy chuckled. ‘Am I glad to hear you ask that! I’m sick of this damned car.’

  ‘So which one?’

  ‘Any one but Heathrow.’

  Chapter Nine

  He hesitated. He was anxious to get on, but rushing into it might be a mistake.

  For a start, he didn’t know if she really was here still. Her name was, but she might have moved out and sublet the flat. It was a common enough thing to do. The right to occupy a flat, whether owned or rented, had always been invaluable. People hung on to that right when they had it.

  Even if she was living here still, he had no idea who else might be with her. And how eager would she be to see him anyway? His finger fell away from the button. He turned and walked off. He would wait. It was safer.

  There was a small children’s play area fifty yards from the entrance to the flats. Next to it was a picnic table with a couple of benches. He tried sitting there but he felt too conspicuous. He got up and walked around for a while, always keeping sight of the entrance to the block of flats where she used to live, and perhaps did still.

  There was nothing special about the building, not on the outside. It was simply one of many such blocks of flats alongside the main road and the tram tracks, in long lines stretching away into the distance. The flats would have been prized new housing when they were built, and not only for manual workers either. It hadn’t been like that here. People had been all in it together under socialism; road sweepers and headteachers, factory managers and bus drivers, all living side by side. Sometimes in heavenly peace, sometimes in a makeshift Bronx. It had all depended on your neighbours.

  He was nervous, anxious. Had he got it right? Could he trust her? Was she even here still? The questions went round and round in his head. If the answer to any of them was no, he would have to think of something else.

  She came out in a rush at 7.45 in a well-rehearsed start to her day, a particular tram in mind. So she was still here, he thought with relief.

  He caught up with her halfway to the tram stop, coming in at an angle, knowing she would be aware of his approach even though she hadn’t turned her head to glance in his direction. He fell in behind. He didn’t want to startle her.

  ‘Don’t stop, Lenka!’ he urged in Czech. ‘Don’t look round. Keep going. But I need to see you.’

  However startled she was by his arrival, her pace never faltered and she didn’t look round. She kept going, a couple of paces ahead of him. It would have been surprising if an observer had detected any communication between them.

  The tram stop was in the middle of the road, a long, thin, unguarded strip of raised pavement, with traffic passing dangerously close by on both sides. They crossed two traffic lanes to reach it and then separated, mingling with a dozen other people also waiting, in a sprawl rather than a formal queue.

  He studied the empty spaces between blocks of flats on the other side of the road. Others stared along t
he tracks, willing the tram to appear round the distant corner. The waiting game. It was up to her now. He had made contact. She would decide how she wanted to play it, if indeed she wanted to play at all.

  She would have been surprised, astonished probably, by his approach, but she didn’t know how toxic he was. In the circumstances, she had responded well. She had followed his lead. He had given her time to think, and now he awaited her response.

  When she left the tram, he stayed where he was and watched her head across the street and enter a small café on the far side. He stayed on the tram as far as the next stop. He got off there and waited to see who else did. No one at all. He walked back at a brisk pace, sure that no one had followed him.

  The café was small and busy. A lot of the trade was from people passing through to pick up a coffee to take with them. He joined her at a small table tucked away in a corner.

  ‘Mr Gibson!’ she murmured in English with a small smile. ‘Such a delightful surprise. How are you, Harry?’

  ‘Hello, Lenka.’ He smiled back ruefully. ‘I’m all right – so far. Thanks for agreeing to meet.’

  She shrugged.

  He sat down. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘I’ve already ordered – for both of us.’

  ‘As efficient as ever!’

  She laughed and took out a cigarette packet. He shook his head when she offered it to him and waited while she lit a cigarette for herself.

  ‘I’m in trouble, Lenka,’ he said then. ‘I’m hoping you might know, or be able to find out, what’s going on.’

  She gazed out across the café, lifted her head slightly and blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling.

  ‘How bad is it, this trouble, on a scale of one to ten?’

  ‘Ten.’

  She sighed and shook her head. ‘Then it’s not me you need to see, Harry. I’m not the one to give help on that scale.’

  A waitress came near, collecting dirty cups and plates. Then another one arrived with their coffee. Nothing more was said while they were in earshot.