Nick Stone 1 - Remote Control.

by Andy McNab

  Kelly munched on a candy bar and I kept an eye out for other motels. We'd have to move again soon.

  We sat in silence for a few minutes until it occurred to me that the driver would expect to hear us talking.

  "When I was your age I hadn't been in a taxi," I said.

  "I don't think I went in one until I was about fifteen."

  Kelly looked at me, still chewing on the candy.

  "Didn't you like taxis?"

  "No, it's just we didn't have much money. My stepfather couldn't find a job."

  She looked puzzled. She looked at me for a long time, then turned her head and looked out the window again.

  The traffic was clogging the exit for Key Bridge. Georgetown was just

  on the other side of the Potomac; it would have been quicker to get out and walk, but it made sense to stay out of sight. By now Kelly's face would have been in the newspapers, maybe even on posters. The police would be putting in a lot of time and effort to find her abductor.

  I leaned over the front seat, picked up the map, and directed the driver to the river end of Wisconsin Avenue, the main north-south drag. I remembered Georgetown as almost self-contained, with a genteel and quaint feel to the town houses that had reminded me of San Francisco. The sidewalks were redbrick and uneven, and every car seemed to be a BMW, Volvo, or Mercedes. Every house and store had a prominent sign warning that the property was guarded by a security firm. Try breaking in and you'd have a rapid-response team down on you before you even had time to rip the leads from the back of the VCR.

  Wisconsin is a wide street with shops and houses on either side. We found Good Fellas about four blocks up the hill on the right-hand side. As restaurants go it looked like one of the moody, designer-type places: the whole front was black, even down to the smoked-glass windows; the only relief was the gold lettering above the door. It was now nearly lunchtime;

  all the staff would have punched in.

  We entered through two blackened glass swing doors and were hit by the frosty blast of air-conditioning. We were at one end of a dimly lit hallway that ran the length of the front.

  Halfway down was a young receptionist sitting at her desk, looking very upscale and friendly. I was impressed with Pat's taste. The girl smiled as we walked toward her, Kelly's hand in mine.

  As we got closer I realized that the smile was a quizzical one. By now she was standing up, and I could see she was dressed very smartly in a white shirt and black pants.

  "Excuse me, sir," she said, "we don't.. ."

  I held up my hand and smiled.

  "That's fine, we haven't come for lunch. I'm trying to find a friend of mine called Patrick. He used to come here a lot, maybe six or seven months ago. Does that ring a bell? As far as I know, he was going out with one of your staff. He's an Englishman, speaks like me."

  "I don't know, I've only been here since the beginning of the semester."

  Semester? Of course, we were in Georgetown, the university area; every student was also a waiter or waitress.

  "Could you maybe call somebody, because it's really important that I make contact with him." I winked conspiratorily and said, "I've brought a friend of his--it's a surprise."

  She looked down and smiled warmly.

  "Hi, do you want a mint?" Kelly took a small handful.

  I went on, "Maybe one of the people in the back might know him?"

  While she was thinking about it, a couple of guys in suits came in behind us. Kelly was looking up at them, lumps in her cheeks.

  "Hi, little lady," one of them laughed.

  "You're a bit young for this, aren't you?"

  Kelly shrugged. Not a word.

  The receptionist said, "Excuse me a moment," and went off to do her hostess bit, opening the door beyond the desk for somebody else to meet the two diners and take them to their table.

  She came back and picked up the phone.

  "I'll call."

  I looked down and winked at Kelly.

  "We've got somebody here with a child, and they're looking for an Englishman called Patrick?" she said, then listened to the response.

  She put the phone down.

  "Someone'll be here in a minute."

  It rang again almost immediately, and she took a reservation.

  Kelly and I just stood there. A minute or two later a waitress appeared from the dining room.

  "Hi, follow me."

  Things were looking up. I got hold of Kelly's hand, and we went through the door to the dining room.

  People here obviously liked eating in semidarkness, because all the tables were lit only by candles. Looking around, I noticed that all the waitresses seemed to be wearing snug white T-shirts that exposed

  their midriffs, with tight shorts and sneakers with little ankle socks.

  On the right-hand side against the wall was a bar with over head lighting. The two suits were the only two customers. In the middle of the room I noticed a small raised stage, with spotlights above.

  I laughed to myself: nice work. Pat!

  Ass or no ass. Slack had always been successful with women. At the time of Gibraltar he was single like me, and rented the house next door. For about a year he'd been having what he called a "relationship," but we all knew better. They'd met at a Medieval Night fancy dress party; at four o'clock the next morning I was woken by the sound of a vehicle screeching up outside his house, then doors slamming and lots of giggling and laughing. We lived in a small subdivision, the sort of houses they threw up in about five minutes all through the eighties, so I could hear his front door crashing and thought, here we go. Then I heard a bit of music, and the toilet flushing, which is always nice at four in the morning.

  Then lots more laughing and giggling, and they were at it. At noon the next day I was in the kitchen washing up when a taxi pulled up, and that was when Queen Elizabeth I and one of her ladies-in-waiting came scuttling out of Pat's front door, hair all over the place, looking incredibly embarrassed as they jumped into the cab hoping no one would see them.

  When we grilled him, it turned out he was doing it with a mother and daughter combo. We hadn't let him hear the end of it ever since. Now it looked as though he'd got his own back.

  One of the girls waved to Kelly.

  "Hi, honey!" Beneath her T-shirt was what looked like a dead heat in a zeppelin race.

  Kelly was loving it. I held her hand tight. As we followed the girl, Kelly looked up at me and said, "What is this place?"

  "It's a kind of bar where people go to relax after work."

  "Like TGI Friday's?"

  "Sort of."

  We came to another set of double doors and went through into a world of bright light and clatter. The kitchens were on the right, full of noisy chaos; on the left, offices. The walls were dirty white plaster with gouge marks from where they'd been knocked by furniture.

  Farther down the corridor we came to another room. Our friend led us in and announced, "Here he is!"

  This was obviously where all the girls hung out--in some cases, literally. If I'd had to imagine a changing room in a lap-dancing bar, I'd have thought of semmaked girls in front of mirrors with big bulbs around the edges, but this didn't fit the bill at all; it was much more like somebody's living room. It was clean, with three or four couches, a couple of chairs, a few mirrors. There was a no smoking sign that I could smell was observed, and bulletin boards full of university meetings and goings-on.

  Everybody went "Hi, how are you!" to Kelly.

  I looked at a policewoman wearing a skirt that was very nonregulation length.

  "I'm trying to find an Englishman called Pat. He told me he came here a lot."

  Kelly was getting dragged away by two of the girls.

  "What's your name, honey?" There was nothing I could do to stop it.

  I said, "Her name's Josie."

  They were all in their fantasy outfits. One held out a Native American outfit, with fringed buckskin sleeves, feathers, the lot. She said to Kelly, "Do you like th
is?" and started to dress her. Kelly's eyes widened with excitement.

  I kept on talking with Washington's finest.

  "It's just that there's been a big mess-up on the dates. We were supposed to meet Pat so he and Josie could go on vacation. It's no problem; I'll look after her, but she really wants to see him."

  "We haven't seen Pat forever, but Sherry'll know, they used to go out. She's late but she'll be here any minute. If you want to hang out, that's fine. Help yourself to the coffee."

  I went over and poured myself a cup and sat down. I watched Kelly giggling. For me, this should have been like dying and going to heaven, but I was tense about Kelly letting something slip.

  I could see textbooks lying around. There was one girl on a couch who looked as if she'd come out of a Turkish harem;

  she was there with her laptop, tapping away at her thesis.

  Twenty minutes later the door burst open and a girl carrying a black sports bag ran in like a thing possessed, out of breath, hair everywhere.

  "Sorry I'm late, girls. I wasn't on first, was I?"

  She started to take her shoes off, catching her breath.

  The policewoman called over, "Sherry, this guy wants to know where Pat is. Have you seen him lately?"

  I stood up.

  "I've been trying to find him for ages. You know what he's like, he's all over the place."

  "Tell me about it." She started to take her jeans off in front of me as casually as if we'd been married ten years.

  "He's been away for a while. I saw him about a month ago when he got back." She shot a glance at Kelly and back at me.

  "You a friend of his?"

  "We go way back."

  "I guess he won't mind. I've got his number here, if I can find it."

  Dressed now only in her bra and panties, she rummaged through her bag as she talked. She looked up at one of the other girls and said, "What number am I?"

  "Four."

  "Christ! Can somebody go ahead of me? Can I go number six? I've got no makeup on yet."

  There was a grunt from behind the laptop. It seemed the Turkish harem girl was going on fourth now.

  Sherry tipped out an Aladdin's cave of a handbag.

  "Here we are."

  She handed me a restaurant card with an address and telephone number scribbled on the back. I recognized the writing.

  "Is this local?" I asked.

  "Riverwood? About fifteen minutes by car, over the bridge."

  "I'll give him a buzz--thank you!"

  "Remind him I'm alive, will you?" She smiled with weary hope.

  I went over to Kelly and said, "We've got to go now, Josie!"

  She stuck out her lower lip.

  "Aww." Maybe it was being in the company of other females, but she looked more relaxed than at any point since we'd driven away from the house.

  "Do we have to?" she pleaded with big round eyes that were covered in makeup. So were her lips.

  "I'm afraid we must," I said, starting to wipe it off.

  The Indian maiden said, "Can't we keep her here? We'll look after her. We'll show her how to dance."

  "I'd like that. Nick!"

  "Sorry, Josie, you have to be much older to work here, isn't that right, ladies?"

  They helped Kelly get all her feathers off. One of them said, "You work real hard at school, honey. Then you can work here with us."

  They pointed to a quicker way out, through the service exit at the back. As we were leaving, Kelly looked up and said, "What do they do, anyway?"

  "They're dancers."

  "They dance in bikinis? With all those feathers? How come?"

  "I don't know," I said.

  "Some people like watching that sort of thing."

  Just as we got to the exit I heard Sherry shout, "Pat's daughter? The lying bastard!"

  We walked back down the hill, looking for somewhere to sit out of the rain. A place that looked more like a house than a restaurant had a sign calling itself the Georgetown Diner. We went in.

  We sat in the three-quarters-empty cafe, me with a coffee, she with a Coke, both deep in thought--me about how to make contact with Pat, she most probably about growing up and going to college, dressed like Pocahontas. Our table was by a rack of greeting cards and local drawings for sale. It was more like an art gallery than a coffee shop.

  "We can't just turn up at Pat's address because we might compromise him," I thought aloud to her.

  "And I can't phone him because they might have made the connection between us, and there could be a tap on his phone and a trigger on the house."

  Kelly nodded knowingly, not understanding a word I was saying but pleased to be part of grown-up stuff instead of being abandoned or dragged around.

  "It's so annoying because he's only fifteen minutes away," I went on.

  "What can I do?"

  She gave a little shrug, then pointed at the rack behind me and said, "Maybe send him a card?"

  "Good idea, but it would take too long" Then I had a brainstorm.

  "Well done, Kelly!"

  She grinned from ear to ear as I got up and bought a birthday card showing a velvet rabbit holding a rose. I asked for a pen and went back to the table. I wrote: "Pat--I'm in deep shit. Kev is dead and Kelly is with me. I need help. IT WAS NOT ME. Call me from a public phone ASAP. Nick." I wrote down the number.

  I sealed the envelope and wrote down Pat's address, then asked to borrow the cafe's Yellow Pages. I found what I was looking for; it was on the same street, seemingly within walking distance. We put on our coats and left. It had stopped raining, but the sidewalk was still wet. I checked the street numbers; we had to go downhill toward M Street.

  The courier office was next door to a weird and wonderful New Age shop with a windowful of healing crystals that could change your life. I wondered which one they'd suggest if I went in and described my circumstances. Kelly wanted to stay outside and look in the window,

  but I wanted her with me; people might look twice at a child on her own outside a store and something might register. There was also the risk of someone in the shop identifying her, but it was a question of balance between exposing her and making best use other as cover.

  "Can you get this to my friend after four o'clock today?" I said to the guy at the desk.

  "We're in real big trouble because we forgot to send his birthday card, aren't we, Josie?"

  I paid the fifteen-dollar fee in cash, and they promised to bike it around just after 4 p.m. I needed the intervening two hours to prepare for a meeting.

  We went into the Latham Hotel. I'd guessed my accent wouldn't stick out in here, and I was right; the large reception area was full of foreign tourists. I sat Kelly in a corner and went to the information desk.

  "I'm looking for a mall that would have a Fun Zone or a Kids Have Fun," I said.

  It turned out there were about half a dozen of them in and around the D.C. area; it was just a matter of looking up all the different addresses in the city guide I'd been given. There was one at the Landside Mall, not far from the Roadies Inn. I hailed a taxi; this time the driver knew where he was going.

  The idea of Kids Have Fun is that you drop your kids off for a few hours while you go off on your big shopping frenzy. I'd gone once with Marsha to pick up Kelly and Aida from one.

  The children get a name tag on their wrist that they can't re move, and the adult is given an ID card that means they're the only person who can collect the child. The girls had been acting up the morning I went, and I remembered that as we approached the center Marsha had grinned at the travel agent's across the way and said, "I always think that's brilliant positioning the number of times I've been tempted to drop the kids off and pop in for a one-way ticket to Rio!"

  The mall was shaped like a large cross, with a different department store Sears, Hecht's, JCPenney, Nordstrom at the end of each spur. There were three floors, with escalators moving people up and down from the central hub. The food court was on the third floor. It was as busy as
it was massive, and the heat was nearly tropical probably on purpose, to send you to the drink counters.

  I spotted Kids Have Fun on the Hecht's spur. I turned to Kelly.

  "Hey, do you want to go in there later? There's videos and all sorts of stuff."

  "I know. But I want to stay with you."