by Andy McNab
Their trouble was, they didn't actually do anything. They didn't take her to the park or on outings; they just kind of sat there expecting her to draw pictures and drink cups of tea.
Jimmy was wearing cream flannels and a beige anorak; Carmen wore clothes from the sort of catalog that had Judith Chalmers on the cover.
Jimmy's face seemed to have no features whatsoever; he looked as if he'd been designed in a wind tunnel. Kev must have got his dark skin and eyes from his mother, who still looked attractive, even if she did believe people really thought her jet-black hair was natural.
The pair of them were busy fussing all over Kelly, asking her what she'd done as they walked toward me. I got in there first, flicking my eyes between them as I spoke.
"Jim, Carmen, how are things?" And before they could debrief me on the road conditions and the exact route they'd taken I got straight down to it.
"Look, I'm sorry about this, but I've got to go. You sure you're OK for the rest of the weekend?"
They were both very happy. It was like Christmas again, except that that time it had been Heathrow and Kelly had had to be picked up four days early. They never understood why someone so erratic had been chosen as her guardian; they didn't even know me and I was clearly not suited to the task. I bet they had me down as one of Kev's wife's friends. They never did like Marsha. When they weren't blaming me for their son's murder, they were probably blaming her, not that she was around to answer back.
Carmen busied herself doing up the top button of Kelly's shirt and tucking the whole thing back into her jeans. You can't take any chances, the drafts you get in airports.
I made sure they saw me take a quick look at my watch. I had loads of time, but it didn't mean I wanted to stay.
"I've really got to go now. Kelly, give us a hug and a kiss."
She wrapped her arms around me and I bent at the waist so we could kiss. Carmen hated that, because Kelly didn't show them the same sort of sustained affection. She did with them only what she knew was expected, and I had to admit that made me feel good.
I looked her in the eye and mimed a phone call with my hand.
"I
promise."
She raised an eyebrow and gave me a withering look.
"Is that a Nick promise?" she said quietly, so that only I could hear it. I suddenly saw about twenty years into the future; she was going to grow up into the sort of woman who could light a fire just by looking at it.
"No," I said, equally quietly, "it's an NPP."
"What's that?"
"Normal person's promise."
She liked that one and nodded.
I knew I'd dropped myself in the shit even more, just as my parents had done with me. By now it was almost unbearable. Carmen and Jimmy were uncomfortable with our private intimacy, and I really didn't know how to behave in these situations. I was feeling more guilty than ever. I just wanted to leave.
The look on Kelly's face made me remember my thirteenth birthday.
My parents didn't. They made up for it by running to the corner shop and buying a board game in the shape of a robot for seventy-five pence. The reason I knew that was because it wasn't even wrapped up, just in a bag with the price tag still on. I knew how it felt to be let down by the ones who are supposed to love you most.
I whispered in her ear, "I've got to go."
As I stood up, Carmen's nod told me I should have left ten minutes ago.
She said, "We'll be hearing from you, then?" in that special way of hers that suggested she wouldn't exactly be holding her breath.
"Of course we will. Granny," Kelly said.
"When Nick makes a promise he always keeps it." She might be lying through her teeth, but she knew when to back me up.
I grinned.
"Yeah, something like that. Bye now."
Jimmy smiled weakly. I couldn't tell if he was happy or just had wind. I couldn't remember the last time I'd heard him speak.
Carmen decided it was time for Kelly to cut from me.
"Oh, that's nice, you've got a record, have you?" she said.
"Who's it by?"
"All Saints."
"Oh, they're good, aren't they? My favorite is the ginger one with the Union Jack dress."
"That's the Spice Girls."
"Oh, is it?" Carmen glared at me as if it was my fault, then rounded on Jimmy.
"Grandad doesn't like any of them; he doesn't go for all that piercing."
Kelly looked at me and rolled her eyes. As the look changed to one of desperation, I turned on my heel and walked away.
made as if to go back to the car park, but instead jumped onto the transit train that would take me to the South Terminal. I kept thinking about the fuckup and how Kelly must be feeling, but I would have to cut from that soon. I decided to use the two-minute journey to sort out my guilt, then bung the work cassette into the back of my head before I got off the train.
The shuttle was full of all the usual airport suspects: young couples in matching football shirts, him with a team holdall, her with copies of Hello! magazine and word search puzzle books; and businessmen in suits, carrying briefcases and laptops and looking in dire need of The Little Book of Calm.
I walked into the South Terminal, following the signs to the short-term car park, and took the elevator to the top floor. I was in work mode now;
everything else had been put to one side in another compartment.
The exposed roof level was about three-quarters full. The deafening sound of aircraft taking off blanketed all the other noises of cars and clattering luggage trolleys. I half closed my eyes to protect them from the glare of sunlight as I started walking down the aisles.
In a row of wagons, down the middle, I spotted what I'd been told to look for: a Toyota Previa people carrier, dark blue with tinted windows.
Maybe the Firm had found a use for the ones brought back from Syria after all; it wasn't as if Hertz would have been too happy to have them back.
I went to the rear of the row of vehicles and started to follow the line of cars toward it.
Since the change of government in 1997, every department seemed to be using people carriers. I didn't know if it was policy or just that Tony Blair used one, but they were a great improvement--much more room for a briefing, instead of sitting hunched up in the back of a sedan with your knees around your head. Besides, they were easy to find in a hurry.
As I got closer I spotted a driver in the front seat, filling up the right hand side of the cab area, reading the Evening Standard and looking uncomfortable in his collar and tie. None of the windows was open. The size of his head and his flat-top haircut made it look as if it should have been sticking out of the turret of a Panzer.
I approached casually from the rear, checking the number plate. I couldn't exactly remember the full registration but I knew that it would be a P. The thing I was looking for was the VDM, and sure enough, above the Toyota sign, on the bottom left side of the tail, was the small chrome outline of a fish, the trademark of heavy-duty Christians. This was the one; I went up to the sliding door on the side and waited, listening to the engine purr.
The door opened out a few inches, then slid back to reveal the two rows of passenger seats. I looked inside.
I hadn't seen Colonel Lynn for nearly a year, but he hadn't changed much. He hadn't lost any more hair, which I was sure he was happy about.
His clothes were the same as always, mustard-colored corduroy trousers, a sports jacket with well-worn leather elbows, and what looked like the same Viyella shirt he'd been wearing the last time we'd met, just a bit more frayed around the collar.
I climbed in and slid the door closed behind me. I could feel the air conditioning working overtime as I took my seat next to him and we shook hands. Lynn had that fresh-from-the-shower officer's smell about him; maybe he'd taken in a quick game of squash at the Guards' barracks in Chelsea before coming to the meeting. Between his feet was a dark blue nylon day sack which I recognized. It was my quick-mov
e kit.
There was somebody else in there, in the rear row of seats, whom I also recognized. I turned and nodded politely at her. She returned the gesture, refolding her copy of the Daily Telegraph. It was only the second time that I'd met Elizabeth Bamber in person. Last time hadn't gone too well; she was on the selection board that refused me permanent cadre. It seemed that our cultural differences didn't endear us to each other during the interview.
Permanent cadre are Ks deniable operators on a salaried retainer not freelancers like me, called on to carry out shit jobs that no one else wants. The pay I got was 210 a day for ops, 160 for training days. I wasn't too sure what the retainer was, but I knew that, like all other payments, it would be handed over in a brown envelope with no tax or national insurance to pay. It was a bit like casual labor, which made me feel used and fucked over, but I liked the money what there was of it. In any case, it was the only line of work I'd ever known, and I was more afraid of what I would become without it.
I didn't know exactly what Elizabeth did, or for whom; all I knew was that she was one of those women who, if they weren't working for the Intelligence Service, would probably own a stable full of racehorses. She probably did anyway. She had that sort of broken-veined, no-nonsense, out-in-the-fresh-air look about her. She was medium height and in her late forties or at least looked it, especially with her shoulder-length hair, which was 60 percent gray, with a center parting and a little fringe, though I doubted she gave much of a fuck about it. In fact, having hair was probably a bit of an inconvenience for someone like her, because it took valuable time to comb the stuff.
She was wearing a very smart, sensible, gray two-piece that looked as if it had cost a fortune; it would have been economical in the long run, however, because she probably wore it every third day, alternating it with the two other equally expensive outfits she bought every year in the Harvey Nichols sale. Under her jacket was a blouse with a long scarf attached that was tied into a bow. The smart but practical look was complemented by an almost total lack of makeup it probably took too long in the morning to put it on, and she couldn't be bothered with that: she had a country to protect.
I made a half turn back toward Lynn so that I had to move only my head to see each of them. There was silence for about half a minute, broken by the rustling of a newspaper in the front. I glanced to my left and saw the driver's huge neck sitting on a very wide back and slightly hanging over his collar. I could see part of his face in the rearview mirror; his pale skin and near-Slavic looks gave the game away: he was a Serb, no doubt promised passports for his entire family if he spied for us during the Bosnian war. This guy would now be more loyal to the U.K. than most Brits, myself included.
Still we just sat there. Elizabeth was looking at me; I was looking at her. Come on, I thought, let's get on with it. It always felt as if they were toying with me.
It was Lynn who kicked off.
"We haven't seen you for a long time, Nick. How's life?"
As if he cared.
"No complaints. How long am I going to be away?"
"It will depend on how quickly you can get the task done. Listen to what Elizabeth has to say."
Elizabeth was primed, ready to go; she didn't even have notes. She levelled her gaze on me, and said, "Sarah Greenwood." It was delivered more as a question than a statement, and her eyes narrowed slightly, as if she were expecting an answer.
My reaction when I heard the name surprised me. I felt as if I'd just been told I had a fatal disease. My hard drive was spinning. Was she dead? Had she fucked up? Had she got me in trouble? Had she been lifted? I wasn't going to show these people anything more than I had to; I tried to remain casual and unconcerned, but all I really wanted to do was ask, "Is she OK?"
She said, "You know her, I believe?"
"Of course I know her by that name anyway." I didn't say how I knew her name, or what jobs I'd done with her. I didn't know how much Elizabeth knew, so I just played it straight, which is always the best thing to do.
In my experience, the less you say, the less drama you get yourself into.
It's good having two ears, but even better to have just one mouth.
"Well, it seems that she has disappeared and of her own accord."
I looked at her, waiting for the follow-on, but she let it hang. I didn't exactly know what she was getting at, yet she was looking at me as if I should know.
Lynn saw the problem.
"Let me explain, Nick."
As I turned my head toward Lynn, I caught him just finishing eye contact with Elizabeth. He was playing the peacemaker here.
He said, "Two years ago, Sarah Greenwood was posted to the Washington desk. You are aware of that?"
Of course I was. I always tried to keep tabs on where she was and how she was getting on, though I never kidded myself that the interest was mutual.
I'd half hoped that she'd make an appearance during my debrief over last year's fuckup in the States, but she didn't. I realized he was still waiting for an answer.
"No, not really."
There was a pause as Lynn glanced again at Elizabeth. It looked as if he needed the nod to continue; he must have got it, because he said, "Sarah has been U.K. liaison with the Counterterrorism Center, a new intelligence cell set up by the CIA to provide warnings against potential terrorist attacks. It's a central clearinghouse, if you like, for intelligence on terrorism worldwide. Here is the problem. As Elizabeth has already said, Sarah has disappeared we know she's still on the U.S. mainland, but we don't know where or why she has gone. We fear that her reliability and judgment are, how shall I say it, in doubt."
I couldn't help a smile. That was the standard ruck-off when what they were really saying was: "We don't like you anymore. You have done something wrong and you are no longer one of us."
Now it was time for Elizabeth to join in. She said, "Let's just say, since her posting in Washington she has been engaging in too many initiatives of her own."
Still looking at Lynn, I smiled again.
"Oh, I see too many initiatives."
I gave her word the full five syllables.
I hated it when they beat around the bush. Why didn't they just get on with it and tell me what the fuck was happening and what they wanted me to do about it? Before I could get an answer we were interrupted by the arrival of some punters.
"Oil You're not on holiday now; give a hand with these sodding bags!"
"All right, don't get out yer bleedin' pram!"
Everything stopped as we all looked over to the driver's side of the wagon. I couldn't see Lynn's face, but Elizabeth's registered disgust. Two couples were standing by a Ford Escort XR3i. While we'd been waffling away they'd turned up, opened the trunk and were loading their luggage.
One young couple, both in their mid-twenties, had come to pick up the other one. The girl back from holiday was wearing white cut-down jeans with half her ass hanging out to show us how brown she was, but the effect was spoiled a bit by all the exposed skin being goose bumped, what with this being Gatwick rather than Tenerife. Just in case we didn't get the message that she'd been away, her bottled blond hair was in beads where it had been braided by a beach hustler.
Our man in the driving seat was keeping an eye on them continuously, still with the paper up, still on the same page, the skin of his massive neck hanging over his collar even more as he looked right in his wing mirror checking everything out. These boys had to be jacks of all trades, offensive and defensive drivers, as well as bodyguards to protect their "principals" and great joke-tellers to entertain them. Maybe that was why the Serb worked for Elizabeth. She wasn't the sort of person who understood jokes, and judging by the Serb's expression as he tried to follow the estuary English outside, he wasn't up to speed on banter either. I just hoped he wasn't learning his English from these two in the wagon people would think that Prince Charles had been hitting the gym.
The entertainment was over. We all turned back to our original positions and Elizabeth car
ried on, physically affected by what she had just seen. Her breed found such people a terrible stain on their ordered lives.
"We are concerned that there might be a conflict about the ethics of her employment."
I tried not to laugh.
"Ethics? That's not Sarah. She's got ethics filed under "Things to worry about when I'm dead."" I risked a chuckle, but either Elizabeth didn't understand, or she got the joke and didn't like it.
The atmosphere felt so frosty I wondered if the Serb had adjusted the air conditioning. I was slowly welcoming myself out of this wagon.
Elizabeth continued as if I still hadn't spoken.
"We feel that this could expose current operations and put operators' lives in very real danger."
That stopped me smiling.
"How do you know Sarah might be putting operations at risk?"
"That," she said, "you don't need to know." I could see she'd enjoyed saying that.
"However, let me give you an example of the problem we face. The information that Sarah Greenwood retrieved from Syria I understand that you were part of that operation? that material delivered to us was in fact incorrect. It would appear that she quite deliberately distorted information she knew was important to us and the Americans."
So they had wanted what was on the computers after all. And, as usual, I had been one of their mushrooms, kept in the dark and fed on shit.
She was on a roll now.
"It was most unfortunate that the Source was killed--after all, that was your task: to bring him back. We still don't know what intelligence the Syrian operation would have revealed-because you destroyed the computers on site, I believe."
She made it sound as if I'd done all that on some kind of whim. I let her carry on, but inwardly I was ready to punch her lights out.
"The Americans were not pleased with our efforts, and I have to say, it was hardly one of our finest hours."
I wasn't going to let her rev me up even more. For years we'd done jobs for the U.S. that Congress would never sanction, or that were against the 1974 executive order prohibiting U.S. involvement in assassination.
