by Lee Stone
Lockhart was glad to offer the journalist refuge, even if it meant lending him his own identity. He knew what it felt like to be hunted. Maybe the journalist had become brutish on his journey simply because the world had forced him to become that way. Forced him into the burka, forced him to become sly. Maybe anyone on the run from Iranian forces would toughen up and seize chances to escape without worrying about the consequences.
As for himself, Lockhart was determined to stop running. Ever since he heard the tale of the Azeri boy on the Baku ferry, he knew what needed to be done. At some point, whoever was chasing him for the money would catch up with him. When they found him, they would try to take the money back.
They wouldn’t succeed; Lockhart knew that he had to see the money go safely back to Afghanistan. It was money for roads, sewers and drains. Money to fight disease and poverty. Money to give opportunity to people who had none. Money to help a whole nation had been stolen by a couple of greedy westerners. If the thieves wanted to kill him, let them try. Lockhart would stop running and wait for them to find him. Once they were dealt with, the money was going back where it belonged.
The journalist would be Lockhart’s first line of defense. The guy had insisted on taking his name and identity, so Charlie would keep him close by. He would act as an early warning if Lockhart’s unseen adversaries should arrive. If they were looking for a man called Lockhart, they’d end up at the journalist’s front door. And then Lockhart would spring them from behind. He had no intention of playing fairly; they didn’t deserve it.
So, Lockhart and the journalist ironed out the details of the deal as they drove to the airport. Lockhart would buy a house for the journalist to live in, and he would let him use his own name to do his banking and his living. He warned the journalist that the Iranians might not find him, but whoever Lockhart was running from might.
Lockhart was pleased. The journalist might just flush out the giant and whoever he worked for into the open. It would be much easier to deal with an enemy who he could see.
Chapter Forty
Heydar Aliyev airport, Baku, Azerbaijan.
“Don’t go chasing waterfalls, just play in the rivers and the lakes that you’re used to.” – TLC, Waterfalls.
Old habits die hard thought the journalist, as he stood in the North Terminal of the modern airport. He was staring at the departures board and considering his options. He had planned to catch the BMI flight to London Heathrow, which was leaving in an hour. But a flight to Paris Charles de Gaulle had caught his eye, and he was considering taking that instead. He and Lockhart had discussed the BMI flight, and it was not in the journalist’s nature to trust anyone else. He didn’t like strangers knowing his business. He always worked alone, and he had learned to be cautious about everything.
So, for no good reason, he would wait an extra hour and then catch the flight to France. Once he was on the plane, he would relax. He would take the Eurostar from Paris to London and then meet up with the man whose identity he was borrowing in a tiny village called Woodridge. Even when the Englishman had described several larger towns nearby, none of these had sounded familiar. The middle of nowhere. Perfect.
As he sat in a coffee shop waiting for his flight, he froze. Storming straight towards him was the giant. He was still wearing the black outfit that he had on in Mary when he was rolling through the dust. The journalist tried to relax and reminded himself that he’d been wearing the burka when Tyler had been trying to scramble onto Lockhart’s bus. There was no way for the man to recognize him.
The journalist slunk back into his booth and watched with relief as the soldier stormed past. He looked mad as hell, which was probably a good thing. He didn’t check in at Air France or BMI either, which was even better. The Journalist finished his coffee and checked in. By the time he was in the air, Lockhart had covered the best part of two hundred miles of ground. He was heading home, more focused on the road ahead than the road behind.
He had forgotten the labyrinth streets of Morocco and his days as the fearless truck driver in Quetta and the dusty heat of Kandahar. Instead, he was focused on what lay ahead. A return to England, and to Woodridge, the tiny village he remembered from when he was young. It would be a good hiding place until he was ready.
He stretched back in the seat as he drove through Azerbaijan and up into Romania, on his own for the first time in a while. No journalist, no passengers, no ferrymen, no market traders and no hoteliers. There weren’t even any other cars on the long straight road through the mountains which were looming up on either side. Soon enough Lockhart was twisting through them, as the road snaked left and right trying to find a way through and over the rock.
The higher the road climbed, the worse the weather got, until eventually Lockhart abandoned all thoughts of planning his next move, and focused instead on not hurtling off the edge of the tarmac.
The rain was falling hard on the ground now, golf ball droplets hitting the road so hard that they bounced fiercely back into the air. A couple of times Lockhart hit standing water and aquaplaned towards the edge of the road; lightning flashed and Lockhart caught sight of a frightening sheer drop inches from his front tire.
He eased off the gas. He’d watched The Italian Job enough times to know that he didn’t want to end up balanced on the side of the cliff, with two wheels hanging off the edge. Lockhart knew that a high number of people survive war zones and then die in car crashes. The reason is simple. They think they’re invincible once they’ve survived bullets and missiles and roadside bombs and bloodshed. Lockhart listened to his subconscious and slowed the car down.
He plowed on, ever west, towards home through the rain and the lightning which eventually gave way to mist and moonlight. He had covered nearly five hundred miles by first light, and he didn’t feel like stopping. By midday, the wet roads were steaming, and the smell of wet European vegetation was thick in the air. It was the kind of smell Lockhart had missed without realizing it. Being a tourist had made him notice many foreign sights and smells and sounds and people, and now he was noticing the ones he knew well.
Each mile he drove, people were looking more and more western. Over the next few days, cars became newer, villages became towns and towns became cities. Roads became wider, advertising became more sophisticated, and gas became more expensive. Hotel staff became more professional but less courteous. Lockhart was on his way home.
Chapter Forty-One
Alum Rock, Birmingham.
“You can’t always get what you want,
but if you try sometimes you’ll surely find
you get what you need.”
– The Rolling Stones.
The old man was sitting in front of the television in his front room. He was in his usual place on the brown sofa, suspended in time. His past was behind him, enlarged and framed on his wall. A picture of a magic place; a dusty village and a tiny window through which the destiny of his family had flown.
In front of him was his future. A simple Formica table where his grandson was eating. In the corner, a modest television was showing the news, and the boy was watching. There was a global mystery unfolding, and the old man knew that boys loved mysteries almost as much as they loved adventure.
The newscast was showing a chaotic scene of basketball fans and police officers outside the Staples Center in Los Angeles. Twisted on the pavement in the background was the body of the man who had jumped from a nearby roof.
“A soldier who disappeared in Afghanistan thirteen months ago has jumped to his death from the roof of a Los Angeles hotel.”
“He jumped while on the airwaves of a late-night radio show. Program host Rachel White says she does not understand what his dying message meant and security services both here and in America are baffled.”
The screen showed a rather tacky publicity shot of the radio host standing in front of a giant radio station logo. Meanwhile, the sounds of the soldier’s last words were piped into the tiny room in the house in Alum Rock.
“Charlie Lockhart is Fearless.”
The boy looked up from his rice. He knew what it meant immediately. It was a message about his brother Ajmal, and Kandahar, and revenge. Daud knew it instantly, the way you know bad news when the phone rings.
“Although his last words mention Charlie Lockhart, the man who jumped has been identified as Captain David Barr who went missing after his last tour of Afghanistan, where he worked Logistics in Kandahar.”
“LAPD say that Barr, who was seriously injured serving in Iraq in 2004, might have been living rough in California for the last year. Some people here are speculating that life on the streets, coupled with Post Traumatic Stress, could have bought on an episode of paranoid schizophrenia which led to him changing his name and jumping to his death.”
The old man shook his head sadly as pictures of the American Airbase showed on the television, but Daud sat transfixed. Charlie Lockhart is Fearless. The man had been an American soldier in Kandahar a year ago. That’s when Ajmal was in Kandahar for the last time. That’s when Ajmal was handed to the Americans by a man called Fearless.
Daud knew the public report by heart. He had read it again and again, line by line, upstairs in his bedroom. The convoy from Quetta, the incident at the main gate, and the scuffle on the canteen roof. Daud’s brow had become furrowed. He refused to believe the report and had decided eventually to blame the only other man on the roof. Now for some unknown reason a soldier had just delivered a message to him.
Daud was one of only three people in the world who understood the message that David Barr had sent. The message wasn’t that Charlie Lockhart was fearless. The message was that Fearless was really called Charlie Lockhart.
The official reports into Ajmal’s arrest in Kandahar, his interrogation and his subsequent rendition to Guantanamo began with a scuffle on a roof. The man who was supposed to have caught Ajmal in his act of treachery didn’t even have a real name. He was simply referred to as “Fearless”.
Daud had assumed that the name had been invented, because the mystery contractor vanished soon after Ajmal’s arrest. It was all too convenient, and Daud was keen to believe the whole thing was a conspiracy, anyway. But now there was news. The mystery was unraveling. It was just over a year since Ajmal had been arrested on the roof at Kandahar and finally, Daud had a name. Daud had a target. Fearless was Charlie Lockhart.
Chapter Forty-Two
Crown and Cricket Public House, Woodridge, England.
“I fear rivers over flowing.
I hear the voice of rage and ruin.”
– Creedence Clearwater Revival, Bad Moon Rising
The journalist was relaxed. He was in a dark corner of the Crown and Cricket on the top of the hill at Woodridge. It was months since he had arrived in the village and he was still in hiding.
“The change of government will help,” he told Lockhart. “It will be much easier for them to publish as soon as the current regime is out of power.”
Lockhart hoped he was right. They were growing to respect one another. The journalist had sacrificed a lot to expose corruption in his country’s government. It still wasn’t safe for him to go home.
“How long do you think it’ll be?” Lockhart asked him.
The journalist shrugged and took a sip of his red wine. Lockhart was drinking a dark ale, which the journalist hadn’t cultivated a taste for during his time in the village. He winced a little every time Lockhart put his glass to his lips.
“A few more months I hope,” he said. His voice trailed off as he thought about the life he had given up for his exclusive investigation. Lockhart gave him a moment lost in thought.
The television in the bar was tuned in to the twenty-four-hour news, and over the journalist’s shoulder Lockhart could see a re-run of Rachel White’s interview about Barr’s suicide. He saw the picture of Barr flash up on the TV screen, and recognized him from Kandahar, months ago. The desert felt like it was another lifetime, but Lockhart had always known that something would happen, and that someone would come. And now he could feel the danger coming back to life.
“Listen,” Lockhart urged the journalist. “There’s something I have to tell you. There’s been a report on the news, and it mentioned my name. It’s about Kandahar. And you know that when they come looking for me, there’s a chance that they will find you instead?”
It was a risk that the journalist had taken happily. Compared to what the Spanish or Iranian authorities would do to him, he couldn’t imagine he had much to fear from whoever was chasing Lockhart.
“I’ll be careful,” he said. “I’ll look both ways before I cross the road.”
Lockhart laughed, but he said, “Look, this is serious. If you want to move somewhere else, nobody is making you stay, ok?”
The journalist had been serious all week. He had kept himself to himself, trying not to draw unwanted attention in the village. When it had been necessary to introduce himself, he had told people he was Charlie Lockhart. And nobody had come looking for him. The plan had worked well.
“Where else would I go?” the Spaniard asked, settling back with his wine. Lockhart hoped the Spaniard was making the right decision. Tyler was coming, and he was ready. He just hoped that the journalist was ready, too.
Chapter Forty-Three
Starbucks, Hope Street Los Angeles.
“I can’t get no sleep.”
– Faithless, Insomnia.
James Neilson was deep in thought at the end of the coffee counter. The place was humming along busily although the morning commuters had left for work, and the steam had gone out of the service.
Neilson had been woken up by a phone call just before three o’clock and hadn’t been back to bed since. The first six hours had been fueled with adrenalin, but now he was tiring and needed caffeine. He glanced over to the woman in the corner. She was staring out of the window, agitated. Her lips were moving as if she was rehearsing a line. She looked like she needed more than coffee.
The call that had woken Nielson had been from the radio station. Something had gone wrong on air. People were upset. More calls would follow. Neilson was a smart guy, and he spent the first hour after he was woken piecing everything together. Asking questions. Who took the call? Who put the guy through on air? What had Rachel said to him? Was she culpable? How long was he on the air before he jumped?
The second hour had been spent deep in conversation with the lawyers. They were nervous, but Neilson had been around the block long enough to know that lawyers are always nervous. By dawn he was talking to the LAPD who reassured him they only wanted to talk to Rachel White as a witness. After that, he held a conference with his breakfast news team to let them know how they should report the suicide. Then he called Rachel; he knew she’d be awake.
Coffee arrived; one sweet and creamy, the other black and strong. Nielson swiped both cups from the counter, mumbled his thanks and headed over to Rachel White. She looked worse than he did. Her eyes were red rims and blue shadows. She told him she’d slept, but she hadn’t. She told him she was fine, but she wasn’t.
She looked up as he sat down.
“I’m going to need a week off, Neilson.”
He put the coffee down in between them, as casually as he could. He pushed the latte towards her and said, “Take as long as you want.”
Rachel was grateful. She knew that he meant it. Neilson was a good solid guy. He was a contracts man, mostly. He was good with the suits from the network, but he understood the value of creative people. She’d always felt like he was in her corner. Today he was proving it.
“And I could use a plane ticket to Dallas,” she said, gazing across the street at nothing in particular.
Rachel White was a good radio personality. People tuned in for her, so she was valuable to the radio station. The executives wouldn’t complain if he gave her a ticket to the moon. But Neilson smelled something that he didn’t like.
“Dallas? Who do you know in Dallas?”
Rachel had been wres
tling with a secret ever since they’d sat down. Something she’d kept from her producer. Something she omitted to tell the LAPD earlier. Something she knew she should keep to herself, but she was going to tell Neilson, anyway. She wasn’t sure why she was telling him, except that Neilson was the kind of guy who people told stuff. A good listener.
“I don’t know anyone in Dallas,” she replied, her eyes coming back to the table. Checking out his reaction. “I will take a drive from there up to Pine Bluff.”
Neilson knew that the soldier’s suicide had hit Rachel hard, but this was insane. Nobody went to Pine Bluff unless they needed to. The only visitors the place got were biological and chemical weapons experts. People whose job was to dismantle the massive cold war stockpiles locked in the arsenal to the north of the city. Pine Bluff was ugly and broken down and dangerous too. It was a mad place to go.
“Pine Bluff, Arkansas?”
“Pine Bluff, Arkansas.” Rachel answered firmly, as if the matter was beyond discussion.
“Who the hell do you know in Pine Bluff, Arkansas?”
“Nobody,” Rachel sighed. He would not like the next bit. “Barr’s wife and daughter came from there.”
“The guy who jumped?” asked Neilson calmly. “You want to see his wife and kid?”
“The cops who spoke to me this morning said he was holding a picture of them just before he jumped” Rachel urged. “They think he’d carried it with him for the last year, but hadn’t gone to see them once. Not once since he returned from Afghanistan. Why not? They’d filed a missing person report for him.”
