Arkhangel : A Novel (2020)

  Frank had told me to go dark. UKN was already dark. What he meant was ‘go darker’. And the only way I could do that was to vanish again – and so completely that not even my own side could find me. I could do that. But if I did, I asked myself, what incentive would there be for me to come back? The work would never have any closure, except death. The only way out was to force an ending. If I could make it across the Channel, I would be free. Even if I just stayed put in France, the options were almost endless. Never mind a few months or weeks – up in the Pyrenees or the Massif Central the odds were that I could survive indefinitely: undetected, untraceable, unknown. I had nothing to lose. My mind ran away with itself. If I could stomach it, there was even the Marseilles mafia. As every mercenary knows, warriors aren’t trained to retire.

  I thought about that for a moment – that kind of killing.

  But I couldn’t do it. In twenty-four years I’d never even drawn a salary – much less murdered for money. I owned, and owed, nothing. The person I saw looking back at me in the bathroom mirrors of the hotels I called home was not a sicario, as Frank had once called me. I carried out hits. But I wasn’t a hitman. True, I’d never sold out. But I’d had nothing to sell, and I had no pockets for pieces of silver, either.

  My eyes grew accustomed to the dimly lit room. I reached out with my right hand and felt for the plastic bag I’d seen earlier in A & E. It had travelled to the new room with me – tucked away under the bedside trolley. I removed the damp denim jeans inside one-handed, and then wormed my right index finger down into the ticket pocket. I might have been close to moral bankruptcy – but I wasn’t quite penniless. Soaked, squashed, but still there: I left the hundred-dollar bill where it was and pinched the sleep out of my eyes.

  I needed to see clearly.

  Maybe I didn’t have to vanish. Maybe Frank would come back online with all the answers. Maybe the mission would become clear. Never mind a hitman, Frank had conjured me up out of Raven Hill as his Irish avenging angel – visiting death upon all those who threatened the idea of the Crown we served. Even if we no longer quite trusted one another, we still needed each other to fight the forever war. Although I had accepted death long ago, I wasn’t ready to quit. Not today.

  I swung my legs around and sat on the edge of the bed, facing the bathroom door. The ECG leads were long enough to let me move. I put my feet on the floor and flexed my toes. I stood up. The surgical gown they’d wrapped me up in clung to me like a winding sheet. That was me, all right: a dead man walking. No matter who was after me, this was the point of maximum vulnerability – not just on this job, but since the very moment I joined UKN. For the first time I was not only outside the system that supported me but trapped in the world that supported the system – the real and ultra-visible world of doctors and police and processes and procedures. If I could be seen, I could be identified. And if I could be identified, I could be eliminated: without investigation, without interrogation, without trace. You cannot be held accountable for killing a dead man.

  I put the jeans on carefully. Damp, but not torn. They’d evidently peeled and not cut them off me in the ambulance. Good to go.

  ‘I’m glad you’re not ready to quit.’

  I turned around. The consultant was standing in the doorway, lab coat bleached bright white by the harsh light of the ward beyond. She turned her head towards the policeman outside. I spread my hands wide and caught her eye. She startled and looked at me.

  ‘Please,’ I said.

  8

  I sat down again and she stepped into the room.

  ‘I was talking to myself, wasn’t I?’ She nodded. ‘Bad habit. Sorry. I can’t think straight if I don’t talk things through.’

  ‘And now?’ she asked. ‘Are you thinking straight now?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’ I looked at the half-open door. Eyes on me, she reached behind with her left hand and pushed it to so that it was only ajar. ‘Thanks. How long was I out for?’

  ‘All day. You were admitted early this morning. It’s Friday night now.’ She checked her watch, adjusted her lab coat. She was nervous, working out what to say next. ‘It’s bloody mayhem out there. And I’m not even supposed to be on call tonight.’

  Neither of us spoke for a moment. The sounds and shouts of frenetic work being done further down the ward percolated into the room. I calculated how quickly, quietly, I could incapacitate her. She stepped closer. Taking out the police guard would be easy, too. But that was a last resort – and, as yet, as unnecessary as it was undesirable. If I made it past the exit – which was a big ‘if’ – getting any further in the south-east of England with no support and no kit would make outrunning the Gardaí look like a walk in the park. No: if I was going to jump, it had to be clean. Doctor Rose was the perfect springboard. I relaxed and let my shoulders slump.

  ‘So,’ she asked, ‘the “avenging angel”. What’s that all about?’

  ‘I really was gabbling.’ I rubbed my face with my hands. ‘I’m guessing you reckon you should have got me a head shrink, not a head CT?’

  ‘I’m not guessing anything. I know you’ve had a very traumatic experience.’ She sized me up and clicked her tongue, considering, perhaps, how much of her bedside chat I’d heard earlier. ‘You might feel all right in yourself, but a shock like that – falling into cold water, or exposure – that can make your mind play tricks on you.’ She paused, casting around for the right words. ‘Your wrists … I mean …’ She paused again and then asked what she really wanted to know. ‘What should I call you? What’s your name?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what my name is,’ I said.

  ‘Well,’ she replied, ‘it matters to me. And I’ll bet it matters to whoever it was you were asking for in the ambulance, too.’ She was hyper-alert. Night after night of dealing with junkies and drunks kept her on her toes. But she was softening. ‘And for the record, I don’t think you need a shrink. I think you need rest, and plenty of it.’

  Her pager went off and she apologized as she checked it, all the while keeping one eye on me. ‘You know, if nothing else, you’d do yourself a favour by telling me who you are … or at least what happened. We can look after you better, and you’ll recover faster. Which means you can leave sooner.’ She took her hand off the pager. ‘The police would like to ask you some questions.’ I snorted and shook my head. ‘Yeah, OK, I know … But you mustn’t worry. It’s just that they think you’re a migrant and they’ve had the bloody coast guard out all day looking for wreckage or other survivors. The sooner you tell them you’re not, the sooner they’ll leave you alone. I’m not going to let anyone question you until you’re fit to talk.’

  I pursed my lips and shook my head again.

  ‘I’m not under arrest, am I?’ She agreed that I wasn’t. ‘So then I don’t have to say anything to them. And in case they ask, I don’t want my photograph taken, either. Is that clear?’

  ‘OK,’ she shrugged. ‘But you are going to have to talk to them. Eventually. You have no clothes, no money, no ID. I can help you, you know.’

  ‘How?’ I said.

  ‘Well …’ She hesitated. ‘Apart from getting you well again, we, I mean they, can help protect you, if that’s what you need.’

  An edge of exasperation crept into her voice. She was moving between caring and irritated. That was a good sign. People are rarely scared by someone who annoys them.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘You can’t. Protect me, I mean. That policeman outside? What was it you called him, a “vulture”?’ She cleared her throat and dropped her eyes. ‘You know, I’m sure he’s a very decent vulture. But when his boss finds out I’m not a migrant, helping to protect me isn’t going to be top of his to-do list. Believe me. You’re very well meaning and all that, Rose, but this isn’t just a hospital now. It’s a prison.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be the first patient here to think that, I can tell you. But you were awake, eh? You had me and Doctor Mann fooled, that’s for sure. Well …’ she sighed, ‘God knows you need somet
hing. Everyone in here does. But no one’s going to hurt you. Not on my watch. I can give you my word on that.’ She hesitated for a moment, and then decided to ask again. ‘Tell me who you are. Or at least … At least tell me what your name is.’ She looked at the monitor and checked her pager again. ‘I can hardly call you “angel”, can I?’

  ‘If I tell you my name …’ I struggled to find words that would inspire trust, not instil terror. ‘Oh man, this is going to sound nuts.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Right, well … I’m going to tell you straight, and you can take it or leave it.’

  ‘OK. Go on.’

  ‘If I tell you my name, I can’t guarantee your safety.’

  As I spoke, her pager beeped again. She looked at it, distracted. I raised my voice a fraction. ‘Listen to me.’ She looked up and backed away abruptly. Harmless eccentric or dangerous madman? I’d asked myself the same question many times before – though not often of myself. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said quickly, and swung my left leg up on to the bed, rolling up the cuff of my jeans. ‘Look.’

  The scar on my calf that she’d pressed her thumb into earlier appeared deeper than usual, picked out by the slanted light from the bathroom.

  ‘Colombia,’ I said. ‘You’re right, there is a story behind it. I only wish I had time to tell you.’ I pointed to my left ear, the top of which had been torn off ten months before. ‘Sierra Leone. You could write a whole book about that one.’ Then I pointed to a long-since healed laceration on my right bicep. ‘Afghanistan. I lost three friends that night.’ Finally I pointed to my left wrist, ringed with bruises fresh from my ordeal on the ship. ‘English Channel. Last night.’ I rolled the jeans leg down again. ‘I’m not mad, and I’m not dangerous,’ I said. ‘Not to you, anyway.’

  ‘So what are you, then?’ she asked.

  ‘Unless you help me to get out of here? A dead man.’

  She said, did, nothing. I was winning. Slowly.

  ‘It’s just …’ I cleared my throat. ‘It’s just that I’ve spent my whole life convincing people I’m someone I’m not. Now I need to convince you I am what I am, and I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘The truth,’ she said. ‘Tell me the truth. The truth will set you free.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘it won’t. The last time I heard someone say that was during an interrogation. They executed the prisoner in the morning. And anyway, I can’t tell you the truth. You wouldn’t believe it. But if I can show you the truth,’ I continued, ‘will you help me?’

  ‘You don’t have to show me anything. I believe that you’re a soldier,’ she said. ‘And I believe that you’re in trouble, and that you need help. What I don’t believe is that running away or holding back vital information – from me, or the police, from anyone, frankly – is ultimately going to do you any good. There are probably people out there, right now, risking their lives searching the sea on your account. Think about that, about them, for a moment.’

  ‘You see, that’s the problem,’ I said. ‘I’m not a soldier. Not in the way you mean. Please. Let me show you.’

  She didn’t say no – which was a good start. I looked at her and showed my palms in supplication. The muscles in her jaw worked, and she sucked the inside of her cheeks. Any decision she was going to make would be as much personal as it would be professional. I’d clearly been through the wringer. The question for her, perhaps, was whether or not I’d deserved it. But despite the sheer weight of her misgivings, her evident ambivalence towards the police, mixed up with a high dose of good old-fashioned curiosity, was getting the better of her.

  She nodded.

  ‘OK, take out your phone and google the FCO.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Foreign and Commonwealth Office.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yup. Go on. It’s not going to blow up or anything.’

  ‘No, I mean about my being at risk?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Another pause. ‘But look at it this way: if I am delusional, then all this will add up to,’ I nodded towards her wedding ring, ‘is a good story to tell your husband tonight. Five minutes. That’s all. And then we can all go home,’ I lied.

  She shook her head as if being petitioned by a child – or an idiot. ‘Wife,’ she said. ‘I’m married to a woman.’

  Nearly two and a half decades of professional people-watching, upon which dozens of life and death decisions had been made, and I still couldn’t work out if women were flirting with me – or just fucking with me.

  She fidgeted and tugged at her sleeve, wrestling with her reservations. Then: ‘Oh, sod it!’ She exhaled the words hard. ‘Five minutes, OK. Deal?’

  ‘Deal.’

  Her phone was tucked away in a trouser pocket, hidden beneath her lab coat. She fished it out and unlocked it. ‘I must be bloody mad.’

  I kept looking at her phone. She tapped the three letters in with her right thumb, her eyes now flitting between mine and the screen.

  ‘OK, good,’ I smiled. ‘Click on their website and then scroll down, all the way to the bottom, to the main switchboard number, the one that ends with fifteen hundred.’ She went to speak but stopped herself. ‘You’re going to dial the number,’ I said slowly.

  ‘Anyone could have memorized that number. That doesn’t prove anything.’

  ‘Of course,’ I agreed. ‘When you dial it, you’re going to get a recorded message with a menu asking what extension or department you want. Ignore them all and key in star, followed by one-nine-zero-nine and then the hash key. That’s going to put you through to an operator who’s going to be bloody rude. She’ll say, “Embankment”, and then ask you what extension you require. Tell her, “Stirling Lines”.’

  ‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you? What is this – some special code to sucker unsuspecting civvy girls?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘This is an absolutely spectacular breach of MI6’s security protocols that’s going to land me in even deeper shit than I’m in already. But it’s all I’ve got right now. So, you know, how about it?’

  She gave a deep sigh and carried on despite herself, determined, perhaps, to find out where this would take her.

  ‘So, I ask to be put through to extension “Stirling Lines”?’

  ‘No. Just say, “Stirling Lines”. Nothing else. There’ll be a delay.’ I relaxed and spoke calmly, deliberately. My smile was gone. There would be consequences to making the call that I couldn’t explain. I hoped my demeanour would prepare her for what might happen next. ‘You’ll be put through to another number. Someone else is going to answer the phone. Probably a man. More relaxed. Tell them you want to speak to Grumpy Jock. That’s it.’

  She looked at me, uncomprehending. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s it. They’re going to put you through to a very grumpy Glaswegian.’

  ‘Of course they are. And what do I say to this charming Scotsman?’

  ‘Describe what you can see. Describe me. Describe what’s happened, where I am. Tell him anything you like. If he wants you to positively identify me, tell him I won’t give you my name.’ I thought for a moment. ‘But, uh, tell him about the scars. Tell him about the scar on my calf, and say I’d told you it was from Colombia and that I never got any thanks for it. Then just take his lead. And if you still don’t believe me, well …’ Well, then my luck would have run out like I always knew it would some day.

  ‘Why don’t you do it?’ Her voice was rising. ‘Why don’t you make the call on the speaker? I have to leave in thirty minutes.’ She offered me the phone. She was rattled now and obviously so. ‘Look, to be honest it’s more fun talking shit with you than playing mum to the junkies downstairs in ED, but why don’t you just do it, eh? You’ve convinced me you need to make a call. So make it.’ Fear crept into her speech, edging into the gaps between the syllables. Fear that she had made, was making, the wrong decision; but fear, too, that it was already too late to row back. She breathed out through her nose, and looked first
at her shoes and then at me, remaking her decision anew, qualifying it as she went. ‘I don’t want to speak to anyone.’ She held the phone out further towards me. ‘You make the call. You speak and I’ll listen.’

  I’ve watched people play at roulette like that, their hand hovering over their stack on red or black, odd or even, twitching to get it back until the wheel stops spinning.

  ‘I can’t make the call, Rose. I wish I could, but I can’t. They have the most sophisticated voice recognition software this side of Langley on that line. I say one word and all hell will break loose. They’ll tear the fucking roof off this building to get me, kill anyone who gets in their way. Trust me. I know.’ I held up my wrists. ‘You think I did this to myself?’ Then I pointed to my ankles. ‘And that? You think I shot myself in the shoulder and then strung myself up? As everyone keeps reminding me, I’m not fucking Houdini.’

  She let the hand holding the phone fall to her side. She looked scared now – but in dread of the situation, not of me. That fear was good: it meant that she believed me. As long as her fear didn’t turn into panic, it meant I could control her.

  ‘Who is “they”?’ she asked. Scared, but not stupid. She was taking nothing for granted.

  ‘I don’t know, Rose.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Honestly. I don’t know. That’s why I’m in here, why I’m asking you for help.’ And that, finally, was the truth. If my comms with Frank – or his with Vauxhall – had been compromised, then no call I made was safe – and anyone or everyone could have been hunting me.

  She braced herself and held her phone at the ready. Her voice steadied.

  ‘What else will Grumpy Jock ask me?’

  ‘Very little,’ I replied. ‘Except, perhaps, whether I’m still playing chess.’

  ‘What should I tell him?’ she asked.

  I wrinkled my nose and sniffed the air, and decided – against a lifetime of experience to the contrary – to stick to the truth.

  ‘Tell him,’ I said, ‘that I resigned.’