by Andy McNab
"What have you been up to since your Middle Eastern adventure?"
"I've been on holiday, got some downtime in, did a bit of work for a couple of the companies, but nothing much, and to tell you the truth it's great. Now I'm just waiting for the out come of the inquiry. I think I'm in deep shit unless this job gets me out."
Euan's eyes moved again.
"It looks like you're off."
The two boys must have started to sort themselves out at the bar.
I said, "I'll call you after this is finished. When are you back in the UK?"
"I don't know. Maybe a few days."
"I'll give you a call; we can arrange something. You got yourself a woman yet, or what?"
"You've got to be drunk! I was going out with someone from the London office for a while, but she wanted to make me all nice and fluffy. She was starting to do my washing and all sorts of shit. I really didn't get into it."
"You mean she didn't iron a crease in the front of your jeans?"
Euan shrugged.
"She didn't do things my way."
Nobody did. He was the sort of guy who folded his socks instead of putting them inside each other, and stacked his coins in their denominations. Since his divorce he'd become Mr. I'm-going-to-have-the-best-of-everything. People even started to call him Mr. Ikea--you name it, track lights, entertainment center, the whole nine yards. The inside of his house was like a showroom.
I could tell Euan was watching the two players pick up their gear and walk away from the bar.
I took my time; no need to get right up their ass. Euan would tell me when to move.
"Do a one-eighty," he said.
"Look to the right, just approaching the newsstand."
I casually got to my feet. It had been great to see him.
Maybe this job would turn out to be a waste of time, but at least I'd seen my closest friend. We shook hands, and I walked away. Then I turned, looked ninety degrees to the right, and spotted them, suit bags over their arms.
The departures lounge looked like an Irish craft fair. I was starting to feel out of place; I should have gotten myself a Guinness hat.
What was I going to do once I got to D.C.? I didn't know if somebody was going to pick them up, whether they were taking a cab or the bus, or, if they'd managed to get a hotel, whether transport was included. If they started moving around the city, that would be fun, too. I knew Washington a bit but not in any great detail.
They were still smoking like fiends. I sat in the lounge and picked up a paper from the seat. McGear started scrabbling about for change in his pocket as they talked to each other, standing at the bar. He was suddenly looking purposeful; he was either going to go to the slot machines or the telephone.
He got a note out and leaned over to the bartender; I could see him asking for change. I was sitting more or less directly behind them and about twenty feet back, so even if they turned their heads forty-five degrees to either side, I still wouldn't be in even their peripheral vision.
McGear walked toward the slot machines but continued on past. It must be the telephone.
I got up and wandered over to the newsstand, pretending to check the spinning rack of newspapers outside.
He picked up the phone, put a couple of pound coins in, and dialed. He got the number from a piece of paper, so it wasn't one that was well known to him. I looked at my G Shock; it was 4:16 p.m. The display was still on dual time; if there were any Iraqis in the lounge needing to know the time in Baghdad, I was their man.
I checked my pockets for coins; I had about two and a half quid; I would need more for what I was going to do, so I went in and bought a newspaper with a twenty-pound note.
McGear finished his call and went back to the bar. Those boys weren't going anywhere; they ordered more beer, opened their papers, lit another cigarette.
I gave it a couple of minutes, then strolled over to the phone McGear had been using. I picked up the receiver, threw in a couple of pound coins, and looked for a number on the set. I couldn't find one; not to worry, it would just take a bit longer.
I dialed a London number and a woman's voice said, "Good afternoon, your PIN number, please?"
"Two-four-two-two." The digits were etched into my memory; they were the first half of the army number that I'd had since I was sixteen.
She said, "Do you have a number?"
"No. This line please."
"Wait."
I heard a click, then nothing. I kept my eyes on the players and fed the phone. Within a minute she was back.
"What times are you interested in?"
"I'd like to book it from four-thirteen up till now."
"That's fine. Do you want me to call you, or will you call back?"
"I'll call back. Ten minutes?"
"Fine. Goodbye."
And that was it. No matter where you are in the world, you can dial in and the Firm will run a trace.
I phoned back ten minutes later. We went through the same PIN number routine, then she said, "Nothing until four-ten. A Washington, D.C." number. Washington Flyer Taxis, USA."
As she recited the number, I jotted it down, hung up, and immediately dialed.
"Good morning, Washington Flyer Taxis, Gerry speaking.
How may I be of assistance today?"
"Yes, I wonder if a Mr. Ashdown or a Mr. Lindsay has booked a taxi. I just want to make sure they're going to get to a meeting on time."
"Oh yes, sir, we've just had the booking. Collect from Dulles, arriving on flight number--" I cut in.
"Are you going to drop them off at the hotel or are they coming straight to me at Tyson's Corner?"
"Let me see, sir ... They're booked for the Westin on M Street, Northwest."
"All right, that's fine. Thank you."
Now all I had to do was try to get to the Westin before them. Things were looking OK.. Either that, or the fuckers had spotted me and were playing a deception.
The flight to London Heathrow was getting ready to board. I watched them get up, find their tickets, and walk. I followed.
On something like this you always travel club class so you're at the front of the aircraft. You can then choose either to sit down and watch people boarding or let them through ahead of you and come in later on. At the destination, you can wait for the target to come off the aircraft and naturally file in behind--or get out of the way beforehand so that you're ready to make the pickup once you're out of arrivals.
I thought about a drink but decided against it; I might have to start performing as soon as we got to the other side. These guys seemed very professional, so chances were they weren't going to be doing any work after all the Bud they'd been putting away. But still, no drink for me.
I settled into my seat and started to think about Kev and his family. I'd been there when he first met Marsha; I was best man at their wedding and was even godfather to Aida, their second child. I took the job seriously, though I didn't really know what I was supposed to do on the God front.
I knew I'd never have any of my own kids; I'd be too busy running around doing shit jobs like this one. Kev and Marsha knew that, and really tried to make me feel part of their setup.
I'd grown up with this fantasy of the perfect family, and as far as I was concerned Kev had it. The first marriage fell apart, but this one seemed absolutely right. His job with the DEA was now mostly deskbound in D.C. He loved it.
"More time with the kids, mate," he'd say.
"Yeah, so you can be one!" I'd reply. Lucidly Marsha was the mature and sensible one; when it came to the family, they complemented each other really well. Their home at Tyson's Corner was a healthy, loving environment, but after three or four days it would get too much for me and I'd have to move on. They'd make a joke of it; they knew I loved them but somehow couldn't handle people showing so much affection. I guessed that was why I'd always felt more comfortable with Euan. We were both made from the same mold.
As for Slack Pat, he was completely off the scale. Half
the world seemed to be his best friend, and he was still working on the others. Even when he opened the fridge door and the light came on he'd have to launch into some sort of chat-up routine. When he started the bodyguard job in Washington, a real estate agent took him to look at an apartment in Georgetown, by the university. The way he told the story, he saw a building with people coming in and out.
"What's that then?" he asked.
"One of the best restaurants in Washington," she said.
"Half of Congress seems to go there."
"Right, I'll take it," he said. The moon was in a new quarter or some shit like that and I thought for a while he reckoned he'd turned into Donald Trump. He told me he used to eat there every day and knew every waitress by name. He'd even started going out with one of them. Maybe it was her who got him into drugs. I hadn't seen it myself, but I'd heard he had a problem. It made me sad. We'd all seen the results of addiction during our time in Colombia. Pat had called them losers.
Now it seemed he was one himself. Hopefully it was just one of his phases. The transfer at Heathrow had been easy. The boys didn't get stopped at the security checks probably because Special Branch had been informed and the flight to Dulles had taken off on time.
I hoped McGear and Kerr were going straight to the hotel.
I hoped they'd be playing the good tourists and wouldn't blow it by not checking in. If I ever lost a target, I'd look in all the places where he might be his place of work, the pub, where the kids go to school, where he lived, or even the bookie's. I needed to know as much as I could about them, because once you're inside your target's mind you can second-guess every movement, even understand why they do what they do. Un fortunately, all I knew so far about McGear and Kerr was that they liked drinking Budweiser and must be dying for a smoke. So I had to start with the hotel.
I needed to get in front of them. That shouldn't be a problem, since club class had its own shuttle to get us to the terminal ahead of the herd. However, since they'd pre booked a transfer, I'd need to grab a cab PDQ if I was going to beat them to M Street. I could have booked one of my own when I spoke to Washington Flyer, but I'd tried to do that in Warsaw once in similar circumstances, only to come out and find the two drivers fighting over who to take first, me or the target. It was the taxi stand for me from then on.
I came out of arrivals through two large automatic doors and into a horseshoe of waiting relatives held back by steel barriers, and limo drivers holding up name boards. I carried on through the bustle, turned left, and walked down a long ramp into heat and brilliant sunshine.
There were lots of people waiting for taxis. I did a quick calculation; the number of passengers didn't go into the limited number of cabs. I wandered toward the rear of the rank and waved a twenty-dollar bill at one of the drivers. He smiled conspiratorially and hustled me inside. Another twenty soon had me screaming along the Dulles access road toward Route 66 and Washington, D.C. The airport and its surroundings reminded me of a high-tech business park, with everything green and manicured; there'd even been a lake as we exited the terminal. Suburbia started about fifteen miles from the airport, mainly ribbon development on either side of the Beltway--very neat wooden and brick houses, many still under construction. We passed a sign for the Tyson's Corner turnoff and I strained my neck to see if I could see Kev's place. I couldn't. But, as Euan would have said, executive housing all looks the same.
We crossed the Potomac and entered the city of monuments.
The Westin on M Street was a typical upscale hotel, slick and clean, totally devoid of character. Walking into the lobby, I got my bearings and headed left and up a few stairs to a coffee lounge on a landing that overlooked the reception area; it was the only way in and out. I ordered a double espresso.
A couple of refills later, Kerr and McGear came through the revolving door. Looking very relaxed, they went straight to the desk. I put down my coffee, left a five-dollar bill under the saucer, and wandered down.
It was just a matter of getting the timing right; there was a bit of a line at the desk, but the hotel was as efficient as it was soulless and now had more people behind the reception desk than were waiting to be served.
I couldn't hear what McGear and Kerr were saying, but it was obvious they were checking in. The woman looking after them was tapping a keyboard below desk level. Kerr handed over a credit card; now was the time to make my approach. It makes life far easier if you can get the required information this way rather than trying to follow them, and there was no way I was going to risk a compromise by getting in the elevator with them. I only hoped they were sharing a room.
To the right of them at the reception desk was a rack of postcards advertising everything from restaurants to bus tours. I stood about two yards away, with my back to them.
There was no big deal about this; it was a big, busy hotel-they weren't looking at me, they were doing their own stuff. I made it obvious I was flicking through the postcards and didn't need help.
The woman said, "There you are, gentlemen, you're in room four-oh-three. If you turn left just past the pillars, you'll see the elevator. Have a nice day!"
All I had to do now was listen to their conversations while they were in their room, and to make that happen I went to the bank of pay phones in the lobby and dialed the Firm.
A woman's voice asked me for my PIN number.
"Two-four two-two."
"Go ahead."
"I'd like a room, please. The Westin on M Street, Washington, D.C.--four-oh-one or four-oh-five, or three-oh-three or five-oh-three."
"Have you a contact number?" "No, I'll call back in half an hour."
They would now telephone the hotel using the name of a front company and request one of the rooms I'd specified. It didn't really matter whether the room was above, beside, or below the targets', as long as we could get in and plant surveillance devices.
I went back to the raised lounge area and read a few of the leaflets and postcards I'd picked up, all the time watching the exit onto M Street.
I ran through a mental checklist of surveillance equipment to ask for. I'd fit the first wave of gear myself: wall-mounted listening devices, phone-line devices, both voice and modem, and cables that fed into the TV in my room to relay pictures.
They'd take me only about three hours to rig up once the Firm had dropped them off.
The second wave, once McGear and Kerr had vacated their room for the day, would be fitted by technicians from the Firm. In their expert hands, a hotel-room TV could become a camera, and the telephone a microphone.
Half an hour later I called the contact number and again gave my PIN number. There was a bit of clicking, then the strains of a string quartet. About five seconds later the woman came back again.
"You are to lift off and return today. Please acknowledge."
I thought I'd misheard her. There was a conference at the hotel given by the Norwegian board of trade, and all the dele gates were exiting for coffee.
"Can you repeat, please?"
"You are to lift off. Please acknowledge."
"Yes, I understand, I am to lift off and return today."
The phone went dead.
I put the phone down. Strange. There had even been a memo in green ink from the head of the service about this the fastball job that had now come to a sudden halt. It wasn't unusual to get lifted off, but not so quickly. Maybe Simmonds had decided these people weren't that important after all.
Then I thought, So what, who gives a fuck? They wanted me to do the job; I've done it. I called the travel agency and tried to get a flight out of Dulles The only one I could get on was the British Airways at nine-thirty-five, which was hours away. Kev and Marsha were only an hour down the road toward the airport, so why not?
I dialed another number, and Kev answered. His voice was wary, until he recognized mine.
"Nick! How's it going?" He sounded really happy to hear me.
"Not too bad. I'm in Washington."
"What are you
doing? Nah, I don't want to know! You coming to see us?"
"If you're not busy. I'm leaving tonight, back to the UK.
It'll be a quick stop and hello, OK?"
"Any chance of you getting your ass up here right away?
I've just got the ball rolling on something, but I'd be interested to know what you think. You'll really like this one!"
"No problem, mate. I'll hire a car at the hotel and head straight over."
"Marsha will want to go into cordon bleu overdrive. I'll tell her when she gets back with the kids. Have a meal with us, then you can go on to the airport. You won't believe the stuff I've got here. Your friends over the water are busy."
"I can't wait."
"Nick, there's one other thing."
"What's that, mate?"
"You owe your goddaughter a birthday present--you forgot again, dickhead."
Driving west along the freeway, I kept wondering what Kev could want to talk to me about. Friends over the water? Kev had no connection with PIRA that I knew of. He was in the DEA, not the CIA or any antiterrorist department. Besides, I knew that his job was far more administrative than fieldwork now. I guessed he probably just needed some background information.
I thought again about Slack Pat and made a mental note to ask Kev if he had a contact address for the ass less one.
I got on the interstate. Tyson's Corner was the junction I had to get off at--well, not really; I wanted the one before but I could never remember it. The moment I left the freeway I was in leafy suburbia. Large houses lined the road, and just about every one seemed to have a seven-seat minivan in the drive and a basketball hoop fixed over the garage.
I followed my nose to Kev's subdivision and turned into their road. Hunting Bear Path. I continued on for about a quarter of a mile until I reached a small parade of shops arranged in an open square with parking spaces, mainly little delis and boutiques specializing in candles and soap. I bought candy for Aida and Kelly that I knew Marsha wouldn't let them have, and a couple of other presents.
Facing the shops was a stretch of vacant ground that looked as if it had been earmarked as the next phase of the development.
On and around the churned-up ground were trailers, big stockpiles of girders and other building materials, and two or three bulldozers.