by Gordon Brown
*
‘What’s your name?’
I’m trying to engage Tombstone in conversation as he escorts me through the building. ‘Just your name. Come on – how can that hurt?’
‘Bo Peep.’
Funny guy.
The car pool turns out to be a high-walled compound with half dozen of the black SUVs parked, nose out, against one wall. Tombstone walks to the furthest, hits the remote and the lights flash. ‘Inside.’
I throw my bag over the back seat into the trunk and jump in. It can’t be much past seven but the heat is already a killer. I’m an open faucet of sweat. ‘Can you switch on the A/C?’
He ignores me and slams the door. My sweat is already pooling in the seat. There’s a clunk as the central locking kicks in. I flip the manual switch but the doors are deadlocked. I try the electric windows. Dead. I’m a fucking US citizen in a US building and I’m being treated like the lead from Most Wanted. Who in the hell are these guys? CIA but not CIA – something doesn’t add up.
The leather on the seats burns to the touch. To add to the discomfort my headache is back. I reach for a pill. I should have asked for more. There are five left. I pop one but I don’t have the spit to swallow it dry and it sticks in my throat.
I scrabble into the front seat. I rifle the glove box and the central console for water but the car is as clean as the day it was delivered. I cough and the pill lodges somewhere near the top of my gullet. I gag and cough again. It won’t shift. It feels like it’s taking up my whole throat. I grunt to try and help. I inhale hard. The pill slips down a little to wedge further in. It feels like the size of a baseball. I gag and begin to cough.
The door opens. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
A new dark suit is looking down on me. Tall, six feet plus, well muscled-up, my new friend is gym-hardened. His nose has taken a beating at some point. His face holds the pits of long-dead acne. ‘Move over.’
‘I need a drink. Got any?’
He ignores me. Tombstone gets in the driver’s seat.
My new friend slides in beside me. He reaches over and slaps Tombstone over the back of the head. Tombstone spins round. ‘What the…?’
I’m surprised at the action. Tombstone doesn’t seem like the playful type. The new suit takes a bottle of water from his pocket. He hands it to me.
‘What did you hit me for?’ spits Tombstone. The most consecutive words I’ve heard from the walking wall. I unscrew the cap of the bottle and am delighted to find it’s cool. I start drinking.
‘What?’ says the new suit.
‘Why did you hit me?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘When I got in the car you hit me over the head.’
‘Did I hell. Fire up the car. We’ve a plane to catch.’
Tombstone turns away with a growl. I’m not sure what game my new friend is playing and I don’t care. I turn to him. ‘Mr Cameron, I assume. What’s your first name?’
‘What do you care?’
‘You’re my buddy. If I have to fly with you I can’t keep calling you Mr Cameron. Have you got a first name?’
He circles his head, cracking some bones in his neck. ‘You don’t need to know.’
The gates unfold in front of us and we exit onto a busy intersection. Cruising past the Indian Market we swing west, away from the crime scene. My eyes close.
When I awaken there’s a gun in my face.
Chapter 5
The car window is wound down. A blast of heat fights the A/C. The gun belongs to an Iraqi National Police sergeant. The blue and white camouflage clothes a copy of our boys’ kit. The man is rabbiting on in Arabic. Cameron is right back at him.
Suddenly the gun vanishes. The window rises as Tombstone hits the button.
‘What was that about?’ I ask Cameron.
‘You.’ Cameron leans forward towards Tombstone. ‘Keep driving.’
We negotiate some concrete blocks and stop a couple of car lengths further along. Tombstone’s window goes down. He flashes his ID. The guard hands him a piece of paper. We drive another fifty yards, we stop, the window goes down and Tomb-stone hands over the paper. It’s inspected and we are waved through.
‘Fussy about their security,’ I say.
Cameron smiles. ‘Wait till you see how many X-ray machines we still have to go through.’
I look out the window. I trace the perimeter fence running into the distance. We’re still a couple of miles from the terminal but there’s good reason for setting the fence so far away. The Brits used the airport from the get-go. The perimeter was set up to keep the nutters at bay, and the best way to do that was to keep them at a distance.
Tombstone drops us outside the airport entrance. Cameron isn’t joking about the X-ray machines. I count four before we get on the plane. Add in a few more security checks and it takes us ninety minutes to cover less than three hundred yards.
We are in the air twenty minutes later.
Our first destination is Amman – a small airport with basic facilities. We touch down to find the plane to Cyprus is ready to roll and, as I pop the last of the pain pills, we take off. I soon fall asleep.
In Larnaca we have a four-hour stopover. I’m all for going to the bar. My minder is all for avoiding the place.
‘Did they really send you just to escort me home?’ We’re sitting in the airport café. I’m sipping strong coffee.
‘I’m being transferred.’
‘Promotion?’
‘Kind of.’
‘Look, I’m not your enemy. We have twenty-four hours of travel left. All I want is a little company. If you don’t – fine.’
He drains the cup. ‘Another?’
I nod. He has to wait in the line as two women argue over who’ll pay. He returns with two large mugs. As he drops into the seat he speaks. ‘I screwed up.’
I try not to smile. ‘That makes two of us.’
‘Yeah, well at least no one got killed on my watch.’
My smile fades. ‘What happened with you?’
‘I told you. I fucked up.’
‘You want to confess?’
‘No.’
‘Well lighten up and let’s have a drink. Nothing you can do about it until you get stateside.’
‘I’m a bad drunk.’
‘So am I.’
Five minutes later we’re in the bar. I’m on a JD and Coke and he’s on his second Ballantine’s, while telling me who it is that’s forcing me to go back home. ‘We take on some of the more unusual issues that our government faces. My boss always says, ‘If it don’t fit – we’ll get it’. He makes it sound like a rhyme.’
‘Unusual. What’s the agency called?’
‘I’m not going to go into it any more. I can’t.’
‘So what’s your name?’
‘Mike.’
‘Where’s home?’
‘Anchorage, Alaska.’
‘Cold.’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Do you get back often?’
‘Not for over a year.’
‘Are you married?’
‘What do you think?’
‘No, but I’ll guess you were.’
‘We lasted two years and by then she was a stranger. She’s moved in with an old friend of mine.’
‘Nice.’
‘And you?’
I take a breath. ‘Married and live in LA. My wife and I went to school together and lost contact. I met her in a bar a few years back. We got married last year.’
‘And she’s happy you’re doing security work in Iraq?’
‘It’s my first real job in years. We had no choice. It doesn’t even pay that well but it was a six-month contract and kept the roof over our heads for another year. She teaches.’
‘You’re ex-army, aren’t you?’
‘It was a short affair. Can we drop it?’
‘You avoid the department and I’ll avoid the army.’
‘Deal.’
He
drains the whisky and orders another. I’m not halfway through mine. When the waiter returns he swallows most of it in one go. ‘What’ll you do when you get home?’
‘I’m not sure. It’ll be a surprise to Lorraine. My wife. I haven’t been able to contact her. Your lot didn’t let me take a piss on my own – never mind a phone call.’
‘You had them rattled.’
‘I did?’
‘Tom wasn’t just a grunt. He was number two to Lendl.’
‘Lendl?’
‘The man in the white linen suit.’
‘So why didn’t you supply Taylor with his own security?’
‘This is the twenty-first century. Freelance contracting is all the rage. It means we don’t have to put our people in the line of fire. People like you are the new cannon fodder.’
‘No shit.’
‘Private firms are plastered all over Iraq. It’s cheaper than employing your own people, less risky and more flexible. The downside is you don’t always get the most competent of operatives.’
I wince. I’m saved from any further embarrassment by the departure board announcing our gate.
Mike glances at the board. ‘Time for one more?’
Chapter 6
Thirty minutes later and we’re sitting near the back of the Cyprus Airways Airbus 320. There are three seats either side of the walkway. The flight is quiet and we have a spare seat between us. Mike orders another two whiskeys as the trolley rolls past. I’m beginning to regret suggesting we had a drink. I decline the stewardess’s offer and lean back in the chair.
My headache is growing. I’ve stocked up on over-the-counter painkillers at the airport, but I’m not sure they’re heavy-duty enough. I pop two.
I gather I’ve dozed off, because I’m awoken by the sound of Mike’s raised voice. ‘Two more whiskeys.’
The stewardess is standing above him. Her arms folded. She’s standing a little further away than would seem polite. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Cameron, but I’ve been told not to serve you any more at the moment.’
‘Fuck off. I want a drink.’
I reach over and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Calm down, Mike. She’s….’
I don’t get to finish my sentence.
‘And you can fuck off as well.’ His eyes are wide. The whites have hair-streaks of red snaking through them. I’ve no idea how long I’ve been asleep but Mike is a good few drinks to the bad side of things. He turns back to the stewardess. ‘Get me two drinks now.’
‘Sorry, sir, I can’t do that.’
He moves to stand up. I place my hand on his shoulder. Again he spins round. ‘I told you to fuck off.’
I keep my hand in place. ‘This isn’t going to get you anywhere.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with you.’
‘Keep this up and they’ll restrain you.’
He stands up. The stewardess backs off. He turns to face the rear of the plane. ‘I’ll get one myself. Where’s the fucking bar on this thing?’
Mike has the full attention of the people around us. A young couple on the row opposite are leaning away from the incident – as if the plane walls are rubber and will let them gain a little more distance. She’s pretty but her face shows fear that diminishes her looks. He’s a little geeky and has his head stuck in a book trying to ignore what’s going on.
In the row in front of them a head sticks out from behind the back of the chair, level with the stewardess’s rear. The owner is in her seventies or has aged badly. Her hair is a tight crop of curls with a heavy rinse of black that makes it look like she’s wearing a wig. She shows no fear – just morbid curiosity. The smile on her lips has a little evil twist to it – she probably reads the details of real-life crimes for kicks.
Mike has set off to find some drink. We are only four rows from the rear and he’s back double-quick. ‘Where are the drinks? It’s only fucking restrooms back there.’
The stewardess has been joined by a colleague. I can’t read the name badge but the new arrival stands with I’m in charge hands on her hips. ‘Mr Cameron, will you please return to your seat.’
‘Will I hell. I want another drink.’
‘I’m sorry but I can’t do that. Now can you please sit down.’
‘Or what?’
This is going nowhere good. I try one more time. ‘Look, Mike. Sit down and we can get you a drink later.’
He takes a step towards the stewardess. She holds his gaze.
‘Or what?’ he repeats.
I like the stewardess. She’s not panicking but she’s scared. I’d be scared. She’s been trained well and I’d guess this isn’t her first drunk passenger. Mike’s shoulders are tense. He’s leaning forward.
When I was young I did a little work on the doors of the local nightclub. I know the pose. Mike is spoiling for a fight.
The stewardess opens her mouth to say something but her colleague steps in. ‘Sir, if you don’t return to your seat I’ll have no choice but to inform the captain and arrange for the police to be waiting at Heathrow.’
The stewardess flicks her head round to give her colleague a look that would wither a concrete flower. Her boss is only doing her job but her tone is setting Mike on edge. The stewardess can sense it.
‘Fuck off.’ Mike takes another unsteady step. An inch or so. Closer to something more violent. He’s a southpaw. His left hand is loosely balled up. The old woman with the bad rinse ducks out of sight. The couple have stopped leaning away now the danger has moved down the plane. The geek has his head out of the book and is stretching his neck to get a better view over the headrest of the chair in front.
‘Look sir, I’m sure we can resolve this.’ The stewardess’s voice seems to lessen the tension a little.
Mike eases down a quarter of a gear. ‘Just get me a drink.’ ‘If you could just sit down.’
‘Drink.’
‘Look, sir,’ the boss intervenes again and the tension is back. The stewardess’s shoulders slump. She doesn’t need help. She’s doing OK. I can see it in her face. Shut up bitch – you’re making it worse.
A grunt comes from behind me. I spin my head. Four people are half standing – trying to get a better view. The grunt is from a man with a triple chin. Rubberneckers.
‘Sir,’ says the boss.
I need to stop this now. I size up Mike and stand up. He’s focused on the two women and I hope he stays that way. I need distance between him and the aircrew. Distance is good.
I take a step. He senses something, and does the one thing I’m not prepared for. He lashes out with his left foot – kicking straight back. He catches me in the stomach and I go down.
He backs up and stamps down on my leg. I try to roll away but in the confined space I can do little more than scrabble around. He tries for three in a row. I snatch at his foot. I catch him off balance. He starts to fall, grabbing the nearest armrest. He kicks out again, clipping the top of my shoulder.
The stewardess stops looking at us and turns away to face her boss, pulling her head back as she twists. Her head snaps forward, forehead impacting on her boss’s nose. A dull click as bone gives way. The noise bounces off the walls of the plane. The boss reels back and an arc of blood sprays into the air. A ribbon of crimson against the white fuselage.
The boss staggers back, before falling to the floor. The streamer of blood reaches its apex, spraying across the chairs on either side. Shouts go up from the passengers.
The stewardess drops down, landing on her boss. Her hand starts to pump up and down, and I hear screaming.
Mike steps back, struggling to comprehend what he’s witnessing.
A few seconds later the stewardess gets up, her uniform splattered with blood. She rotates her head, as if she has just finished a difficult set of exercises, before reaching down to brush her skirt – removing the wrinkles and creases. She swipes at her hair and swings back towards Mike.
Her pupils are dilated. Her face white. Mike puts his hand out to steady himself as he works back alon
g three headrests and shuffles away. I stand up – wary that Mike still has a kick left in him. But he’s spent. We both slump into our seats as a woman starts screaming and two more aircrew rush into the cabin.
‘Jesus,’ one of them shouts. He’s looking down at where the stewardess’s boss is lying. The other gags and bends over.
‘Did you see that?’ I realize that Mike is talking to me.
I nod. ‘What the hell…?’
The captain appears and pushes the new aircrew to one side. He bends down to attend to the stewardess’s boss. He orders one of the aircrew to help. They lift her up and carry her out of the cabin. The stewardess is shepherded by the remaining aircrew to the front of the plane.
Minutes tick by before the captain returns. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, can I firstly apologize for the incident that some of you have experienced.’
He closes the curtains behind him. ‘We are expecting to land in Heathrow in thirty minutes. The police have been informed of the incident and have requested that everyone in this area of the plane remain seated until they can take some statements.’
There’s some murmuring. The captain walks up the aisle, stopping to answer the occasional question. When he reaches us he stops and looks at Mike. ‘Mr Cameron. I believe you had an issue with one of my cabin crew.’
Mike keeps his eyes focused on his lap.
‘The police want to talk to you. I hope I can count on you to remain in your seat for the remainder of the flight.’
Mike nods.
Chapter 7
‘Let’s start from the top.’
The accent is thick with London. There are two of them – one in uniform and one plain-clothed. I’m in an interview room inside Heathrow airport. It looks much like the one in Iraq but with fewer stains on the floor.
The plain-clothed officer leans forward. His breath could stun a horse. He’s two days from the last shave and wrinkles crowd his face, white wisps of hair falling onto gray eyebrows. He taps the table. ‘Tell me once more what happened on the flight.’
I rattle off the same story I’ve been through three times already. I don’t vary from the core events. When I finish the cop stares at me. ‘Why would the stewardess attack her boss?’
