Firewall

by Andy McNab

  Then I picked her up in my arms and held her tight as I carried her into the kitchen. She was trembling so much I couldn't tell if her head was nodding or shaking. A few minutes later, when we drove away from the house, she was almost rigid with shock. And that was it, that was the stillness I saw now.

  The doctor's mouth came up close to my ear. "Kelly has been forced to learn early lessons about loss and death, Mr. Stone. How does a seven-year-old, as she was then, understand murder? A child who witnesses violence has been shown that the world is a dangerous and unpredictable place. She has told me that she doesn't think she'll ever feel safe outside again. It's nobody's fault, but her experience has made her think the adults in her life are unable to protect her.

  She believes she must take on the responsibility herself-a prospect that causes her great anxiety."

  I looked at the frozen girl once more. "Is there nothing I can do?"

  The doctor nodded slowly as she replaced the curtain and turned to head back up the hallway. As we walked she said, "In time, we need to help her gently examine and review the traumatic events that happened to her, and learn to conquer her feelings of anxiety. Her treatment will eventually involve what are best described as "talking therapies," by herself or in groups, but she's not really ready for that yet. I will need to keep her on antidepressant medication and mild tranquilizers for a while yet, to help lessen some of the more painful symptoms.

  "The aim eventually will be to help Kelly remember the traumatic events safely, and to address her family life, peer relationships, and school performance. Generally we need to help her deal with all the emotions she's having trouble making sense of at the moment: grief, guilt, anger, depression, anxiety. You notice, Mr. Stone, I'm saying 'we'."

  We had reached her room and went back inside. I sat down again and she went to the other side of her desk.

  "Parents are usually the most important emotional protectors for their children, Mr. Stone. They can do a much better job of psychologically reassuring their children than professionals can. They can help them talk about their fears, reassure them that Mummy and Daddy will do whatever is possible to protect them, and stay close. Sadly that's not a possibility for Kelly, of course, but she still needs a responsible adult whom she can depend upon."

  I was beginning to understand. "Her grandmother, you mean?"

  I could have sworn I saw her shudder.

  "Not quite what I had in mind. You see, a major factor in any child's recovery from PTSD is that the prime caregiver must communicate a willingness to talk about the violence and be a nonjudgmental listener.

  Children need to know that it's permissible to talk about violence.

  Kelly needs permission, if you like, to talk about what happened to her. Sometimes caregivers may subtly discourage children from talking about violence in their lives for whatever reason, and this, I sense, is the case with Kelly's grandparents.

  "I think her grandmother feels hurt and discouraged that Kelly has lost interest in family activities and is easily angered and so detached.

  She finds it very upsetting to hear the details-maybe because she believes it will be less upsetting for Kelly if she doesn't talk about it. On the contrary, children often feel relieved and unburdened by sharing information with trusted adults. It also may be useful therapeutically for children to review events and air their fears by retelling the story. I don't mean that we should coerce Kelly into talking about what happened, but reassurance and validation once she has volunteered it will be immensely helpful to her recovery."

  She was beginning to lose me in all her psychobabble. I couldn't see what I had to do with all this.

  As if she'd read my mind, Dr. Hughes pursed her lips again and did her trick with the half-moon glasses. "What it all boils down to, Mr.

  Stone, is that Kelly is going to need a trusted adult alongside her during the recovery process, and in my view the ideal person to do that is you."

  She paused to let the implications of what she was saying sink in.

  "You see, she trusts you; she speaks of you with the utmost affection, seeing you as the nearest thing she has now to a father. What she needs, far more than just the attention and therapy we professionals can provide, is your acceptance of, and commitment to, that fact." She added pointedly, "Would you have difficulties with that, Mr. Stone?"

  "My employers might. I need "

  She held up her hand. "You have seen the cocoon in which Kelly has placed herself. There is no formula that guarantees breaking through when someone is out of reach. But whatever the cause is, a form of loving has to be there in the solution. What Kelly needs is a prince on a white horse to come and free her from the dragon. It is my view that she's decided not to come out until you are an integral part of her life again. I'm sorry to burden you with this responsibility, Mr.

  Stone, but Kelly is my patient, and it's her best interests that I must have at heart. For that reason, I didn't want her to see you today; I don't want her to build up hopes only to have them dashed. Please go away and think about it, but believe me, the sooner you are able to commit, the sooner Kelly's condition will start to improve. Until then, any sort of cure is on hold."

  I reached into my backpack and pulled out the framed photographs. It was the only thing I could think of. "I brought these for her. They're pictures of her family. Maybe they'll be some help."

  The doctor took them from me, still waiting for an answer. When she saw she wasn't going to get one not today, anyway she nodded quietly to herself and ushered me gently, but firmly, toward the door. "I'll be seeing her this afternoon. I'll telephone you later; I have the number. And now, I believe, you have an appointment with the people downstairs?"

  * * *

  10

  I was feeling pretty depressed as I headed east along the northern side of the Thames, toward the city center. Not just for Kelly, but for me.

  I forced myself to admit it: I hated the responsibility. And yet I had those promises to Kevin to live up to.

  I had enough problems looking after myself, without doctors telling me what I should be doing for other people. Being in charge of others in the field was fine. Having a man down in a contact was straightforward compared to this. You just got in there, dragged him out of the shit and plugged up his holes. Sometimes he lived, sometimes not. It was something I didn't have to think about. The man down always knew that someone would be coming for him; it helped him stay alive. But this was different. Kelly was my man down, but it wasn't just a question of plugging up holes; she didn't know whether help was on the way or not.

  Nor did I. I knew there was one thing I could do: make money to pay for her treatment. I'd be there for her, but later. Right now, I needed to keep busy and produce money. It had always been "later" for Kelly, whether it was a phone call or a birthday treat, but that was going to change. It had to.

  Working my way through the traffic, I eventually got onto the approach road to Vauxhall Bridge. As I crossed to the southern side, I looked up at Vauxhall Cross, home of SIS. A beige-and-black pyramid with the top cut off, flanked by large towers on either side, it needed just a few swirls of neon to look totally at home in Las Vegas.

  Directly opposite Vauxhall Cross, over the road and about one hundred yards away, was an elevated section of railway that led off to Waterloo Station. Most of the arches beneath had been converted into shops or warehouses. Passing the SIS building, I negotiated the five-way intersection and bumped the sidewalk, parking by two arches which had been knocked through to make a massive motorcycle shop-the one I'd bought my Ducati from. I wasn't going in today; it was just an easy place to park. Checking my saddle was secure so that no one could steal my Universal Self-Loading Pistol, I put my helmet in the backpack, crossed a couple of feeder roads and took the metal footbridge over the intersection, eventually entering the building via a single metal door that funneled me toward reception.

  The interior of the Firm looked much the same as any hightech office block: clean, sle
ek, and with an efficient corporate feel about it, with people swiping their identity cards through electronic readers to get access. I headed for the main reception desk, where two women sat behind thick bulletproof glass.

  "I'm here to see Mr. Lynn."

  "Can you fill this in please?" The older one passed a ledger through a slot under the glass.

  As I signed my name in two boxes she picked up a telephone. "Who shall I say is here?"

  "My name is Nick." I hadn't even had any cover documentation from them since my fuckup in Washington, just my own cover which I hoped they'd never know about. I'd organized it in case it was time to disappear, a feeling I had at least once a month.

  The ledger held tear-off labels. One half was torn away and put in a plastic sleeve, which I would have to pin on. Mine was blue and said, "Escorted Everywhere."

  The woman got off the phone and pointed to a row of soft chairs.

  "Someone will be with you soon."

  I sat and waited with my nice new badge on, watching suited men and women come and go. Dress-down Friday hadn't reached this far upriver yet. It wasn't often that people like me got to come here; my last visit had been in '97. I'd hated it that time, too. They managed to make you feel that, as a K, you weren't very welcome, turning up and spoiling the smart corporate image of the place.

  After about ten minutes of feeling as if I was waiting outside the headmaster's study, an old Asian guy in a natty blue pinstripe suit pushed his way through the barrier.

  "Nick?"

  I nodded and got to my feet.

  He half-smiled. "If you'd like to follow me." A swipe of the card that hung round his neck got him back through the barrier; I had to pass the metal detector before we met on the other side and walked to the elevators.

  "We're going to the fifth floor."

  I nodded and let the silence hang as we rode the elevator, not wanting to let him know that I knew. It saved on small talk.

  Once on the fifth I followed him. There was little noise coming from any of the offices along the hallway, just the hum of air conditioning and the creak of my feathers.

  At the far end we turned left, passing Lynn's old office. Someone called Turnbull had it now. Two doors down I saw Lynn's name on the door plate. My escort knocked and was met by the characteristically crisp and immediate call of "Come!" He ushered me past and I heard the door close gently behind me. Lynn's bald crown faced me as he wrote at his desk.

  He might have a new office, but it was quite clear he was a creature of habit. The interior was exactly the same as his last; exactly the same furniture and plain, functional, impersonal ambience. The only thing that showed he wasn't a mannequin planted here for decoration was the framed photograph of a group, which I presumed were his much younger wife and two children, sitting on a stretch of grass with the family Labrador. Two rolls of Christmas wrapping paper leaning against the wall behind him showed that he did have a life.

  Mounted on a wall bracket above me to the right was a TV, the screen showing CNN world news headlines. The only thing I couldn't see was the obligatory officer's squash racket and winter coat on a stand. They were probably behind me.

  I stood and waited for him to finish. Normally I would just have sat down and made myself at home, but today was different. There was what people like him tend to call an atmosphere, and I didn't want to annoy him any more than I needed to. We'd parted on less than good terms the last time we'd met.

  His fountain pen sounded unnaturally loud on the paper. My eyes moved to the window behind him, and I gazed over the Thames at the new apartment building being finished off on the north side of the bridge.

  "Take a seat. I'll be with you very soon."

  I did, on the same wooden chair I'd sat on three years ago, my leathers drowning the scratch of his writing as I bent down and placed my backpack on the floor. It was becoming increasingly obvious that this was going to be a short meeting, an interview without coffee, otherwise the Asian guy would have asked me if I took milk or cream before I'd gone in.

  I hadn't seen Lynn since the debrief after Washington in '98. Like his furniture, he hadn't changed. Nor had his clothes: the same mustard-colored corduroy trousers, sports jacket with well worn leather elbows, and flannel shirt. With his shiny dome still facing me, I could see that he hadn't lost any more hair, which I was sure Mrs. Lynn was very happy about. He really didn't have the ears to be a complete baldilocks.

  He finished writing and put aside what I could now see was a typed page of legal paper that looked as if a teacher had marked it. Looking up with a half-amused smile at my outfit, he brought his hands together, thumbs touching as he rested them on top of the desk. Since Washington, he'd treated me as if he was a bank manager and I was asking for a bigger overdraft, trying hard to be nice, but at the same time looking down on me with disdain. That, I didn't mind, as long as he didn't expect me to look up to him with reverence.

  "Wot can I do fer yer, Nick?" He was ribbing my accent, but in a sarcastic, not jovial way. He really didn't like me. My Washington fuckup had put the seal on that.

  I bit my lip. I had to be nice to him. He was the ticket to the money Kelly needed, and even though I had the sinking feeling that my be-nice routine wasn't going to work, I had to give it my best shot.

  "I really would like to know if I am ever going to get PC," I said.

  He settled back into his leather swivel chair and produced the other half of his smile. "You know, you are very lucky still to be at liberty, Nick. You already have a lot to be thankful for, and do bear in mind, your freedom is still not guaranteed."

  He was right, of course. I owed the Firm for the fact that I wasn't in some U.S. state penitentiary with a cellmate called Big Bubba who wanted to be my special friend. Even if it was more to do with saving themselves even more embarrassment than protecting me.

  "I do understand that, and I'm really grateful for all that you've done for me, Mr. Lynn. But I really need to know."

  Leaning forward, he studied the expression on my face. It must have been the "Mr. Lynn" bit that made him suspicious. He could smell my desperation.

  "After your total lack of judgment, do you really think you'd ever be considered for permanent cadre?" His face flushed. He was angry.

  "Think yourself lucky you're still on a retainer. Do you really think that you would be considered for work after you" his right index finger started to endorse the facts as he poked it at me, his voice getting louder "one, disobey my direct order to kill that damned woman; two, actually believe her preposterous story and assist her assassination attempt in the White House. God, man, your judgment was no better than a love struck schoolboy's. Do you really think a woman like that would be interested in you?" He couldn't contain himself. It was as if I'd touched a raw nerve. "And to cap it all, you used a member of the American Secret Service to get you in there who then gets shot! Do you realize the havoc you've caused, not only in the U.S. but here?

  Careers have been ruined because of you. The answer is no. Not now, not ever."

  Then I realized. This wasn't just about me, and it wasn't early retirement at the end of his tour next year to spend more time with his mushrooms; he had been canned. He'd been running the Ks at the time of the Sarah debacle, and someone had had to pay. People like Lynn could be replaced; people like me were more difficult to blow out, if only for financial reasons. The government had invested several million in my training as a Special Air Service soldier. They wanted to get their money's worth out of me. It must have killed him to know that I was the one who'd fucked up, but he was the one to carry the blame probably as part of the deal to appease the Americans. He sat back into his chair, realizing he had lost his usual control.

  "If not PC, when will I work?"

  He had gained a little more composure. "Nothing is going to happen until the new department head takes over. He will decide what to do with you."

  It was time for me to lose all pride. "Look, Mr. Lynn, I really need the money. Any shit job wil
l do. Send me anywhere. Anything you've got."

  "That child you look after. Is she still in care?"

  Shit, I hated it when they knew these things. It was pointless lying; he probably even knew down to the last penny how much money I needed.

  I nodded. "It's the clinic costs. She'll be there for a long time."

  I looked at his family portrait, then back at him. He had kids; he'd understand.

  He didn't even pause. "No. Now go. Remember, you are still being paid and you will conduct yourself accordingly."

  He pressed his buzzer and the Asian guy came to collect me so fast he must have been listening through the keyhole. At least I got to see the squash racket on the way out. It was leaning against the wall by the door.

  Taking a breath, I nearly turned back to tell him to ram his patronizing, hate-filled words up his ass. I had nothing to lose; what could he do to me now? Then I thought better of letting my mouth react to what I was thinking. This would be the last time I ever saw him, and I was sure it was the last time he ever wanted to see me. Once he'd gone it would be a new department head and maybe a new chance.

  Why burn my bridges? I'd get my own back later. I'd jump all over his mushrooms.

  I was still feeling philosophical about the meeting at 3A. If Val had been feeding me a crock of shit, well, there you go, at least I was on my turf rather than his. That was the way I wanted it to stay, so I'd tucked my Universal Self-Loading Pistol into my leathers before I left the bike shop, just in case.

  All the same, I knew I'd be really pissed if no one was at the flat with a little something for me, as long as it was wrapped in a big envelope and not a full metal jacket. I'd soon be finding out.

  The traffic in Kensington was at a standstill. At one set of lights the bike got wedged between a black cab and a woman in a Mere with very dyed, long blond hair, held off her face by Chanel sunglasses, even though it was the middle of winter. She tried to look casual as she chatted on her cell phone. The cabbie looked over at me and couldn't help himself from laughing.