Ascension

by Oliver Harris

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Frankie said.

  “Shall we?”

  “Fuck it. Let’s do it.”

  Both turned to Kane.

  “How do you feel?” Nulty asked.

  “Okay,” Kane said.

  “Think you can drive?”

  Kane thought of Sergeant Morrogh’s warnings about drunk driving, then of the winding roads thick with crustacean life. But he wasn’t here to keep his nose clean.

  “Sure.”

  “We need a lift,” the doctor said. “We shall introduce you to the fairest sights on this isle, but we need wheels.”

  The electrician grinned.

  “Fairest sights man ever did see.”

  “A place you’d never find.”

  “If you can drive us there.”

  “Fancy going to a party?”

  “I’d love to go to a party,” Kane said.

  17

  The men directed him north, away from Georgetown into darkness. The doctor sat beside him, the electrician in the back. The road was full of potholes and little pinpricks of light where the land crabs were still flowing. Kane concentrated on keeping to the road. The white-painted stones along the edge were a life-saving device, he realized. Then they stopped and there was no way of telling where the road gave way to the rocks.

  Nulty lit a small cigar and held it out the window.

  “Listen to that,” he said. “The waves.”

  “Rollers,” Kane said.

  “So you’ve heard about the rollers?”

  “A bit.”

  Both men peered out toward the sea.

  “Kill your headlights,” Nulty said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Go on.”

  Kane killed the headlights, slowed.

  “Can’t see her,” the electrician said.

  “She’s out there.”

  “Who’s that?” Kane asked.

  “The Crystal Symphony,” the doctor said. “A cruise ship. Comes a couple of times a year.”

  “Meant to be docking here in the morning. But she won’t make it with a sea like this. A lot of people will lose money.”

  “The passengers come onto the island looking for turtles,” Nulty explained. “On here for a few hours, but they’ll buy anything with a turtle on it.”

  “They give them lectures about the turtles when they’re on the ship. Get them all excited.”

  “But the Administrator has said no go,” Nulty explained. “Order is not to use the wharf until the swell dies down.”

  “So long as the tanker gets here next week,” Frankie said.

  “We get oil deliveries,” the doctor explained. “Like milk deliveries, only through a big hose. It’s quite a sight.”

  “I bet.”

  “Did you know, when the Americans scarpered at the end of the Second World War they left so much oil behind, it kept the island running for fifteen years. Did you know that?”

  “I didn’t know that,” Kane said.

  “There’s some history for you.” The doctor sucked his cigar and looked out to the sea. The men grew quieter as they approached the north coast, until it was just the electrician giving directions onto ever smaller roads winding through the rocks. Kane wondered what environment he was about to enter, what he would have to turn a blind eye toward for the sake of maintaining cover. If there were children present, he wondered what his response could be. He’d had to suppress moral objections before while playing a role, but nothing like this. He was also aware that he may be being lured somewhere for other purposes. The doctor and the electrician would know the men Kane had confronted last night. He thought back over the previous couple of hours and wondered if there’d been any opportunity for the two men to coordinate this behind his back. Directed into isolation, five men on one, a blow to the head . . . When Kane heard music and voices ahead, he felt both relief and caution.

  “This is it.”

  Kane pulled in beside several cars already parked up. He thought of Thomas’s account of the secret parties and looked for the Administrator’s Land Rover, but it wasn’t there. Nor were either of the police cars, although there was an army-green RAF truck.

  A hand-painted sign had been stuck into a crack in the ground announcing KLINKA KLUB. The club was a tin-roof shelter built onto a ledge overlooking the sea. It had a large patio with a concrete barbecue pouring flames and smoke into the night, and steps down to the beach. A few men kicked a ball around on the sand. Rollers smashed the shore behind them, creating an epic backdrop. A crowd clustered around the barbecue, and a few queued up at the hatch that served as a bar. Thirty or forty people in total, with more cars arriving as Kane walked in.

  “Welcome to the Klinka,” Nulty said.

  The setup didn’t feel clandestine. Kane didn’t see anyone underage. Most looked like they’d come off the bases: a lot of sunburnt men in T-shirts and shorts. He recognized some from Georgetown, some from the flight over. There were older men who must have been GCHQ-NSA, technical specialists who’d found a comfortable niche in the intelligence world and hunkered down. The women were outnumbered but made up for it in noise and color. He saw Linda, the woman who had helped him the previous night, and the manager from Two Boats. Everyone seemed in party spirits. The air smelled of sun cream and sweat. A generator fed a sound system, and a space in the corner contained a small drum kit and a guitar on a stand.

  The doctor and electrician went off in the direction of the barbecue. Kane ordered a beer. It turned out to be happy hour—two-for-one drinks—so he gave his second one to an RAF lad beside him at the bar.

  “It will be warm by the time I get to it,” Kane said.

  “Then you’re drinking too slow,” the officer replied with a grin. He was tall, with cropped blond hair and a broad Yorkshire accent.

  “Over here long?” Kane asked.

  “Been six months.”

  They chatted about the facilities on the British base, which included the island’s only hairdressers for men, a mess bar, and what the man claimed was the best pool on the island, which doubled up as an emergency supply of fresh water: “So don’t piss in it.”

  He introduced Kane to some of his fellow military personnel, all of whom looked well refreshed. Kane could feel the last couple of hours’ drinking being counteracted by a watchfulness born of the new environment. Pace yourself, he thought. Keep control, see where this goes. People around him were drunk. Rehydrating-with-tequila drunk; Friday night on a volcano drunk. He turned toward some laughter and saw a donkey with its head over the side wall being fed beer.

  Kane mingled, alert to people’s responses, to his own bearing, projecting relaxation, bonhomie. A group of four Saints arrived—two men and two women, in sequins and cowboy hats—and they took up the instruments and began to play covers of pop songs. There was some tentative dancing among the crowd, then less tentative. The woman who’d been feeding beer to the donkey climbed onto someone’s back. The Two Boats Club manager danced with a barefoot man in a torn pink T-shirt—then another man cut in and there was laughter as she was passed around. The atmosphere reminded Kane of drinking in warzones, the sense of fate having thrown you together, created a little club you could join by helping make a party out of unpromising materials. And the bigger things going on around you were like a cloak.

  At some point Kane got chatting to a nurse from the RAF base who said she’d come over to save money and get a tan. She spoke rapidly and not entirely coherently, trying to persuade him to get involved with a running club—“more a drinking club with a run attached if I’m being entirely honest”—then about her life and her ex. She leaned in, the ice in her G&T rattling.

  “I have always believed you regret the things you don’t do, so here I am. And I don’t regret it,” she kept saying.

  They got some air up by the road, away from the music, overlooking the beach.

  “Nothing like a Klinka party,” she said.

  “Been to a lot of
them?”

  “Fair few. Not many choices around here.”

  “Must be a bit strange. So many guys about. Not that many ladies.”

  “I guess so. It doesn’t really bother me, to be honest.”

  “Things ever get out of control? I’ve been around a few bases. I know what it’s like.”

  “Depends what you mean by out of control.” She smiled. Then the headlights of an arriving car drowned them. It stopped hurriedly, with an urgent air.

  “Who’s that?” the nurse said. She checked her watch. It was almost one thirty a.m. A man and woman got out; there was an anxious exchange with a couple of RAF men smoking nearby. The nurse went over, returning a moment later and rolling her eyes.

  “One of the local kids has done a runner. You’ve not seen a girl around, no?”

  “Who is it?”

  “She’s called Lauren Carter.” The nurse sighed. “Obviously, with what happened . . .”

  Kane’s stomach lurched. Lauren Carter. Lauren who knew what happened, who was ready to speak. What had Thomas said? She needs a proper guard. Beyond the party, the night was a textureless black now.

  “Do you know her?” Kane asked.

  “Everyone knows Lauren. Let’s get another drink.”

  They went back inside. The crowd had thinned slightly. Kane sensed that a few people now knew of the search and weren’t sure how to respond yet. Maybe they shared the nurse’s insouciance. But people were drinking as if last orders were about to be called. Now Kane tried to remember who had turned up when, who might have been using this as an alibi. He started to think through his options, how to respond without drawing attention to himself.

  The band played on. The nurse leaned in close to him. After a moment he realized she was saying, “Do you dance?”

  They danced. She took Kane’s hand and he twirled her. While he was twirling her, the police walked in.

  Morrogh was accompanied by his shaven-headed deputy, Sean Reid, and a third man in a hi-vis bib that said Ascension Police Volunteer. As the volunteer stepped into the light Kane saw his bruised face and recognized the corporal he’d headbutted last night. The man’s gaze met Kane’s. He held it for a few seconds before scanning the rest of the crowd.

  The room became quieter and this ripple of hush attracted attention. The police went to the bar, spoke to the staff. They got Cokes, sipping them as they looked around, as if counting off faces. Morrogh accepted a beer towel from the barman and mopped his sweat. The barman signaled to the band. After another minute the song ended and Morrogh went to the microphone.

  “As some of you know we’re currently trying to locate the whereabouts of a girl—Lauren Carter. Fifteen years old. Ran off this afternoon. I’m sure most of you know her: blond, dental braces. At the moment there’s no need to panic, but we’d appreciate people keeping an eye out. Anyone here seen her in the last couple of hours?”

  There were shakes of the head.

  “Where was she last seen?” one of the RAF men asked.

  “Last we’ve got is at her home. That’s Two Boats. There’s a possibility someone entered the home. We don’t want to speculate at this stage. She may have gone to Georgetown, but there’s no sign of her around there at present.”

  No one knew anything, or had any suggestions, it seemed. Kane looked around the faces for reactions, got blankness. The police officer moved back into the crowd and people returned to their previous conversations. But there was a self-consciousness now, spreading to the men at the back. The atmosphere had changed. The military bristled, alcohol fueling a new machismo in the face of this challenge. The young Saints stiffened with a dutiful responsibility. One of the musicians packed their guitar away.

  The nurse disappeared toward the beach. Kane went to the bar, where the officer who owed him a drink passed him a rum and Coke. Kane found himself amid a group of air support officers.

  “Who is she?” he asked.

  “Don’t ask.”

  “She’ll be hiding somewhere.”

  They exchanged careful looks. Kane glanced around for the men who had brought him here—the doctor and electrician. The doctor was talking to one of the musicians, the electrician was elsewhere, maybe down on the beach. Kane stepped out. He needed to get back to Georgetown, get his map and torch. Get a full satellite link with London in case Taylor had any information from intercept. They needed to establish access to police communications: see what was going on, how deep and dark things were on this island. They could do that from the UK end. The Administrator’s comms would be more complicated.

  The coals of the abandoned barbecue glowed. No one was playing football anymore. The waves crashed in. Kane could hear a whispering anxiety among the crowd behind him: cautious, pragmatic, but real.

  I’ll take the car.

  People are coordinating the search from Georgetown.

  From what I hear, her dad popped out for a minute and when he came back she was gone.

  Free round to whoever finds her.

  The narrow, winding roads were about to be filled with a lot of drunk people moving fast with their minds elsewhere. Kane headed back to his own vehicle.

  The night air was hot and soft and the wind felt like someone draping a sheet over your face. Where the volcanoes had been there were just black gaps cut out of the night sky. As Kane began to drive away from the club, something stepped into the road in front of him. He slammed the brakes. It was the donkey. The animal looked unsteady on its hooves, gazing at Kane through the windscreen. It hissed at him before stepping slowly out of the way. When he later thought of that moment, it seemed like the donkey was trying to warn him of what was to come.

  A minute further along the road an approaching car flashed its lights and stopped beside him. The woman in the front leaned out.

  “Seen a girl about? Blond, fifteen years old?”

  “No. I heard. I was going to take a look around.”

  The snarl of an army helicopter came into earshot, its searchlight drawing closer, then away as it began to comb the island.

  Georgetown had entered crisis mode. People had gathered in front of the church, which was open and spilling light; more people, including military, in front of the bar and the police station. The sea looked black and vicious. Torch beams crisscrossed one another on the beach. It was two a.m.

  Uniforms appeared in Kane’s headlights as he drove through, a few aircraftmen writing on clipboards, gripping Maglites between their teeth. One officer was giving instructions to RAF Operations Support: dog handlers, communications engineers in short-sleeved blue shirts. Others were marking up maps or distributing torches and batteries out of a box. The sudden efficiency of it all created the impression that this was what the island had been waiting for.

  When he was almost at the bungalow, Kane saw movement ahead: a small crowd centered on his accommodation. A dog barked. He slowed the car down and a torch was shined through his windscreen.

  “It’s him.”

  Suddenly there was a lot of weaponry pointed Kane’s way. Kane could see more men running over. The door of the bungalow was open.

  “Step out slowly. Hands up.”

  He stepped out of the car. The group by his bungalow included Lauren Carter’s father, peering anxiously at the doorway. As Kane watched, a man in RAF uniform appeared from inside, holding the pink hoodie that Lauren had been wearing when Kane saw her earlier in the day.

  “Leave it,” Morrogh shouted, running over. “Don’t touch anything. Put it down where it was.”

  Lauren’s father pushed past the RAF officer into the bungalow. Morrogh stopped, breathless, at the door.

  “Is she in there?” he asked.

  “No,” the man with the hoodie said.

  Morrogh turned to Kane.

  “Where is she?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Kane said. “I just got back here.”

  Lauren’s father reappeared.

  “Where is she?” he screamed. He ran toward Kane. Three RAF men hel
d him back. A throng of people had gathered across the road, staring at the bungalow and at Kane with his hands up. A military flight came in low, deafening, momentarily casting the whole scene as small and absurdly terrestrial. Then Morrogh nodded to the police station.

  “Leave the car. Come with me.”

  18

  Taylor walked up the stairs to the chief’s office, his words ringing in her ears. Is it true that you worked with Rory Bannatyne in Oman, July 2015? When she arrived at the top floor she was surprised to see Skinner standing in the corridor. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been, Taylor thought. He wore his coat and scarf, still damp from a shower of rain. Taylor wondered where he’d come from, and what he’d just told Mackenzie. He didn’t say anything, just watched her walk in.

  Sir Roland Mackenzie’s office was minimalist. He didn’t put on the stuffiness or pretensions of his predecessors. Taylor closed the door, took a seat as instructed. On the expanse of desk between Taylor and the chief of the Intelligence Service sat a single sheet of fax paper that spelled the end of her career in cramped and smudged Arabic.

  “You paid this fine to the Omani police,” Mackenzie said.

  “Yes.” She felt like a child, cornered. Events were moving too fast for her to regain any poise.

  “There’s no trace of any incident involving a Rory Bannatyne and yourself in our records.”

  “That may be the case. It was dealt with on an unofficial basis.”

  “Rory Bannatyne was your man over on Ascension.”

  “Yes.”

  “He was your man in Oman, too.”

  “We were working together, yes.”

  “What were you doing paying fines to the Omani police?”

  “I was averting an operational crisis.”

  “Is this document real?”

  “I’d need to check,” she said, hearing herself sound unconvincing.

  He handed it over. She recognized the emblem of the Omani police—a dagger and two crossed swords: Royal Oman Police, Muscat Governorate HQ. Penalty Payment. 400 dinari ($1038 US). Then her signature. Her thoughts were, simultaneously, This is my time in MI 6 over and If I am responsible for a girl’s death, professional concerns are trivial and it’s ridiculous of me to care. But the question she wanted to ask, above all others, was Where did this come from? Who did this and why now? It would take digging, by someone who had access to personnel files. Senior-level access. Someone like Skinner. But still this was a lot of effort just to destroy her.