by Matt Stark
“We don’t stock…”
“Okay, just the tourniquet and pressure bandages,” said Sam, repeating the simple instructions. Giving Sandip something to focus on.
“Right,” Sam continued, “now I’m going to let go of your wrist and you’re going to get the supplies for me – Yes?”
“Yes.”
Sam still had one hand on the Glock’s handle.
“And I’ll be watching. I can see everything from here.”
Sandip nodded, then turned and walked into the back room.
There was a basket of 1L bottles of Evian water by the counter that Sam hadn’t noticed before. Still keeping an eye on Sandip, Sam took one, flipped the lid open and gulped it down. He immediately felt a little better. He took another and drank half. Then he grabbed a couple of king-size Mars Bars, tore off the wrapping from one and took a giant bite out of it. He needed the glucose as well. He shoved the others in his pocket, still keeping an eye on Sandip and hoping he didn’t have another panic button in the storeroom.
He was just about to call when Sandip returned carrying a tourniquet and a pack of pressure bandages. The tourniquet didn’t look like much. Just a piece of fabric and a plastic locking device. He laid them on the counter.
Sam looked at him and pushed his lips up into a smile. “Thank you, Sandip.” He meant it.
As Sam leaned forward to take the supplies his vision blurred again, probably from the sudden movement. He slapped both hands on the counter to steady himself and gritted his teeth. As his vision began to brighten again the first thing he saw was Sandip’s outstretched hand reaching for the Glock sticking out of Sam’s jeans. Reflexively Sam batted Sandip’s hand away.
Sandip’s eyes met Sam’s. They were hard now. They looked at each other for what seemed like a very long moment. Then Sandip reached for the panic button Sam knew was under the counter. He’d pulled his hand away to go for the Glock so it took him a little longer to reach it. But not long enough.
Sam shouted “No!” but it was too late. Sandip had already pressed the alarm button.
Cursing, Sam scooped up his supplies and stumbled out of the shop.
Chapter 5
Suzie Chiltern put her phone back in her pocket and walked quickly down Euston Road, her mouth dry. She’d just got off the phone with Peter Stone. He’d rung Suzie to tell her they didn’t have Sam. Something had gone badly wrong with the exchange. Peter hadn’t known what, or more likely he hadn’t wanted to tell Suzie. All he’d say was the exchange had failed. And Sam had been spotted in Euston Station – hurt.
Suzie increased her pace. She’d been on her way home waiting for a connecting tube in St. Pancras Station when she got the call. It hadn’t been her choice. She’d wanted to be there when Sam came in but Peter had insisted she keep her distance. “Just until the dust settles.” She wished she’d told him to go fuck himself.
She was passing the British Library – almost there. Her mind was a flurry of questions. Had the Chinese double-crossed them? Or had Peter tried to double-cross the Chinese? She knew he was capable of it. The exchange should have happened in Regent’s Park, near the Chinese Embassy in Portland Place – she checked her watch – an hour ago. The UK government were to hand over three senior Chinese prisoners, members of the Ministry of State Security, in exchange for Sam. Suzie hadn’t been involved in the decision-making process, but she knew it would be a cold day in Hell before the Home Office would give up three such valuable assets. That meant someone with a lot of political clout had wanted Sam back very badly. But she wasn’t concerned about the British government at the moment. Sam’s Chinese escort were likely to be very pissed right now. Maybe they were responsible for Sam’s being hurt but whatever, they’d be after him now. She had to get to him first.
A few minutes later Suzie reached Euston Station. She stopped by the Costa Coffee stand outside and stopped dead. Sam was in the middle of the concourse leaning against a pillar. She hardly recognized him. He was older, thinner. But it wasn’t just the passage of time. He’d been badly hurt. She could see it from the sickly pallor of his skin and the sweat that covered his face. She wanted to run in, grab him and take him straight to the nearest A and E. But she had her orders. Peter had insisted on the Joint Intelligence Service clinic. “Security must not be compromised. Sam cannot go to a public hospital. We can’t take the risk.” Sometimes Peter could be an arrogant prick. She knew he had the best interest of the country at heart – but sometimes he forgot who made that possible. Suzie scanned Sam from top to bottom. She couldn’t see any sign of a gunshot injury, but that filthy duffel coat he was wearing could hide a lot.
She pushed through the glass doors onto the concourse. Peter had said Sam wouldn’t remember her. And she wasn’t to let on that she knew Sam, or that she knew he’d been hurt. He hadn’t bothered to explain what was wrong with Sam’s memory or why she had to deceive him. It was going to make her job twice as difficult, but then Peter never did believe in taking the easy road.
Seeing Sam stagger and almost fall, Suzie quickened her pace. Fuck Peter. If Sam was as badly hurt as he looked, she wasn’t going to stand by and do nothing. She’d get him to the closest hospital. She didn’t give a shit if it were run by the Firm or the NHS. She wasn’t going to watch Sam die.
***
Sam staggered from the chemist to the sound of the alarm ringing behind him. Sandip hadn’t followed. He had more sense than to chase a guy with a gun. And the commuters hanging around the concourse ignored the alarm. No one made eye contact with Sam. Either they thought it was some kind of test, they didn’t want to risk getting involved or they didn’t give a shit. Sam thought the last seemed most likely. He didn’t care as long as he was being left alone. He just had to get out of sight before the cops arrived.
That was if he could. He was exhausted. He felt like a ninety-year-old man. His thigh was aching and he felt dizzy. He seemed to be having trouble making his legs move. His feet were numb – and his heart was beating like a hammer in his chest. Suddenly he realized he might have brought this all on himself. What the fuck was he doing? He’d turned down treatment from professionals in a hospital with a modern trauma unit, for a temporary DIY patch-up, because a cop had looked at him funny. Maybe the cop had seen a guy on his last legs and just wanted to help. Even if Sam was top of the cop’s arrest list, he still would have been treated. He wouldn’t have bled to death, which seemed likely to happen now.
Sam shook his head, trying to clear the cotton-wool feeling he had. There was no point in beating himself up. He’d made his decision, and anyway he couldn’t think straight enough to make any sense of what he’d seen the cop do. He just needed to get this tourniquet on his leg. After all the effort he’d gone to that should be the easy part. But his thinking was so muddled right now, even that seemed complicated.
He shuffled along, clutching the plastic bag with the medical supplies, keeping his eyes on the ground. Even though everyone seemed to be taking no interest in him, he didn’t want to make eye contact and risk another altercation. He didn’t have the strength. His heart was still beating like a manic metronome, his left shoe squelching with blood.
It was no good. He was going to have to stop for a rest. When he did he took the opportunity to check his leg, pressing on his thigh. The instant he did pain exploded beneath his fingers, and warm blood seeped down his leg. Gasping, he pulled a bottle of Evian from his coat pocket, and gulped down half of it. It was all he could do to replace the blood he was losing.
Standing, swaying in the middle of the concourse, he tried to get his thoughts together. He had to get an effective tourniquet on his leg – stop the bleeding. After that he could regroup and decide what the hell to do. He’d seen a toilet sign up ahead. He could get some privacy in one of the cubicles. He’d sort himself out there and then take stock.
As he went to move off pain from his leg hit him again, taking his breath away. He stopped, bent over and rested his hands on his knees. After a long moment h
e straightened up and took another slug from the Evian, then moved off again. In the back of his mind a voice kept asking, What the hell is going on? How have I ended up here like this? Why can’t I remember? But Sam ignored it. If he wanted to survive he had to focus.
Sam felt someone barge into him, knocking him against one of the concrete pillars. He dropped his plastic bag on the floor, as a stab of pain shot from his thigh to his groin. He couldn’t stop the groan escaping from his mouth.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said a young female voice.
Sam hardly heard her. The pain was taking all his attention. He leaned against the pillar with one hand, head down, breathing hard through his nose. The ground was drifting in and out of focus. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
Sam pushed out a breath. The pain was beginning to ease, but from the wetness of his leg, he guessed the bleeding had increased. His heart was really racing now, trying to compensate for the blood loss. But his brain and muscles were already low on oxygen. As he continued to lose blood his heart would beat faster and faster, but without more blood in the system, it would be fighting a losing battle. The bottom line was, if Sam didn’t stop the bleeding soon it would be too late. He had to get away from this girl.
He turned around to face her, gritting his teeth. He had trouble keeping her face in focus. But he could see well enough to see she was staring at him intently. Her face, like her voice, was young – probably mid-twenties – framed with a blond bob. Right now it was full of concern. She still had her hand on his shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he replied, his voice hoarse.
The skin between her eyebrows wrinkled. But it made her look cute rather than cross.
"You don't look fine."
Sam forced his lips up into a wooden smile, knowing he was running out of time. He should just walk away but he didn’t seem to have the will to do it.
“Migraine. I’ll be okay in a minute, really.”
Taking a deep breath he went to turn away from the girl, but the sudden movement pulled his wound and sent a wave of dizziness through him. She caught him in a surprisingly strong grip. As she did his coat fell open, exposing his bloodied jeans.
Her jaw dropped. “Jesus. You’re bleeding.” There was alarm but not panic in her voice.
Sam looked down. The whole left leg of his jeans was red. The blood had even turned his white trainers a deep burgundy.
Shit. No wonder he could hardly move. The girl was still supporting him, one arm under his.
“I’m taking you to a hospital.”
He snapped his head up, somehow finding the strength now to push away from her.
“No.”
The frown between her eyes deepened and her eyes blazed for a moment. In different circumstances he would have found it attractive.
“I’m a nurse. If you don’t get to a hospital soon you’re going to die. You’ve already lost too much blood.”
Sam leaned on the girl. She smelled of cinnamon and soap.
“No,” he said, between breaths.
She leaned in close. He felt her hand on his, her voice in his ear.
“Look, if you’ve done something wrong it doesn’t matter. I don’t care. But if you don’t go to a hospital you will die.”
Sam ducked his head. She was right of course but he couldn’t risk it.
“Are you listening?” It was the girl, more insistent this time. He must have drifted off again.
She was right. He needed help. He couldn’t do this on his own. He had to trust someone otherwise he wasn’t going to make it.
“Okay,” he said huskily. “You can help me. But I’m not going to hospital.”
He saw her start to speak. He turned to face her. Her eyes were full of a blend of concern and anger. He spoke slowly.
“I can’t go to hospital. But if you help me to the toilet I can treat myself.”
He finished the Evian. He couldn’t keep replacing blood with water. He needed blood or at least saline. From a medical point of view he knew he should just let her take him to hospital – but his gut told him he couldn’t.
Her forehead creased even more deeply. “You’re crazy.”
Chapter 6
Sam let the girl help him across the still almost deserted concourse toward the toilet. He didn’t really have any choice. He would sort himself out, get some pressure bandages packed into the wound, put the new tourniquet on and rehydrate. Hopefully she’d be long gone when he got out. Then… well, he would work that out later. Halfway there Sam’s legs gave way. Suzie caught him before he fell face first onto the floor.
“That’s enough,” she said. “You need a hospital. You’re bleeding out.”
“No,” replied Sam between gritted teeth. He didn’t know why he couldn’t go to a hospital. Just that he couldn’t.
“Look, I’ll be fine,” he said, pushing himself away from her on unsteady legs. “I know what I’m doing. It’s not that bad. I’ll patch myself up – and if I do need a hospital I’ll go later, okay?”
He’d already begun to lurch away from Suzie.
“Hey,” she said, grabbing his arm. “That is very much not okay. You need a hospital, doctors, a trauma unit. “
Sam hardly heard her. She grabbed his arm, pulling him around to face her.
“If you don’t stop the bleeding you will die. And whatever you have in that bag,” she nodded at Sam’s plastic bag, “won’t stop it.”
Sam was so dizzy he didn’t have the strength to object anymore, and the logic of what she was saying was undeniable. He’d gone past the point where he could self-treat his gunshot wound. If he was honest he probably had long ago. Plus Deep Throat and his friends were still looking for him and couldn’t be far away. Despite his misgivings about going to hospital, which he still couldn’t explain, he had no choice. If he didn’t accept help he’d die. It was as simple as that.
He looked at the girl. “Okay, okay, you win.”
She smiled. “University College Hospital is a few hundred yards away. It would be quicker to walk than calling an ambulance. Can you manage that?”
Sam nodded, suddenly feeling even more exhausted now he’d accepted help. She helped him outside. Sam felt worse with every step. His head was swimming. His breath was coming in gasps and his leg ached like the toothache from hell. Without her support he’d have been on the floor. But it was okay because in less than five minutes he’d be getting medical treatment.
Sam felt a wave of gratitude towards this girl he’d only just met. Without her he’d be dead. As they hobbled through the glass entrance doors, toward the Costa stand, he stopped, and turned to her.
“Thank you. I know I took some convincing…”
“Don’t worry.”
“I don’t even know your name.
She smiled. “It’s Suzie.”
Bang!
The glass door behind Sam shattered. The girl’s grip on him loosened, and he felt himself losing balance, falling. She caught him again and together they stumbled behind the Costa Coffee stand.
A shout came from nearby.
“Give it up, Sam.” Sam recognized the deep throaty voice.
More shots were fired. Sam and the girl hunkered down behind the coffee stand. Every passing second Sam could feel his life draining away from him. Then there was a flurry of steps – more shots. Suzie spun around and fell to the ground. Sam just had time to turn and see a red stain covering the right side of her chest before he blacked out.
Chapter 7
8.30 a.m. Saturday, 31st January 2026; Peter Stone’s Office, Vauxhall Cross
Peter Stone poured himself a large whiskey, and sipped, wincing as he did. It was supposed to be twenty-year-old oak-aged whiskey from Tobermory, Scotland, but the rough taste in his mouth said different. He swilled the amber liquid around the bottom of the glass. He’d have to think about changing brands. But fuck it, he wasn’t
drinking it for the taste – not today anyway. He tipped his head back, throwing the whiskey down his throat so he wouldn’t have to taste it. Then he put the glass back on his desk, next to the half-empty bottle. No, today he only needed its medicinal effects. Because today would be a hard one. Peter had been working for Sam’s release for ten years. And his need for Sam had never been more acute, but there was one big problem. Sam had lost his fucking memory.
Peter looked through the state-of-the-art glass wall that divided his office from the rest of the floor. His was the only private office. The remainder of his staff had desks in a large open plan room. Right now half a dozen Joint Intelligence Service officers were bent over keyboards and screens. Peter flicked a switch under his desk and they disappeared, as the glass walls lining his office turned dull grey. He sighed. He preferred the small, stark, no-frills room in Thames House, where for the better part of his adult life he’d run MI5 operations. But, like everybody else, he’d had to move with the times.
Peter sat down in the green studded leather chair, a memento from his old office, and poured himself another whiskey. Things had changed a lot in recent years. It began with the military in 2011. Two-hundred-year old regiments disappeared overnight – merged. Police cuts followed soon after, and despite protests from Peter and the head of MI6 the Intelligence Services had their turn in 2018.
MI5 and MI6, the domestic and international elements of the intelligence service, were merged with the SAS to form a new organization called Joint Intelligence Services or JIS. Everything from grooming agents to sending in Special Forces to act on their intel was dealt with under one roof. They’d been restructured. That was when Peter had lost his familiar office in Thames House and moved to Vauxhall Cross, the old home of MI6. He’d been more surprised than anyone when the Home Secretary asked him to head up the new organization. But the restructuring had made the top job something of a poison chalice, and there were times over the next few years when Peter wished he’d said no.
