Crisis Four

by Andy McNab

  I said, ‘Have you got any rounds left?’

  She gave me her weapon. I checked and refilled her mag from the spares in my pockets, and passed it back. She placed it under her right thigh with a ‘Thanks’.

  I started to recognize our surroundings. Traffic was starting to slow up; every time we hit a major intersection there was another bunch of lights letting people out from all the suburbs around the city. We couldn’t see any of the houses, though, because of the trees and low-level industrial units that hemmed us in on either side.

  We had stopped at a set of lights alongside some other people drinking their breakfast. Some of them had big paper cups from drive-ins, some had mugs that looked like Apollo space capsules, really wide at the bottom so they didn’t fall over in the car, then narrow at the top with a nozzle to drink through. All of a sudden I saw people in different cars around us smiling or laughing out loud to themselves. Sarah saw what was happening and she wanted to listen in. She hit the radio buttons on preset and cruised through the stations. Three goes and she got it. A man and a woman were talking about people’s choices of bumper stickers. The woman said, ‘One is OK, but hey, more than that reads a ten on my geek meter.’

  The guy replied, ‘Have you seen the one that says, “A mind is like a parachute. It only works when it’s opened . . .” Come on, man, that’s like, off the scale!’ There was some canned laughter, then he quickly returned to the airwaves.

  ‘Hey, morning! It’s Q98 comin’ attchaaa . . .’ The ads started to roll.

  Everyone was laughing with us in the traffic. Then it got worse as they saw the same thing we did. The van four or five vehicles ahead had that very sticker in its rear window. I couldn’t stop laughing as we started to move on green. I looked over at Sarah, who was joining in the fun; it wasn’t that the joke was that funny. I think we were just so relieved to be back in civilization.

  We hit the beltline, saw signs for the airport and swung right at the intersection onto the highway. About halfway round we were on an elevated section, and down below us were low-level square buildings, mostly motels and burger joints, islands in a sea of neon. The rain had slackened to a drizzle.

  I directed Sarah off the ramp and we cruised around, looking for a motel that would work for us. She drove past a Days Inn, standing in its own lot. It was a T-shaped building, with the reception at the top and three storeys of brown doors making up the stem. It had seen better days, but was just what was needed. I let Sarah carry on past it so I could check out the area. That way I knew which way to run if we got bumped once we were inside.

  ‘Turn left here.’

  She drove into the parking lot of an adjacent single-storey sportswear outlet. There were about 200 cars in the 400-capacity carpark; she found a space in the middle and parked. We wiped the car interior of our prints, got out and did the same to the outside – not that it mattered that much, as they would have our prints from the van; it would just slow them up a bit.

  Walking back towards the motel, we made an effort to clean ourselves up, brushing the mud and pine needles off our clothes. It didn’t seem to make much difference. We got a few strange looks in the carpark, but nothing too serious; Americans know better than to stare at dishevelled strangers. The motorway roared above us with the morning’s traffic, and a truck’s brakes hissed loudly as it stopped to make a delivery.

  As I peeled the gloves and clingfilm from the docs, I gave Sarah our story. ‘OK, we’re Brits – boyfriend-girlfriend, travelling up from the Cape Fear coast, had a puncture. We’ve been out in the rain trying to fix it, and all we want to do now is sort our shit out.’

  She thought for a few seconds. ‘Got it.’

  I cleaned up the jacket sleeve the dog had ripped as best I could, wiping the dried blood on my hand against my jeans. A last quick spit and rub on the more stubborn stains did the trick.

  We’d put our hands through our hair in a last minute effort to sort ourselves out as we went through the door. We still looked rough, but so did the motel. The carpet in reception needed replacing and a new coat of paint wouldn’t have gone amiss. To my left, a TV blared by the coffee and vending machines as the glass doors closed behind us.

  The receptionist went through the automatic company welcome: ‘Hi, how are you today?’ still looking down at something more important. She was about seventeen or eighteen, and wore a maroon polyester waistcoat and skirt, with a white blouse. Her name tag said she was Donna. She was a black girl with relaxed hair put into a side parting, a big, round pair of glasses and, now that she was actually pointing it at us, a great big brilliant smile. It might not be sincere, but at least she was the first person we’d been close to for a while who wasn’t shooting at us.

  Her smile evaporated as she took in our appearance. ‘What’s happened to you folks?’

  I did my best stupid English tourist impression. ‘We had a puncture this morning and the car went off the road in all this rain. Look at us. It’s been a nightmare; we just want to clean up and sleep.’ I stopped my waffle and looked sorry for myself while showing her the state of my jeans.

  She agreed, we were in shit state. ‘Wow!’ She looked down at the computer and hit the keys. ‘Let me see . . .’ She didn’t sound too hopeful. ‘It’s early and I don’t know if any rooms will be ready yet.’ She smiled as she read the screen, and I knew we were in luck. ‘Hey, you know what? I have a double room – but it’s smoking.’ The way she said it, I knew that when the time came for her to have a child, she’d sue someone lighting up even two states away. She looked up, waiting for us to share her distaste.

  I said, ‘That will be fine, thank you.’ She looked at us as if we were somewhere below subhuman. ‘We don’t smoke, but at the moment anything will do.’ I smiled. We became normal again and were given a big smile back.

  She continued to hit the keys. ‘Sure. I have a special at the moment: thirty-nine dollars ninety-nine, plus tax.’ Her expression now said that I should be jumping up and down with joy. I took the hint.

  ‘That’s great!’ I pulled out my wallet and gave her my credit card. She could have been asking for $139.99 plus tax, I wouldn’t have given a shit.

  ‘Thank you’ – she studied the card – ‘Mr Snell.’

  She swiped the plastic and the machine clicked and hummed as I filled in the registration form. I put down any shit I could think of for the vehicle registration. They never look at it anyway, and if she did, I’d just say, sorry, Hugh Grant type character Brit abroad.

  ‘OK, you’re room two sixteen. Where are you parked?’

  I pointed out and to the left. She started to direct with her hands. ‘OK, go round back to the left, up the first flight of stairs, and it’s there on the right-hand side.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Y’all have a good one.’

  We walked out of reception and I placed my arm around Sarah, talking shit about what a night it had been. We turned left to go to our non-car and worked our way round the motel to our room. There was a chance that anyone putting two and two together after watching the news might call the police, especially if the gas station was already news. But this girl looked as if she didn’t even know what day it was. There had to be a point where I had to accept I’d done all I could for now. It was time to clean up, get our act together and then move on.

  It was a typical, low-rent motel room that could have been anywhere in the world, with a queen-sized bed, faded flower-pattern cover and white melamine-veneered chipboard furniture. The curtains were closed and the air-conditioner was off to save electricity.

  I took the Do Not Disturb sign from the inside handle and put it on the outside as I fiddled around trying to find the lights. Sarah passed me as I closed the door and pulled the latch across. I went over to the air-conditioner and, leaving the curtains closed, switched it to full-blast heat.

  Sarah was sitting on the bed, pulling her trainers off. I walked back to the other side and checked the window, a sealed, dou
ble-glazed unit which overlooked the landing. The only way out was by the door. I visualized my escape route. There were two staircases; I could either get down to the ground or onto the roof. Once on the ground I would head back to the carpark and hijack a vehicle. If push came to shove, I’d kill her here beforehand. I picked up the remote from the bedside cabinet – it was attached to a curly bit of wire so I couldn’t nick it – and started flicking through the channels trying to find some news. The faded silver plastic TV must have been about ten years old – so were most of the programmes.

  Sarah went towards the air-conditioner, pulling off her jacket and muttering, ‘I need a shower.’ She started to take off the rest of her clothes, placing them item by item on the heater, then weighting them with ashtrays and a telephone directory to keep them in place. The air was blowing them about as if they were on a clothes line in a gale.

  I watched her undress as I lay on the bed. I couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d said the guys in the house were planning, and about how lucky we’d been to get away. I just hoped she hadn’t killed any police; even if she was telling the truth about the assassination plot, we’d be in deep shit over that.

  I’d made a conscious decision to let her keep the weapon; if any police had been killed, she had the weapon that linked her to that, and to the Lance killing. London would have to do a mega-deal with the Americans.

  I watched her naked body walk across in front of me, heading for the bathroom. She’d always been at ease with nudity, almost nonchalant, in the way models are. Her body was beautiful and still well trained. I watched her thigh muscles flex as she moved; her skin was usually so healthy it glowed, but with those cuts and bruises she wouldn’t be showing her legs off in short skirts for a while.

  As the shower started splashing I lay back against the headboard, flicking through the channels with the sound on mute. I couldn’t see anything of use yet, like the news, but if I’d wanted to buy a diamond necklace and earrings or an ab-cruncher, it was my lucky day. My chin was resting on my chest, my back propped up by the pillow. I could smell myself: wet, mushy and, like her, in need of a shower. Looking in the mirror to the left of the TV, I saw a scarecrow who needed a shave.

  I finally hit a news channel that was showing pictures of forests, then the lake. I didn’t bother turning it up. This must be it; we were famous. There was film of different emergency vehicles toing and froing, police and ambulance crews running around with waterproofs over their uniforms. Then a policeman gave an interview with the same sort of thing going on in the background. I really didn’t want to know what he was saying. If there were dead police, a picture of them would soon be on screen. It wouldn’t change what I had to do, even though it might make it harder.

  The news was replaced by a commercial. I was in a semi-daze, trying not to nod off. My eyes were stinging as much as my forearm now; at least that had started to scab up a bit. I’d sort it out later. If I’d got tetanus I’d be finding out very soon. I smiled at myself in the mirror as I thought, I could always sue the police department. This was America, after all.

  I watched a child’s toy commercial, where two small girls were playing with dolls. Shit! I leaned over to the bedside cabinet that held the phone and a Days Inn notepad and pen combo, and wrote a big ‘K’ on my left wrist. Next to the pen was a small book of matches; I put it in my jeans pockets, along with the mags.

  My body was aching all over. I forced myself up, and pulled the phone book off Sarah’s jeans. They fell to the floor and I couldn’t be bothered to pick them up.

  I trawled through the Yellow Pages, looking for car hire, called a freefone number, and was told that, for a charge of $43 a day, plus tax and insurance, they’d be with me inside an hour and a half.

  Sarah came out of the shower just as I was putting down the receiver. She had a large towel wrapped around her, and a smaller, still-folded one in her hands. As she walked across to check her clothes I could smell the soap and shampoo.

  ‘Who was that?’ she demanded as she threw the towel by the TV and bent down to pick up the jeans and put them back on the heater.

  ‘I’ve hired a car.’

  ‘Excellent. How long before we move?’

  I didn’t know why she was so pleased. We weren’t going anywhere she wanted. ‘We?’ I said. ‘What the fuck’s with this we business?’ I always seemed to regress to South London gobby twang when pissed off. ‘All the bollocks you’re on about is your problem, not mine. The only we about this, Sarah, is that we’ve got the North Carolina police, FBI and whoever else wants overtime looking for us, and if you have killed a policeman and they catch up with us, we’re in a very big world of shit. Take my word for it, we won’t survive any containment; they’ll hose us down on sight.

  ‘We are going to do nothing. What I am going to do is, first, get us out of this shit; then I am going to get us both back to the UK. End of story. I don’t care what is happening elsewhere, or what you want to do about it. I have enough shit here to deal with. Fuck Netanyahu.’

  She sat on the end of the bed and looked at me. I knew she was going to give me a sales pitch, but tough, I wasn’t going to let her get to me.

  ‘Nick, I’m going to tell you anyway. It’s important. I need your help.’

  I cut in. ‘Sarah, I’m not interested in your stories. Not now, OK?’

  She wasn’t going to give up. ‘Look, I am the UK liaison in a contact group set up by the CIA. It’s called the Counter-terrorism Center, and we’re based at Langley. Our general remit is to disrupt terrorist—’

  ‘Sarah, I told you, shut the fuck—’

  Her voice got a bit louder. ‘—to disrupt terrorist operations; my particular cell is co-ordinating a US effort with European and African nations to roll up Osama Bin Laden’s networks.’

  ‘Bin Laden? What the fuck . . .’

  She looked at me, waiting for me to continue. I didn’t, but she knew I was now starting to take an interest. She drew a breath and continued. ‘Yes, Bin Laden. We had a common cause while he was fighting in Afghanistan, that’s true. But the problems began after the ’eighty-nine Russian withdrawal and his return to Saudi. As far as he was concerned, Nick, Afghanistan wasn’t destroyed by the Russians, but by Afghans who had turned their backs on their religion and their country for money and power. Once he returned home, he saw the same corruption in all the Arab nations that had adopted Western values – above all, in Saudi, the land of the two most holy places, Mecca and Medina.’

  I looked at her blankly, wondering if she would be saying all this if she knew her life depended on it.

  ‘The whole situation was made worse by the Gulf War. To him, the presence of hundreds of thousands of American and other foreign troops on Saudi soil was a desecration of Islam, the return of barbarian Crusaders to defile Islam’s holy places. He vowed to wage war against their presence in Saudi, and against the Saudi leaders who had brought them into the country. As far as he was concerned it had become an American colony. He wanted to strike back at the West – in fact, at anyone who was non-Muslim and in Saudi.

  ‘The thought that former mujahedin would one day come to the United States and conduct operations didn’t enter anyone’s head at the time.’ She allowed herself a small smile. ‘The CIA has a word for it: blowback – a poisonous fallout, carried on political winds, drifting back home from a distant battlefield.’ The corners of her mouth went serious again as she added, ‘Bin Laden has become, over the last several years, the international terrorist posing the most serious threat to Western interests. He has an incredibly effective infrastructure and, of course, he has lots of money to fund it all himself. The ASU at the lake was funded by him. That’s why I was there.’

  I shrugged. ‘Listen, if there’s shit on, call Washington, London, whatever. Let them sort it out. There’s the phone, call them.’

  She looked across at the bedside cabinet, but made no movement towards it. Her eyes stayed fixed on mine. I wasn’t too sure if she was actually lis
tening, or just waiting for me to say more.

  I got up and went over to the vanity unit outside the bathroom. It had a sink, mirror, shaving plug, soap and hand towels; it was time to clean up my arm. If she was telling the truth, all she had to do was pick up the phone.

  I took off my jacket, pulled up the shirtsleeve, and surveyed the damage: two rows of nice clean puncture wounds that any German Shepherd would be proud of. If I collected any more scarring I’d start to look like the Cabbage Patch doll Kelly said I was. I turned on the taps and Sarah remained silent for a few seconds as I rinsed the dried blood and mud off my arm. The puncture wounds were deep, but less jagged than I’d expected.

  ‘Nick, don’t you imagine that I’ve already thought of that?’

  I glanced in the mirror and saw her sitting on the bed.

  ‘Making contact with anyone is not an option, because it’s not a solution.’

  I washed the wound slowly with soap and waited for that first horrible stinging to die down, trying to work out if what she’d said was any more than her usual cocktail-party performance. The room heater was working overtime and making my eyes sting.

  ‘Nick, how do you think the ASU were going to get close to their target here in the US? Just walk up and give him a little tap on the shoulder?’

  I shrugged. It didn’t matter if I knew or not, she was going to tell me. It came at me in a flood. ‘Nick, Bin Laden has a highly placed source. We think it’s possibly as high as the National Security Council. Think about what that means: the group that blew up the World Trade Center . . . and Khobar Towers in Saudi, remember? Nineteen American servicemen dead. They also did the ’ninety-five bomb in Saudi. Another five Americans killed.

  ‘Those are the people who have someone within the administration. That’s why I can’t just pick up the phone and get inside help: the source would find out, then close down for a few years and never be found. He is the key to stopping Bin Laden.’