Zara's Game

by Jo Black

  ‘You believe any of that?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘No. Zara’s clean. I don’t see her doing that kind of thing. She’s too smart. Bishop I didn’t know that well, so you tell me.’

  ‘I don’t know. I told him I could hook him up in The City, he didn’t seem that interested.’

  ‘They know where he is?’

  ‘No. He’s gone to ground.’

  ‘He ever give you any drop box or back channel number to get in touch with him?’

  ‘No. We weren’t that close. If he’s got an out then it wasn’t with me. Wait. There is something. He’s got a daughter. Illegitimate. He got trashed one night and started doing the whole absentee dad guilt and recrimination thing. She’s college age, living in San Francisco.’

  ‘That narrows it down.’

  ‘He did say one thing. He had a real bee in his bonnet over it. She was working at one of those Hooter type places. Got him all riled about drunken guys pawing at his little girl’s ass. Kind of ironic given how much time he spent in those places pawing at other daddy’s girl’s asses.’

  ‘He say where it was?’

  ‘The Fire Station. Yeah that was it. I only remembered that cause he threatened to torch the place and I found it ironic given the name.’

  ‘It’s something I guess. You think he’s in touch with her?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was drunk, said he was going to make things right before it was too late. But who knows? Bishop was all over the place.’

  ‘Well it’s better than nothing I guess. A lead’s a lead however thin.’

  ‘Sorry. That’s all I can get without hitting up The Agency.’

  ‘No, I need to keep off their radar.’

  Bob looked thoughtful for a few moments. ‘There is one way, but you wont like it...’

  ‘Shoot. I’m open to anything right now. Zara’s a good kid, I’m not letting her go without a fight.’

  ‘I’ve got a few contacts through the bank with the Russians here. There’s a guy at the embassy who I figure is probably F.S.B. If you need some dirt digging, and you cant go to anyone connected to our side then they’re the most likely guys to have something.’

  ‘Why would they help...unless...shit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The one thing I was hoping to avoid. Something Zara told me once. You are right. The Russians will likely know. The problem is, they won’t tell me unless I ask through someone who they’ll deal with.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘The last person on earth I want to have to involved right now. Alex Green.’

  ‘The Dragon?’

  ‘You know another Alex Green? I was really trying to avoid his involvement.’

  ‘With good reason, but given what you seem to be up against...’

  ‘Let’s just say Alex is the nuclear option. Once he gets involved this will only go one way, and we’re not exactly friends.’

  ‘Is anyone exactly friends with Alex?’

  ‘Yeah. There’s one person who is just a bit more than that, and he will not take the bad news well.’

  ‘You want me to set up a meet with my contact?’

  Hunter took a deep breath and downed his beer. ‘You got anything stronger?’ Bob retrieved a bottle of scotch and poured two glasses. ‘Let me sleep on it. If I can think of any other way to deal with this without getting Alex involved, I’m going to take it.’

  ‘You need a place to crash? Spare room is made up.’

  ‘What about your wife?’

  ‘She doesn’t ask questions.’

  ‘Seems you’ve got it made buddy. Bob Eckhart. Sitting pretty in London Town. What’s your secret?’

  ‘I never gave a fuck,’ Bob said with a smile, toasting Hunter’s glass.

  3

  The morning chorus broke painfully for Hunter. A dull throbbing head coupled to the queasiness brought about from the previous night’s intake of Indian food and alcohol fermenting in his stomach, aided and abetted by the damp cold in the small basement room. He coughed out the night’s worth of phlegm accumulated in his throat and cleared his nose, trying to solicit any comfort of warmth from the too-thin duvet and blanket. A knock at the door and Bob entered with salvation in the form of a cup of strong black coffee and an over-buttered slice of toast.

  ‘I slept,’ Hunter said; his voice suggesting surprise at the fact. ‘I don’t remember the last time.’ Bob handed him the coffee and set the toast plate down on the bedside cabinet. Hunter took a deep sip of his coffee, letting the warmth from the strong brew and caffeine kick his metabolism back into order.

  ‘Sorry about the cold, these old Victorian-era places are hell to keep warm.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Makes a change from the humidity.’

  ‘I’ll bring you a razor and some towels down.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ Hunter asked casually, glancing at his vintage Omega to check the time.

  ‘Called in sick. That scotch isn’t so easy to shake off at our age.’

  ‘Tell me about it. You think it was the eighth or ninth shot that did it?’

  ‘Probably the one after I stopped counting. So you figured out your plan yet?’

  ‘Not much. Bishop’s daughter.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘He give you a name?’

  ‘Megan. I think he said Megan.’ Hunter bit into his toast, hoping the fibre would soak up some of the stomach acid wreaking havoc on his benign ulcer. ‘You look like shit buddy. You should think about taking it easy. I’ll get you those towels.’

  ‘Appreciate it.’

  Hunter finished his coffee and toast. Being a houseguest he resisted the temptation to doze back into a morning nap, not wishing to outstay his welcome. He headed for the small downstairs shower room where Bob had left a pile of fluffy white towels and a complimentary vanity kit from an airline’s business class. Something most world travellers seemed to acquire so many of they had a sizeable collection. Hunter tried to get some hot water out of the shower, but at best only managed a tepid stream from the old fittings. Unlike the rest of the Americanised renovation of the upper floors, with the exception of the kitchen, not much attention had been paid to what had been the former servants quarters, and so they remained much as they had done since before Notting Hill become a fashionable enough postcode to warrant rip out and replace expensive Gaggenau and Villeroy & Boch makeovers. Hunter didn’t linger in the shower, just enough to scrub the night sweat off before the chilly air and cold water become too much and he sought some warmth from the fluffy bath towels. A quick shave and brush up before dressing then Hunter made his way into the kitchen where Bob was sat at the large central island unit reading the Wall Street Journal whilst consuming a granola breakfast and de-tox smoothie. As Hunter arrived Bob got up and poured him a fresh coffee from the pot then handed it over to him. ‘Get you anything else? No bacon or anything that resembles carbs. She doesn’t approve of culinary toxification.’

  ‘You better burn the evidence then,’ Hunter said nodding at the bin full of takeaway cartons and empty beer bottles. Bob nodded. ‘Listen, I’m gonna take care of a few things round town. I might hit you up later to set up that meet.’

  ‘Sure. You know where to find me.’

  ‘Appreciate the hospitality Bob.’

  ‘What are friends for?’

  Hunter downed his coffee. ‘Catch ya later champ. I’ll see myself out.’ Hunter made his way out down the corridor to the basement front door. He struggled with the rusty lock then emerged out into the chilled autumn morning, pulling his coat up before heading up to the street. He reached the top of the narrow stone steps, and as he turned to the street he stopped in his tracks.

  What was waiting shouldn’t have come as a surprise, so perhaps it didn’t. Hunter was maybe cynical enough, or just realistic through bitter experience, that friendship was a very ill defined concept in the world he operated in, and loyalty was even more fluid in context. Hunter stared with the
resignation of a cornered fox, every option already played out, but a knowing realisation he was just too damn old for heroics. They were half his age and armed. The single black Chevy Tahoe with a pair of black BMW 5-Series in a line parked in front of Bob’s house. No less than eight operatives blocking both pavements as they waited patiently. Hunter looked at them in turn and nodded acceptance to them. He turned, Bob stood in the large bay window watching the scene on his doorstep from behind the comfort of his castle walls. As Hunter stared at him, Bob just casually put his hands in his pockets, maybe a little discomfort felt. ‘Fuck you too Bob,’ Hunter muttered. No point in making an emotional scene. It wasn’t like Hunter hadn’t played the role of Judas so adeptly to others. Bob was doing what Bob did. What they all did. Playing the game by the accepted rules. Hunter sighed a little, a younger Hunter may have been angry, put up a show of force, but not now. Why give Bob the satisfaction that he’d done the right thing?

  Fighting implied some sort of guilt.

  Hunter put his hands in his pockets and walked casually to the Tahoe, one of the C.I.A operatives opened the rear door and Hunter slid inside before the door was shut firmly behind him. ‘Sloppy. You losing your touch in your old age?’ the rear occupant asked.

  ‘I thought he was out...’

  ‘You should know better. Nobody is ever out.’

  Hunter looked across at the rear passenger. Jack Warner. C.I.A London Station Chief. ‘So what am I in for?’

  ‘If you wanted to be dead Hunter, you should have stayed dead. I hear you’ve been digging around asking about Bishop.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Langley wants to talk to you.’

  ‘They think I’m dirty?’

  ‘They don’t know what to think. What you up to Hunter? You’re a career Agency guy. Why fuck it all up now? You’re a goddamn legend.’

  ‘You know Zara Scott?’

  ‘Yeah sure, I know Zara.’

  ‘She’s been taken. Out in Pak.’

  ‘A.Q?’

  Hunter shook his head. ‘Someone on our side.’

  ‘You know she’s wanted alongside Bishop by the F.B.I?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So maybe you got distracted by the prettiness and got played. You consider that maybe she didn’t get grabbed? That she’s gone to ground?’

  ‘And did you consider she’s being framed?’

  ‘You got any proof?’

  ‘Bishop has.’

  ‘Well, Bishop is hiding in the long grass. They say they took one-twenty million. If you’re wrong, you’ve burned your career for nothing.’

  ‘And if I’m right...they took her on my watch.’

  ‘Let the Brits deal with it.’

  ‘They doing anything?’

  ‘Not that I’ve heard.’

  ‘So there you go. I’m all she’s got. Well not quite all, but we don’t want to go there...not yet.’

  ‘Listen buddy. Off the record as your friend...’

  ‘Like your little Judas in there is my friend?’

  ‘He’s looking out for you. It’s better we bring you in than someone who doesn’t respect what you’ve done for our country.’

  ‘Okay. So what’s the deal here?’

  ‘Go to Langley. Straighten things out with the Deputy Director. You got your ass bombed. Concussion...you know, not thinking straight. You went a little sideways off the reservation for a while, but no harm no foul.’

  ‘And then...?

  ‘Take medical. Ride a desk to get your pension. After everything you’ve done, you’ve earned the corner office. Just take it. Call it a day.’

  ‘And what about Zara?’

  ‘She knows the game.’

  Hunter nodded. ‘Maybe you are right...’

  ‘You know I’m right.’

  ‘So how does this work?’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be unpleasant. I tell them you are co-operative; we put you on a plane to Langley. You debrief. Everyone’s happy.’

  ‘We’ve got to play the game, right?’

  ‘It’s for the best. For everyone.’ Hunter nodded reluctantly. He held out a hand and Jack shook it. ‘We’ll get you to Heathrow. Scheduled flight to Washington D.C. Can’t get you an Agency jet. Budget cuts, but I’ve got miles, I’ll get you upgraded.’

  ‘Appreciate that. One thing. Bob and I, you know how it is, old West Point boys catching up. We over did it last night; my ulcer’s giving me hell. I need to pick up some medication from my doc before I get on the flight. The cabin pressure will give it hell if I don’t get something.’

  ‘Where’s your doctor?’

  ‘He’ll be taking breakfast. Beirut Cafe up on Edgware Road.’

  ‘He’s an Arab?’

  ‘One of ours. I don’t trust these socialist N.H.S butchers. I’d be better off with worming tablets from a vet. He’s private and discrete.’

  ‘Sure. We can stop off on the way.’ Jack leaned forward. ‘Beirut Cafe, Edgware Road.’

  ‘Thanks. Been giving me hell.’

  ‘You should get that seen to. Could be the big C...’

  ‘Here’s hoping...’

  ‘You look like shit. Here, have some water. Don’t puke on the carpet. It’s just been valeted.’

  ‘I’ll try my best...’

  The Agency convoy threaded through the early-morning rush-hour traffic down to Edgware Road. They pulled up outside the Beirut Cafe. ‘I guess they don’t do bacon rolls in there huh?’ Jack said with a sigh.

  ‘I’d kill for a cooked breakfast right now,’ Hunter replied.

  ‘That’ll really help that ulcer.’

  ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger right?’ Hunter got out. A pair of C.I.A operatives escorted him into the cafe, immediately drawing the suspicions of the ethnic owners. At the back of the cafe the lone occupant at a table lifted his clean-shaven head from behind the Arabic newspaper he was reading and stared at the arrivals at the door. Hunter gave him a nod of acknowledgement. The man gestured at the seat in front of him. Hunter walked down to the back; his two escorts took seats on bar stools at the counter and watched.

  ‘Morning Doc,’ Hunter said as he pulled out a chair.

  ‘You look very ill. I can see this is not a social call,’ the man, Bashir Al-Rahman, said subtly nodding at Hunter’s escorts. ‘Tell me, what ailment is troubling you?’

  ‘I’m in a tight spot. I have a bad ulcer as you know, I had a little too much rich food and alcohol last night and it’s inflamed. I have a long flight to Washington D.C so I need something to deal with it, put me to sleep.’

  ‘Yes. So this pain you are suffering from, you want something temporary?’

  ‘Ideally. Long enough to get over this current situation so I can get some better treatment. In Paris from that specialist you recommended.’

  ‘Yes. I can see how he would be of help to you in the circumstances. Well, as you can see you have caught me at breakfast, I think I can prescribe something that meets your needs, but we would need to go to my surgery.’

  ‘I’d come back, but I’m at the mercy of someone else’s schedule.’

  ‘I understand. We better act swiftly before your situation deteriorates.’

  ‘My colleagues can drive us there.’ Bashir got up, followed by Hunter. Hunter led the way back to the waiting Tahoe, they both got in. ‘This is my guy. Doctor Al-Rahman. We need to go to his surgery so he can get me some medication.’

  ‘It is not far. Harley Street.’

  ‘Doctor,’ said Jack. He frowned briefly. ‘Have we met before? You look familiar.’

  ‘I was with the American hospital. It is possible I may have treated you.’

  ‘No, that wasn’t it...’ Jack stared briefly but couldn’t quite place the recollection. ‘We better get moving.’

  The convoy made its way to Harley Street; Bashir directed them to pull up outside a smart Georgian terrace building, plated outside as private consulting rooms.

  ‘I don’t wish to be rude, but you und
erstand your men have to stay outside. This is a medical situation.’

  Jack looked at Hunter suspiciously. ‘I’m not going anywhere, the pain I’m in I can barely walk let alone start jumping over fences being chased by those college kids you’ve got.’ Hunter exited from the back of the Tahoe, followed by Bashir. They went inside the building. Bashir checked they were well out of earshot of the C.I.A team. ‘What the hell is going on?’

  ‘I don’t have time to explain Bash, let’s just say I don’t want to get on that plane. This place good?’

  ‘Yes, it’s owned by my first cousin. He’s probably playing golf. What do you need?’

  ‘These guys will take some convincing. The ulcer, a decent bit of vomiting and blood should make a good show of it, mild cardiac arrest - possible light coma.’ They headed into the doctor’s treatment room. Bashir took out a key to a cupboard and unlocked it. ‘I can arrange all that, but you know, this could kill you Hunter. You are not in such good shape. It is tempting fate to try and simulate something you might already be on the road to.’

  ‘I’ll have to take that risk.’

  ‘What else do you need?’

  ‘I’ll need an out to Paris.’

  ‘I can arrange that.’

  ‘Set up a meet with Vincent. I need to meet with The Frenchman, but I can’t afford his fees so I need a favour.’

  ‘You want to tell me what you are involved in?’

  ‘I need to help my only friend. I guess I got sentimental in my old age.’

  ‘Don’t we all? Here. This should do it.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Fifteen...twenty minutes.’

  Bashir handed Hunter a cocktail of tablets. Hunter shrugged. ‘Fuck it.’ He took all the tablets and swallowed them with a glass of water from next to the sink. Bashir handed him a box of ulcer medication.

  ‘Here, you better take these so it does not look suspicious. I’ll take care of everything.’

  ‘Thanks Bashir.’

  ‘You have more than one friend...’