by Rob Sinclair
Ashford slammed shut the laptop lid. He squinted at the sudden brightness; the white light from the overhead fitting was a shock to his senses compared to the soft glow of the table lamp he’d had on. Ashford caught Nicole’s eye and her smile disappeared in a instant.
‘What’s wrong?’ Nicole moved forward into the room. Her hair was wet and hanging loose. She wore a thick, light pink bathrobe.
‘Nothing. You just surprised me.’
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
If only you knew, Ashford thought.
‘You’re still working?’ she asked.
‘Just checking emails.’
Nicole didn’t look convinced, but one of the things he loved about her was that she had a good sense of when not to pry.
‘Come on, it’s late,’ she said. ‘Come to bed.’
Ashford felt himself slump a little. He saw the look on Nicole’s face. He knew what she wanted. He wanted it to, particularly given his lacklustre attempt at sex with Caroline earlier. But his mind couldn’t let go of what he’d just seen. More than that, he was getting tired. Not just of the day but of living what he felt were two different lives. Or was it three? The family man, the Congressman, and... what was the third?
He didn't know how to describe that third man – the one who’d always been willing to bend and break rules for the benefit of himself and his family, but who was now getting sucked deeper and deeper into a deadly game. That third man didn’t sit easily alongside the first two, yet in many ways it was the true Douglas Ashford, he knew.
‘Okay, give me five minutes.’ Ashford tried to give Nicole a genuine smile, but the look on her face suggested she didn’t believe it.
‘Sure,’ she said, before turning and padding out of sight.
Five minutes turned into more than twenty as Ashford sat and did nothing but stare into space. He finally snapped himself out of it, checked his watch, and headed for the bedroom. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The room was tidy and smelled sweet – Nicole’s moisturisers. Her bedside lamp was on, casting a warm glow over her face as she lay on her side under the sheets. Her eyes were open.
‘Sorry,’ Ashford said.
‘I nearly fell asleep waiting.’ Nicole didn’t move.
‘I’ll just get ready.’ Ashford quietly moved through to the en-suite bathroom.
He brushed his teeth, flossed, then washed his face, all without looking at himself in the mirror. He didn’t want to see his face. Some sort of coping mechanism, he guessed. Though it wasn’t really working.
When he was finished, Ashford stripped down to his boxers and slid into the bed beside his wife. Nicole stared into his eyes and neither of them said a word. Ashford thought about Caroline, about how that morning he’d been having sex with her in the city apartment. He didn’t love Caroline, he loved his wife, yet he felt no guilt when he looked into his wife’s eyes. Caroline was a necessity to him.
At least she had been.
Nicole reached forward and planted her lips onto his. Ashford reached his hand under the duvet and his fingers glided along her side, down to the bottom of her nighty. He reached underneath and squeezed her soft skin. Nicole murmured and pulled back for a second to gaze into his eyes before returning for a longer, slower kiss. Her hands roamed under the covers and toward Ashford’s groin.
Ashford tried. He really did. He wanted his wife. He wanted to screw her hard, for her to shout out his name and for her to climax and for them to fall back onto the sheets out of breath, skin clammy from exertion. They still had great sex, on the rare occasions they managed it.
But every time Ashford shut his eyes – even just to blink – all he could see were the gory images he’d just watched on his computer. The look on the young woman’s face – a look that only a person who knows their certain and horrible death is coming can give; it was a look that, once seen, never leaves you.
No. Ashford couldn’t carry on. He couldn’t have sex with his wife with her face going through his mind.
Ashford pulled back. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Honey, what’s–’
Nicole didn’t finish her sentence. Or maybe she did but Ashford didn't hear her, or didn’t process her words, as he shot up from the bed and raced for the bathroom.
Seconds later, he was hunched over the toilet bowl, heaving up his stomach contents, as the flashes of the bloodied chainsaw and three headless Americans bored into his mind.
14
Mexico City, Mexico
The rest of Ryker’s second day in Santa Martha passed by without any further surprises. Was that fact a surprise in itself? The day’s trip to the yard hadn’t turned into a gladiatorial bout like the previous day. Apparently no-holds-barred bare knuckle fighting and the wagering that went with it wasn’t a daily occurrence. Instead, the inmates had moved off into various splinter groups for the duration of the time in the yard. Ryker had sat alone, minding his own business, always on alert for another attack which he believed would be coming his way eventually.
Ryker was already accustomed to the routines; the various meal times, yard time. He’d eaten every last mouthful of the slops that had been brought out to him and the other inmates on the rickety trolleys with squeaky wheels. Room service, Benito had joked. Quite what Ryker was eating he didn’t know; some combination of meat, rice, and beans. Whatever it was, he ate it. Food was sustenance and he didn’t care what it looked or tasted like. He just wanted to keep up his strength for whatever was to come.
Despite the lack of excitement during the day, Ryker could feel a bubbling tension in the atmosphere following his meeting with Lozano. It was only a matter of time before something gave.
Early the next morning, the day played out in an almost identical fashion. Before the breakfast trolleys had arrived, two guards – not the same two from the previous day – came to the cell and shepherded Ryker out of the main prison population and through the corridors to the interview room.
Once again, Eleanor Willoughby was there waiting for Ryker. Once again she looked pretty, wearing tight-fitting trousers and a cream blouse through which he could see the outline of lace. Were her looks, her clothes, a deliberate attempt to try to trip him up, to make him trust her more than he’d trust some non-distinctive suited man? Possibly. Regardless, compared to the ugly mugs in the cell block that Ryker had for company, Willoughby was a welcome sight, even if he wasn’t sure why she’d bothered to return.
With the door shut behind him, Ryker took a seat opposite Willoughby without waiting for an invitation.
‘Hello again,’ he said.
‘Good morning.’
‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘Are you mocking me?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Actually I didn’t ask to come here. I have a very busy schedule. But my manager insisted. He seems to think we need to help you even though you don’t want to be helped.’
‘I never said I don’t want help. If you can get me out of here, then please do.’
‘Do you honestly think that’s something I’m capable of doing?’
‘I don’t know you very well. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.’
‘Okay, well, I’m telling you it isn’t. I can’t get you released from prison. That’s not my role.’
‘Then what can you do for me?’
Willoughby let out a frustrated sigh, but Ryker couldn’t care less if his tetchy attitude wasn’t what she wanted. It was him, not her, who was stuck in a Mexican jail – run by a madman – for a crime he didn’t commit. He felt like reminding her of that point, but in the end Willoughby spoke first.
‘We’ve had word from the Mexican prosecutor. You’re to be tried for murder.’
‘I thought we established that yesterday.’
‘No. I told you yesterday that you had been arrested for murder. Events have moved on. You have now been formally charged and will be tried here in Mexico City.’
‘Progress,
eh?’
‘Actually I think it is. It’s not uncommon for people here to remain in prison for weeks, months, years, without formal charges being made. You're lucky.’
‘Yeah, I feel it.’
Willoughby shrugged as though saying, ‘Deal with it, not my problem.’
‘So what next. When’s the trial?’
‘That’s the thing, nobody knows. It’s not exactly a speedy justice system out here. Which is one of the reasons why my boss was so keen for me to come to see you again. To inform you of that. We don’t know how long you’ll be stuck in here before a trial, and I’m afraid there’s little we can do to help that process. I told you, we’re here to offer consular assistance, where we can. If you need help with representation, if you want us to contact family for you–’
‘I don’t have any family.’
Willoughby paused. ‘Okay, but–’
‘You rushed down here first thing in the morning just to tell me this?’
‘Are you always so crabby?’
‘Not always.’
‘Then why with me? I know it can’t be easy for you in here–’
‘Do you?’
‘Are they treating you okay?’
Ryker huffed. ‘What do you think? I’ve been to some shit holes in my time but this has to be one of the worst.’
‘Did something happen to you?’ Willoughby asked, her face showing genuine concern. At least it looked genuine enough to Ryker. ‘Has somebody hurt or threatened you? I can see the bruises.’
Ryker looked over at the two guards. They had their heads pointed straight ahead at the wall in front, but one of them was eyeballing Ryker.
Did these two speak English? Even if they didn’t, Ryker knew well enough to keep his mouth shut about Lozano. Vasquez too for that matter. For now at least.
‘If somebody is mistreating you in here,’ Willoughby said, ‘if there’s clear evidence of it, we can try to have you moved.’
‘To a five-star hotel?’
‘No.’
‘To be honest I think everybody is mistreated in this place. It’s a cesspit.’
‘Okay,’ Willoughby sat back in her seat. The brief look of concern had dissipated. She was agitated though. ‘I mean, I’m just saying. You let me know if something does happen.’
‘You’ll be the first to know. Oh, but how should I contact you? Phone? Email?’
Willoughby tutted.
‘Are we done?’ Ryker asked.
‘No. We’re not. You still haven’t told me your name. If you want my continued assistance, maybe you should.’
‘So we’re done then,’ Ryker said and he made to get to his feet.
‘No we are not,’ Willoughby said, her voice stern. She slammed a piece of paper down onto the table. ‘This came to me from the prosecutor’s office. It’s your official charge sheet.’
‘And?’
‘You understand Spanish, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay, then this section right here.’
Willoughby jabbed her finger onto the paper.
‘Name,’ Ryker said.
‘Yes. And it’s blank.’
‘What do you want me to say?’
‘Why is it so important for you to hide your identity? And why is it so hard for me, and for the Mexicans, by the looks of it, to find out who you are?’
‘You want me to evaluate your job performance now?’
‘No. I just want some answers.’
‘Ask the Mexicans. They’re the ones who put me here.’
‘I already did.’
‘And?’
‘And they said they couldn’t help me.’
‘Looks like you’re in the dark then.’
‘I guess so. But I don’t like being in the dark.’
‘Then get a nightlight.’
‘You’re not as cute or as funny as you think you are.’
‘Get to the point, Willoughby.’
Willoughby stopped and smiled. It was a knowing smile. ‘Do you know what I do for the Embassy?’
‘No.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. Because you don’t know a thing about me. And I’m not going to tell you, because it’s confidential and none of your damn business. I will tell you one thing, though; I’m good at what I do. I’m not just some dolled-up assistant.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Don’t tell me, you went to Oxford? No, Cambridge?’
Willoughby frowned. ‘I didn’t go to university actually.’
‘Me neither.’
‘And that wasn’t my point.’
‘Then what was it?’
‘I’ve been thinking about you a lot.’
Ryker winked at Willoughby and he thought he saw her fighting a smile.
‘I was thinking what could make a man like you–’
‘A man like me?’
‘You’re not exactly... I don't know. What I’m saying is, what would bring you, the man with no name, with no identity, to Mexico?’
‘Tequila and tortilla chips.’
‘Or espionage.’
The words hung in the air. For too long.
‘Undercover work, of some sort. Maybe official, maybe not.’
Ryker said nothing.
‘You claim you didn’t commit this crime. What if you’re right? What if you’re working for the British Government in secret, that’s why I can’t identify you? That’s why the Mexicans haven’t identified you, and maybe why they want to lock you away on the quiet. I have friends, you know, in some of the intelligence services. I’ve had them check your fingerprints, your description too. Nothing.’
‘Then what does that tell you?’
‘That I could be making more out of this than there really is. Or that maybe I’m not. Maybe the fact I’ve found out so little about you is for the reasons I’ve just outlined, and you being in Mexico, your identity, is all way above my pay grade.’
‘You’ve quite an imagination.’
‘I must have. It’s a bit of a mystery, isn’t it?’
‘Seems to be.’
‘So maybe you really are an English spy, and now you’ve wound up in a Mexican jail for a crime you didn’t commit. Perhaps you were working a case, perhaps you were here on holiday. I don’t know, but now you’re banged up and it doesn’t seem like anyone cares, or that anyone is coming for you. Except for me. I’m here. And I’m offering my help. If you tell me what you need me to do.’
Ryker thought about Willoughby’s words. Tell me what you need me to do.
It wouldn’t be difficult.
My name’s James Ryker. Call Peter Winter. Tell him to come and get me.
Ryker could even give her the number to call.
But he wouldn’t do that. Not yet. He couldn’t trust Willoughby just like that. He had no way of even knowing if she was who she said she was.
‘It’s a great story, Willoughby,’ Ryker said. ‘I’m sure thinking about secret spies and conspiracies brightens up your otherwise dull days at the Embassy.’ Ryker got to his feet. He turned and headed for the door.
He indicated to the guard, who looked to Willoughby for confirmation before he moved to the door.
‘So you don't want my help?’ she said.
Ryker turned his head to face her. ‘Believe me, you’ve already helped me more than you know.’
15
Ryker’s parting comment to Willoughby hadn’t just been casual flippancy, he’d fully meant the words. You’ve already helped me more than you know.
Ryker still didn’t fully understand who Willoughby was, what her job was. She claimed she was from the Foreign and Commonwealth Office – part of the British Government. That she was more than just a dolled-up assistant. Ryker had always assumed she was more than that anyway. But what was she?
Most likely Willoughby was some sort of liaison. Maybe with a legal or political background, maybe not. She could also be an analyst of some sorts; security, political.
There was also the chance though th
at she was a spook. An intelligence agent. Was that the best option from Ryker’s point of view? Possibly. But the world of espionage and spies was so large and so diverse that even if she was a spook, it would be hard to gauge her true intentions. Plus it wouldn’t, on its own, mean that she had the knowledge or wherewithal to help Ryker get out of jail. For starters even most intelligence agents knew nothing of the existence of Ryker’s old outfit, the JIA.
All that said, and the reason for Ryker’s words to Willoughby, were because Ryker did know one thing: Willoughby’s digging into Ryker’s identity, sending his description and his fingerprints off in every direction – including to the mainstream intelligence services, she claimed – would sooner or later trip an alert with the JIA. And if Winter got word that Ryker was holed up in a Mexican jail, Ryker could only hope and pray that his old boss would take action.
Yet the stark reality was that Ryker had been imprisoned before, while working for the JIA, and he hadn’t always been rescued. He had to at least carry hope though. Without hope, he may as well slit his wrists and be done with it.
Ryker’s mind was still swimming with thoughts as he was marched back toward the stinking cell block. Only when the festering smell caught his nose as he walked into the open corridor, the crammed cells to his left, did he spring back to reality.
With the two guards flanking him, Ryker began the slow trudge toward his cell.
He never got there.
Ryker was adjacent to El Jefe’s cell when it happened. The two guards grasped Ryker’s arms, twisting his limbs against his back so his hands were up toward his shoulders. As Ryker bucked against the hold, the guards heaved him off his feet and pulled him into Lozano’s cell. Ryker fought and squirmed but the only way out of the hold was if he wanted a dislocated elbow or shoulder.
Inside the cell, El Jefe and three of his men were standing in wait. A guard kicked out Ryker’s legs and pushed him down onto his knees. Another thick arm wrapped around his neck, squeezing hard, making Ryker splutter and choke. Three men were now pinning him in place.
Lozano stood over Ryker, staring at him with a half-smile.
