by Lee Child
I looked him right in the eye and I said, ‘One second from now I’m going to fall down on the floor.’
He said, ‘What?’
And I did. I let go and fell like a coat coming off a hook and she fired into his back from four feet, and I saw a spit of flesh and blood splash out from the front of his chest, and the feature window behind me shattered, and I landed next to the woman in the towel, who stirred in her sleep and hooked a loose arm around my neck and kissed my ear and said, ‘Oh, baby.’
FIFTY-EIGHT
LESS THAN TWO minutes later we were in the back of a mint-green Vauxhall. Up front was the couple who had delivered the computers. The man and the woman, both still quiet and contained, both still happy with their short-straw assignments. Good team players. We had left Bennett at Joey’s house, and I didn’t expect to see him again.
We had gotten on the East Anglia highway right out of Chigwell. The M11 motorway, as it was called on the local signs. We were heading for a Royal Air Force station in a place called Honington. Which was near a place called Thetford. Ninety minutes, Bennett had promised, but I figured it would be less. The woman was driving extremely fast. The land all around us was flat. Strategically Britain was an aircraft carrier permanently moored off the coast of Europe, and there was plenty of space for flight decks.
RAF Honington turned out to be a big place, mostly shrouded in darkness. The woman drove through gates and straight out to the tarmac. Just like the SEAL at McChord, which all seemed a long time ago. She drove the same kind of well-judged part-circle and came to a stop at the airplane stairs. We got out, and closed our doors, and the mint-green Vauxhall drove away.
The airplane was the same kind of thing as O’Day’s Gulf-stream, short and pointed and urgent, but it was painted dark blue, very shiny, with a pale blue belly under a gold coach line, and the words Royal Air Force above the windows. A man appeared above us, in the oval mouth of the cabin. He was wearing an RAF uniform. He said, ‘Sir, madam, please come up.’
Inside there was no butterscotch leather or walnut veneer. Instead the leather was black, and the veneer looked like carbon fibre. It was severe but sporty. A whole different flavour. Like a modern Bentley, maybe. Like Joey’s. The man in the uniform told us his last passenger had been royal. The duchess of somewhere. Cambridge, maybe. Which started me thinking about MI6 again, and MI5, and everything in between. Nice and I sat across the aisle from each other, but facing, head to toe. The man in the uniform disappeared, and a minute later we were in the air, climbing hard, heading west to America.
We were given a meal, and then the guy in uniform retired to some discreet compartment, and left us alone. I looked at Nice, across the aisle, close enough to touch, and I said, ‘Thank you.’
She said, ‘You’re very welcome.’
‘You OK?’
‘About Charlie White? Yes and no.’
I said, ‘Concentrate on the yes part.’
‘I am,’ she said. ‘Believe me. The way he talked about that girl. I heard him, from downstairs. They took pleasure in tormenting her.’
‘Plus the firearms and the narcotics and the payday loans.’
‘But we shouldn’t be judge and jury and executioner all in one.’
‘Why not?’
‘We’re supposed to be civilized people.’
‘We are,’ I said. ‘We’re very civilized. We’re riding in a duchess’s airplane. They didn’t rule the world by being nice. And neither did we, when our turn came.’
She didn’t answer.
I said, ‘You proved one thing, at least. You can operate in the field.’
‘Without pills, you mean? Are you going to tell me to quit again?’
‘I’m not going to tell you anything, except thank you. You saved my life. Take all the pills you want. But be clear about why, at least. It’s a simple chain of logic. You’re anxious, about your professional performance and your mother, but only one of those is a legitimate worry, therefore you’re taking the pills because your mother is sick. Which is OK. Take them as long as you need. But don’t doubt your skills. They’re separate. You’re good at your job. National security is safe. It’s your mom who isn’t.’
She said, ‘I’m not going to join the army. I’m going to stay where I am.’
‘You should. It’s different now. You know what really happened. You just moved up a step. You’re harder to betray.’
We flew on, chasing the clock, but losing, and we landed at Pope Field at two in the morning. We turned and taxied, all the way to the small administrative building with 47th Logistics, Tactical Support Command on it. The engines shut down and the guy in the uniform opened the door and lowered the stairs.
He said, ‘Sir, madam, you need the red door, I believe.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. I pulled out the fat rolls of British money, from Romford and Ealing, and I gave them to the guy. I said, ‘Have a party in the mess. Invite the duchess.’
Then I followed Nice down the steps, and through the dark, to the red door.
The red door opened when we were still six feet from it, and Joan Scarangello stepped out. She had a briefcase in her hand. She had waited up for us, but she wasn’t about to admit it. She was trying to look like she was just heading home after a long day at the office.
She stopped and looked at me and said, ‘I take it back.’
I said, ‘Take what back?’
‘You did very well. The British government is officially grateful.’
‘For what?’
‘Your input helped their operative achieve a very satisfactory conclusion.’
‘Bennett?’
‘He states in his report he couldn’t have done it without you.’
‘How long were we in the air?’
‘Six hours and fifty minutes.’
‘And he’s already written a report?’
‘He’s British.’
‘What couldn’t he have done without me?’
‘He took Kott off the board inside a local gangster’s house. Where he went solely at your suggestion. Hence the gratitude. Along the way he was forced to neutralize a number of gang members, including two really big names, and so Scotland Yard is grateful, too, and because of what he wrote some of that will rub off on us, so all in all I would say we’re heading for a period of glorious cooperation. Our London operations will be better than ever.’
I said, ‘He claims they’re reading your signals.’
She said, ‘We know.’
‘Are they?’
‘They think so.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘We built a new system, in secret. It’s hidden in routine data from weather satellites. That’s where we talk. But we kept the old system going. That’s what they’re reading. We fill it with all kinds of junk.’
I said nothing.
She said, ‘We don’t rule the world by being dumb.’
And she walked away, in her good shoes and her dark nylons, and her black skirt suit, with her briefcase swinging, and I watched her for thirty yards, which was no kind of a hardship, because it all worked well together, especially the nylons and the skirt, and then she stepped out of the last pool of light and the darkness swallowed her up. I heard her heels a minute more, and then Casey Nice pushed the red door open and stepped inside.
The buffet room was empty. No pastries, no coffee. All cleared away, at the end of the day, pending new deliveries in the morning. We walked upstairs, fast and easy on the standard dimensions. Shoemaker’s office was empty. The conference room was empty. But O’Day had his light on.
He was at his desk, in his blazer, with the sweater under it. He was leaning forward, on his elbows, reading. His head was down, and he looked up at us without moving it.
He said, ‘We’ll do the debrief in the morning.’
We waited.
He said, ‘I have one preliminary question, however. Why did you fly back with the RAF? Our own plane was standing by.’
I s
at down, on the navy-issue chair. Casey Nice sat down next to me. I said, ‘Do we get to ask a preliminary question?’
‘I suppose a fair exchange is no robbery.’
‘We flew back with the RAF just for the fun of it. We wanted to see how the other half lives.’
‘Is that all?’
‘We wanted to make Bennett work for what he was getting.’
I saw him relax.
I said, ‘Our question is, why can’t either the NSA or GCHQ see the money?’
I saw him unrelax.
He didn’t answer.
I said, ‘It was a year of Kott’s rent, and his living expenses, and his fee, and the rifle itself, and all that practice ammunition, and the neighbour, and the private jet to Paris, and whatever the Vietnamese cost, and the two gangs in London, and presumably some kind of homeward transportation. That’s not tens of millions of dollars, but it’s more than nine-eleven cost. Therefore I’m sure their computers wouldn’t ignore it. And they’re smart people. And motivated, because whatever happens, they’ll get blamed too. Because everything starts with money. So why can’t they see it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Because it was never there.’
‘It had to be there. No money, no operation.’
‘Exactly. There was no operation.’
‘Did you get hit in the head? You were just in the operation. You just found Kott three miles from the scene.’
I said, ‘The first bullet was supposed to break the glass. The second bullet was supposed to kill the guy. But there was no second bullet.’
‘Because the glass didn’t break.’
‘But that didn’t matter. You’re not thinking like the second bullet. The glass breaking or not breaking was a future event. You saw the video from Paris. How long was it between the bullet hitting the screen and the security guys getting to the president?’
O’Day said, ‘A couple of seconds. They were very good.’
‘Now think about the range. Three-quarters of a mile. The bullet is in the air three whole seconds. Which means you can’t wait. Because what happens if you do? You pull the trigger, you wait three whole seconds, and wow, the glass breaks, so you pull the trigger again, and you wait three more seconds, and the new bullet arrives. But by then the president is buried under secret service agents. You missed your chance. The only way to get the guy is to make the second bullet chase the first bullet through the air. It has to follow on, about half a second later. So both bullets are flying together, one after the other. In fact they travel together for more than two whole seconds before the first bullet even arrives at the glass. Whereupon the second bullet passes through the newly airborne debris and hits the president before anyone has time to react, including the president himself, who is after all closest.’
O’Day said nothing.
‘Or alternatively if the glass doesn’t break, then the second bullet hits it too, half a second later, and the scientists get two little chips to look at, not one.’
O’Day said nothing.
‘There never was a second bullet. There was never going to be a second bullet. Someone sent Kott to Paris to fire one single round. At a bulletproof shield. Which was pointless. The glass either breaks or it doesn’t, but if it does, then the bullet that breaks it will always shatter or deflect and be of no further use. You fire either two bullets or zero bullets. The only way you fire one bullet is if you know for sure the shield will work.’
O’Day said, ‘The manufacturer? Like an advertisement?’
I said, ‘Like a type of advertisement, I guess. But not for the manufacturer, necessarily. Who else benefited? You need to look back through your notes and check who came up with the audition idea.’
‘Does it matter who?’
‘Suppose you’re running an agency somewhere. You need a way to raise your profile. You happen to know for sure the new glass works. Right there you’ve got a cost-free method of putting yourself front and centre. Kott fires his single round, the glass holds, you start the audition stampede, and suddenly you’re the alpha dog in the world’s biggest manhunt, with world leaders kissing your ass. How many agency heads would go that far?’
‘Seriously? They’d all want to. But not many would trust themselves. A handful, perhaps, around the world.’
‘So let’s narrow it down. Who can move slush fund money for unacknowledged assets like Kott, without the NSA or GCHQ seeing it?’
‘That doesn’t narrow it down. Everyone can do that.’
‘Whose profile was most in need of a raise?’
‘By what objective measure? Wouldn’t that be a personal perception?’
‘Who knew the glass would work?’
‘Anyone who witnessed the tests.’
I said, ‘We’re not narrowing it down much, are we?’
He said, ‘Not much.’
‘Who knew John Kott?’
He paused a beat, and said, ‘He might have been on a number of radars.’
‘Sixteen years ago.’
He didn’t answer.
I asked, ‘How many agency heads are still in place sixteen years later?’
He didn’t answer.
I said, ‘Maybe we should add that in, as a dispositive factor. As another box to check. Which agency head still in place sixteen years later had a need to raise his profile and knew the glass would work and had a slush fund and knew John Kott?’
O’Day said nothing.
‘We could discuss it point by point, if you like. Your profile was so low they were sending you to watch glass get tested. The great O’Day, humiliated. It was a hint, obviously. They wanted you to retire. Everyone knew. Even Khenkin, in Moscow. The SVR had you down as an old warhorse, put out to pasture. But you saw a way back. You knew Kott was about to get out. You’d been watching him. Maybe he worked for you, sixteen years ago. Maybe you were just as pissed at me as he was. So you made him an offer. If he goes to Paris and fires a single pointless round, then you’ll promise him that sooner or later you’ll serve me up on a platter, somewhere in the open air, within range.’
O’Day said nothing.
I said, ‘I was the only target. Me personally. Not the G8 or the EU or the G20. That was all window dressing.’
O’Day said, ‘Bullshit.’
I said, ‘To keep him horny you feed him the bad parts of my file. He gets in quite a state. Good for the local economy. Whoever had the Xerox franchise had a pretty good year. Then finally you fly him out. He does the deed. You ramp up the audition talk. You’re the big dog now. You tell Kott to hang tight. You tell him the ad is in the paper. And you find me fast. Kott is very pleased about that. You send me to Paris. You know for sure I’ll be on that balcony, and you know approximately when. You called ahead. You set up the visit. You agreed the itinerary. So Kott gets his shot, but he misses.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘So the circus rolls on to London. My phone has GPS in it. You know where I am. You’re going to lead Kott to me. You’re talking to him all the time. He has a phone just like mine. You know we’ll check Wallace Court. But Ms Nice doesn’t tell you beforehand. Suddenly you see my GPS right there, but you can’t move Kott in time. Insufficient warning. But never mind. Tomorrow is another day. And meanwhile you’re king of the world. The politicians are panicking. They’ll do anything for you. You have IOUs everywhere. All kinds of inconveniences are disappearing, all around the world. Even the London cops love you. Now they won’t let you retire. Because you win both ways. If Kott gets me, you instantly sell him out to Bennett, and you’ve saved the world from behind the scenes. If I get Kott, you’ve saved the world by audacious use of unacknowledged assets. Either way you’re a star again. You’re back in the textbooks.’
O’Day said nothing.
I said, ‘You gave the money to the neighbour. How else would you know he’s missing a tooth?’
No response.
‘Someone else knows,’ I said. ‘The three most dangerous words in the secrec
y business. But there it is. I know, and Ms Nice knows. Which is why we came back with the RAF. Because where would your plane have landed? Guantanamo, maybe. But it didn’t, and we’re back in America, free and clear. And we know. I’m sure you could crush Ms Nice’s career, but you’ll never find me. I’ll always be out there. And you know me, general. You’ve known me a long time. I don’t forgive, and I don’t forget. And I won’t have to do much. Talking might be enough. Suppose the SVR found out it was you who got Khenkin killed? Some of those IOUs might get cancelled. And they might retaliate. Rumours might start, about poor old Tom O’Day, who got so desperate he came up with a cockamamie scheme. Think of all those rookies laughing up their sleeves. All around the world. The whole community. That could be your legacy. It’s a possibility, anyway. You’ll have to live with it, I’m afraid. Or not. But don’t think about ignoring it. It’s you and me now, general. This thing won’t have a happy ending.’
I got up and put the Browning that Charlie White was going to kill me with on O’Day’s desk, and then I followed Casey Nice out of the room, and down the stairs, and through the red door, and out into the night.
She drove me in the hideous Bronco, three miles to a crossroads, where I could get a night bus. We didn’t talk. She stopped but couldn’t get out, because she had to keep her foot on the brake, so we repeated the same chaste hug we had in London. I asked her to say goodbye for me, to Shoemaker, and I got out and walked to the concrete bench, and watched her wave and drive away, and then I lay down and watched the stars, until I heard the bus come close.
I went places I don’t remember, but I know a month later I was in Texas, on a bus passing close to Fort Hood, where a man in uniform left an Army Times behind. O’Day’s face was on the front. His obituary was inside. It contained corrections to earlier reports. The discharge had been accidental. He had been examining an unfamiliar weapon captured in Europe. Possibly the late hour explained the mistake. There was no truth in the rumour that a Royal Air Force plane had landed minutes earlier. O’Day was to be awarded three more medals posthumously, and a bridge was to be named after him, on a North Carolina state route, over a narrow stream that most of the year was dry.
