Time to Kill

by Brian Freemantle

  With that awareness came another, what Glynis Needham had called his doing good. She’d called it nervousness, too, and now all alone in what he judged to be utter silence Mason accepted that she was right. From the moment of his stepping out through the penitentiary gates that morning he’d been hanging on, refusing the nervous uncertainty, refusing to admit it until now. But now, finally and unembarrassed, he did. It was more than simple nervousness. He was actually, shiveringly, frightened: frightened at the unexpected and unknown. Of how to go out and use a cell phone without making a mistake, drive a car, make a telephone reservation at a restaurant or for a show, of how to find his way around and how to talk to people without making it sound like a challenge, as it had been instinctive to confront everyone he’d been surrounded by for so long. Abruptly, angrily, Mason halted the drift. None of it was unknown. It was unaccustomed. He’d adopted another life, another way of existence. And survived by doing so: surmounted everything instead of being crushed by it. Now he had to adapt again. Become accustomed to living and behaving as he had once but hadn’t needed to for too long. He had to do better than that – far better. In the penitentiary he had been the person everyone knew and was physically aware of, the hard man everyone made way for, was wary or downright frightened of. He didn’t want to be – couldn’t risk being – recognized like that any more. He had to become Mr Invisible, the crowd man no one saw or remembered; the crowd man two people in particular would never see, until he wanted them to see him: Mr and Mrs Daniel Slater, of 2832 Hill Avenue SE, Frederick, Maryland.

  It had been a switchback time. Ann’s fear had appeared gradually to subside as the days passed after Slater received Peebles’ letter but noticeably mounted in the final two weeks leading up to when they understood Mason would be released. She snapped back irritably at the slightest provocation – at no provocation at all – and sought arguments in everything. It became routine for her to check every security lock and bolt and alarm after Slater nightly setting them and at the beginning of those final two weeks insisted that Slater have installed permanently operating camera monitors not only at the house but at her gallery, so that any visitor could be seen and identified before being allowed in. At the gallery Ann also demanded CCTV recording cameras. She refused to remain in the house alone but came with them on the nights Slater took David for basketball practice, ensuring they were locked into the car inside the garage before operating the automatic door opening. Their worst argument followed Slater telling Ann that David had asked if she was ill: ‘Sure I’m sick. Sick with worry!’ Although only slightly less serious was the row when Slater suggested they really did ask their doctor for tranquilisers. ‘Here’s our problem, doctor. My ex-husband, who spied within the CIA for Moscow, has just been released from jail and I’m frightened he’ll try to find my current husband, who was the KGB agent who ran him before defecting. You got a pill that’ll help me with that crock of shit?’

  It was in the immediate aftermath of that row that Slater held Ann in his arms until she quietened down and said, ‘If we don’t get this under control we’re going to break up.’

  Ann clung to him as she said, ‘I know.’

  In an irony they were never to learn, because they’d not had a specific release date, that was the night that Jack Mason sat in his hotel apartment less than 200 miles away, listing to himself all and every adjustment he needed to make to fulfil his long-planned retribution.

  Seven

  The eggshell-thin effort at preservation, each overcompensating and deferring to the other, lasted two days before coming close to being wrecked by another letter, which Slater opened – as he now every day opened the mail immediately upon delivery – after coming back from the first part of their newly established routine of waiting with an embarrassed and protesting David at the school bus pick-up before coming back to collect Ann for the gallery. Like every other precaution – and despite David’s close-to-tears objections – the school run escort was at Ann’s insistence.

  ‘It’s not from Peebles,’ decided Slater at once, standing alongside the woman at the kitchen table to look down at the unopened envelope. ‘It’s not the same typeface.’ He was sure his self-protective alertness was back to the level – better even, because of Ann’s persistence – that it had been when he’d headed the KGB rezidentura at the Soviet Union’s Washington embassy.

  ‘Don’t you think they’ve got more than one computer!’

  Picking the envelope up again, for closer examination, Slater said, ‘It’s a Frederick postmark.’

  ‘Open it.’

  Slater did so, pleased as he had been before that there was no shake in his hands, although it came close as he read the letter. ‘Jesus!’

  ‘What!’

  Unnecessarily handing his wife the letter, Slater said, ‘It’s from the school. The principal wants to see us about David. He had a knife: threatened another kid.’

  ‘What?’ Ann repeated, even more anguished.

  ‘Read it!’

  Ann was still doing so as Slater was connected to the principal’s office, but even in that short time Slater had himself under control, biting back the angry demand to know why there hadn’t been an instant, summoning telephone call instead of a sterile letter. Instead he made an appointment but remained close to the wall phone, finally looking back to Ann.

  ‘What did the school say?’

  ‘We’re seeing the principal at two.’

  ‘But what did he say?’

  ‘We’re going to hear all about it then.’

  Slater picked Ann up from the gallery to be at the school by 1.45 p.m., both having to stand self-consciously in the outside corridor for five minutes, both unsuccessfully scanning the constant swirl and eddy of curious young faces for the one they wanted to see. The principal, Victor Spalding, was a prematurely balding, fresh-faced career educationalist who, they knew from their regularly attended PTA meetings, was considered by the governors to be one of their best – if not the best – appointments in recent years. He had raised the graduation standards and accompanying teacher morale of the school to its highest level ever. They declined his offer of tea or coffee, both tensed forward in their side-by-side chairs. Slater impatiently cut in with: ‘What is this all about? David … a knife …? We should have been called … When?’

  ‘Three days ago,’ said Spalding, selecting his answers in a clipped, New England voice. ‘It’s thrown up a situation we didn’t know – I didn’t know – existed here in the school. I wrote instead of calling because it’s a school regulation. And I don’t need you to tell me that it’s totally out of character for David. I’m as shocked and as upset as you are.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Slater, at once regretting the remark. ‘What situation?’

  ‘Bullying,’ said Spalding, simply. ‘A gang, maybe ten kids. With knives, thank God with nothing more threatening. And even more thankfully not having caused any injury with them.’

  ‘David belongs to a gang that carry knives!’ exclaimed Ann, her voice breaking.

  ‘No, Mrs Slater,’ assured the principal, reaching into a side drawer of his desk and producing a knife they both recognized. ‘David confronted them. Which is why he hasn’t been suspended, like the others have. But why we’re having to have this meeting.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Ann.

  ‘It’s his hunting knife,’ said Slater, emptily. ‘We go hunting … camping … in the mountains.’

  ‘David told me,’ smiled the principal. ‘Didn’t he tell you about the bullying? What was happening …?’

  ‘No,’ said Slater. ‘Was there a fight? Did anyone get hurt … cut?’

  ‘No. There was a lot of noise … bravado … the physics master heard it.’

  ‘I need to get this straight,’ insisted Slater. ‘There’s two groups of kids, confronting each other with knives?’

  ‘No,’ said Spalding again. ‘There’s a gang of maybe ten kids, at least some of whom carried knives they threatened to use to esta
blish themselves in the school. And David, who tried to confront them … who did confront them, in fact.’

  ‘By himself!’ exclaimed Ann, horrified.

  ‘By himself,’ confirmed the principal.

  ‘He could have been hurt – killed,’ said Ann.

  ‘A lot of them could,’ agreed Spalding.

  Looking between her husband and the headmaster Ann said, ‘Why didn’t he tell us … tell you?’

  Slater shrugged, without an answer. Spalding said, ‘I asked him. He said he didn’t want to rat on anyone. That he thought he could handle it.’

  Ann made a soft, groaning noise. Slater said, ‘You’re being vague about how many are in this gang.’

  ‘They’re refusing to rat on each other, too.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to them?’

  ‘They’re suspended, as I already told you. I’m seeing each of their parents to discuss it.’

  ‘Are they going to be expelled?’ demanded Ann, strong in voice for the first time.

  ‘That hasn’t been decided yet.’

  ‘If they’re not, David’s going to become a target,’ said Ann.

  ‘No gang is going to rule any school of which I am in charge,’ pledged Spalding.

  ‘You didn’t know they were trying to in the first place,’ said Slater.

  ‘But now I do. It won’t be allowed to happen again. David’s shown himself to be a very brave, if foolhardy, kid. He’s an excellent, hard working student and he’s going to do well, through junior high and higher. But of course, I’ll understand if you want to pull him out … look at other schools.’

  ‘That hasn’t yet come into our thinking,’ said Slater. ‘At this moment I’m not sure what we want to do.’

  ‘David could have been killed,’ said Ann, almost to herself, her mind held by the thought.

  ‘Is the whole thing being brought in front of the governors?’ asked Slater.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What’s the sequence to be, from here?’ persisted Slater.

  ‘The interviews, each child with their parents. Then a governors’ meeting, at which decisions will be made.’

  ‘They should be expelled,’ insisted Ann.

  ‘It’s one option,’ said Spalding.

  ‘But they won’t be, not all of them, will they?’ challenged Slater.

  ‘There’s got to be a balance, between the offence and the stigma of expulsion that will follow them – damn them – in any other school,’ said the principal.

  ‘You’re seeing each of the gang – at least those you know to be involved – with their parents?’ said Slater. ‘Why isn’t David here with us?’

  ‘Balance again,’ said the other man. ‘If you wish, then of course I’ll bring him in. He knows I’m seeing you …’ The man hesitated. ‘Some of the other kids, some of those that were bullied, now look up to him—’

  ‘He mustn’t think he did anything to admire … that he’s a hero,’ broke in Slater.

  ‘Exactly,’ smiled Spalding. ‘Thank you for understanding what I was trying to say.’

  ‘I don’t think he should be brought in,’ agreed Ann. ‘We’ll talk to him.’

  ‘If you decide he should stay on here, which I hope you will, I don’t want him taking things into his own hands again.’

  This time it was Ann who interrupted. ‘I hope something like this, a gang carrying knives, won’t happen again!’

  ‘I’ve already given you my assurance on that,’ said the principal.

  * * *

  They waited to take David home, driving silently for several minutes before Slater said, ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You think it’s some big deal, confronting people with a knife!’

  ‘I knew they’d back down.’

  ‘You knew nothing of the sort! You could have hurt somebody … killed somebody. Been hurt or killed yourself!’ said Ann.

  ‘You always told me to stand up for myself.’

  ‘Not with a knife,’ refuted Slater. ‘It wasn’t on impulse. You took a knife to school, in your pocket. You knew what you were going to do!’

  ‘What did Mr Spalding say?’

  ‘We talked about taking you away from the school,’ improvised Ann.

  ‘He’s not going to expel me!’

  ‘Do you want to change schools?’ she said.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me what was happening?’ demanded Slater, again. ‘We talk to each other about everything, remember?’

  ‘You and Mom seemed to have other things on your mind.’

  The remark momentarily silenced both of them. Then Slater said, ‘Nothing more important than you taking a knife to school.’

  ‘Are you going to split up?’

  Slater switched lanes to take the next turning into a side road, coasting to a halt in the nearest lay-by. Ann had already swivelled in her passenger seat by the time Slater turned to confront David. As he did so, Ann said, ‘Let’s hear that again!’

  ‘I know you’re fighting. I’ve heard you.’

  ‘What’s that – what’s anything – got to do with your taking a knife to school and confronting other guys armed with knives?’ demanded Slater.

  David was hunched forward, refusing to let his eyes meet theirs. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Look at me!’ demanded Slater. ‘I want a proper answer!’

  ‘Nothing, I guess,’ mumbled the boy.

  ‘Look at me!’ insisted Slater, again.

  Slowly, reluctantly, David looked up, his eyes brimming.

  Slater said, ‘You’re not making sense. Arming yourself with a knife doesn’t make sense and imagining that your mother and I are going to split up doesn’t make sense, because we’re not and never will. And talking about both at the same time, as if they were connected, which they’re not, doesn’t make any sense. So now, right now, you tell me, me and your mother, what’s going on?’

  The boy began to cry, only bringing his hands up to his face when Ann offered him a handkerchief to wipe his nose as well as his eyes. Stumbling, his words broken by sobs, David said, ‘I wanted to do … tried to do … thought you would do … stop it … never meant … not to hurt … frighten them like they were frightening guys … they would back off … stop you arguing. I’m sorry … didn’t mean … won’t … sorry.’

  There was a shuddering intake of breath. ‘They were going for Brad most of all.’ Brad Hockley lived two streets away from Hill Avenue and was David’s closest friend. They spent at least two evenings a week together, after homework.

  ‘You set yourself up as Brad’s protector!’

  ‘He was scared.’ David started to cry again, face hidden in the handkerchief and when Slater made to speak Ann held up her hand, shaking her head against his doing so. Instead Slater restarted the car and U-turned back on to the main highway. No one spoke until they reached the house, entering through the garage as it was their practice to do now. Still unspeaking Ann led the boy to his bedroom, shaking her head again against Slater following. It was almost an hour before she came downstairs, alone, to where Slater was sitting, staring at the returned hunting knife on the table in front of him.

  She said, ‘He’s gone to sleep. He’s exhausted. I’ll check him later.’

  ‘Can you imagine—’ started Slater.

  ‘I don’t need to,’ cut off Ann. ‘We were lucky. Everyone was lucky. It doesn’t make sense to us but it does to him. And it was us … our fault … my fault …’

  ‘No one’s fault,’ insisted Slater. ‘He got confused. Misunderstood.’

  Ann shuddered. ‘We let it happen. Misunderstanding ourselves.’

  ‘Now we’re not.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘Not any longer.’

  Jack Mason had his priorities in careful, precise order, the decision to take everything easy, to pace himself, reached months earlier and for a very particular reason. There’d been a lot of exaggeration at his trial, to
make it as bad as possible for him, like the prosecutor insisting – and getting witnesses to agree – that it would take years for the CIA to recover from the damage he’d caused.

  Although he considered it unlikely, his most pressing need was to establish if the Agency still retained any interest in him. It was so important for him to discover that – surprisingly – it put his ex-wife and Slater and what he intended doing to them temporarily out of his mind, which he couldn’t recall having done for the past fifteen years.

  On his first full day of freedom Mason shopped, spreading his on-foot excursions around Georgetown and DC to conduct every ingrained test from his CIA training to ensure that he was not under surveillance. He bought a Brooks Brothers Ivy League suit, shirt and shoes on his initial outing and on the second went into Georgetown for soft shoes, shorts and a jogging sweater at a mall on M Street. He window-shopped at a computer outlet there but returned to his Guest Quarters apartment to continue his observation monitoring. From the apartment he called Patrick Bell to fix a meeting for the following day, waiting until the afternoon to go back to Georgetown where he exhausted almost all of what was left of his jail money to buy an already selected laptop. Back at Guest Quarters for the third time that day – increasingly confident no watch had been imposed upon him – Mason accessed his undetected Trojan Horse in the penitentiary computer to check that there had been no traffic about him between the prison and the CIA. With their email addresses logged within his embedded site he extended his check to the email accounts of John Peebles and Glynis Needham, seeing where they had separately entered his records, satisfied there had been no email exchange between them and Langley either. When he was in Glynis Needham’s system Mason also confirmed that so far the parole officer hadn’t acted upon their discussion of his relocating to California by initiating computer correspondence with any counterpart there.

  There were some files and boxes on a table to Patrick Bell’s left when Mason entered the lawyer’s office and Mason wondered which held the all important strongbox that he had deposited among his mother’s belongings when her Alzheimer’s was too advanced for her to know what he was doing: too advanced, even, for her to know him.