by Jack Harvey
“Now, I’m going to be watching, so just do what I told you,” he warned his messenger. Then he stood across the street, on the corner outside the coffee shop. He could see Cantona inside, dunking a doughnut. But Cantona couldn’t see him, and Reeve kept it that way. He kept an eye open for Dulwater or anyone else, but Dulwater was probably still tied up sorting out his own problems. It was a risk, using the coffee shop. After all, Dulwater knew Reeve himself had used the premises, and Dulwater knew what Cantona looked like. But Reeve reckoned he was safe enough. Meantime, the beggar had entered the CWC building.
Reeve waited a few minutes, then walked to another vantage point and waited a few more. Nobody left the CWC building. As he’d guessed would happen, an unmarked police car eventually screamed to a halt outside the entrance. McCluskey got out, and was met halfway up the steps by Kosigin himself.
It was Reeve’s first real look at Kosigin, Allerdyce’s photographs aside. He was a short, slim man who wore his suit like he was modeling in a commercial. From this distance, he looked as dangerous as a hamburger. But then after what Reeve had learned lately, he couldn’t be sure anymore just how safe a hamburger was.
Kosigin led McCluskey into the building. McCluskey looked tired, pasty-faced. He’d had a very long couple of days. Reeve wondered if the detective had slept at all. He hoped not. He knew the beggar was inside, probably sandwiched between two security men. They’d want to ask him questions. They’d maybe take the money away from him; or threaten to, if he didn’t give a convincing description of his benefactor.
Reeve’s mobile rang. He held it up to his ear. Unsurprisingly, Cantona’s voice came over loud and clear.
“Hey,” he said, “your man just came out of the building. But get this, only as far as the steps where he met up with that fucking detective. They’ve both gone back inside.”
Reeve smiled. Cantona was doing his job. “Thanks,” he said into the mouthpiece. “Keep watching.”
“Sure. Hey, do I get to take a lunch break?”
“What? After that doughnut you just ate?”
There was silence on the line. When Cantona next spoke, he sounded amused. “You sonofabitch, where are you?”
“I’m just leaving.” Reeve put away the telephone, turned on his heels, and headed into the shopping district.
The first thing he did was get a haircut. Then he bought some very plain clothes which all but made him invisible. The barber had given him a shave, too. If he hadn’t been in fear of his life, Reeve would have felt great. He found a nice restaurant on the edge of Gaslamp and had lunch with the other businesspeople. His table was near the window, facing another table laid for two with a single woman eating at it. She smiled at him from time to time, and he smiled back. He had the sense that rather than flirting with him, she was acknowledging her right-and his, too-to dine alone. She went back to her paperback novel, and Reeve watched the street outside. During dessert, he saw his messenger slouch past, a dazed scowl on his face. The world had given him another punch in the teeth, and the man was trying to figure out how he’d walked into it. Reeve vowed that if he saw him later, he’d slip him a dollar without stopping.
Hell, maybe he’d make it two.
He gave Kosigin a couple of hours, then telephoned from his mobile. He was guessing they’d try to trace any calls made to Kosigin. Reeve sat on a bench in a shopping mall and made the call.
“Mr. Kosigin’s office, please.”
“Just one minute.” The switchboard operator transferred him to a secretary.
“Mr. Kosigin, please.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Sure, my name’s Reeve. Believe me, he’ll want to talk to me.”
“I’ll try his office, Mr. Reeve.”
“Thanks.”
The secretary put him onto one of those annoying music loops. He started to time how long he was kept waiting. He could visualize them setting up an extra telephone set so McCluskey could listen in, could see McCluskey busy on another line trying to get a trace on the call. Reeve gave it thirty seconds before he cut the connection. He walked to a coffee stand and bought a double decaf latte. He peeled off the plastic cover until he had a hole big enough to sip through, and window-shopped the mall. Then he sat on another bench and made the call again.
“Mr. Kosigin’s office, please.”
“Just one minute.”
And then Kosigin’s secretary again, sounding slightly flustered.
“It’s Reeve again,” he said. “I have an aversion to waiting.”
“Hold the line, please.”
Fifteen seconds later, a male voice came on the phone. “Mr. Reeve? This is Kosigin.” The voice was as smooth as the suit Kosigin wore. “How can I help you?”
“What did you think of the video?”
“Dr. Killin was obviously drugged, delirious. I’d say he’d almost been brainwashed into that crazy story. Abduction is a very serious offense, Mr. Reeve.”
“What did McCluskey think of it?”
That stopped Kosigin for a moment. “Naturally, I sent for the police.”
“Before you watched the video,” Reeve stated. “That’s a bit suspicious, isn’t it? Almost like you were expecting something. I take it you’re recording this call, that’s why you’re acting innocent. Fine, act away. But Kosigin, I’ve got the tape. I’ve got lots of copies of it. You don’t know who’s going to receive one in the mail one of these fine mornings. Maybe they’ll believe your version, maybe they’ll believe Killin’s.”
Another pause. Was Kosigin taking instructions from someone? Maybe McCluskey.
Maybe Jay.
“Perhaps we should meet, Mr. Reeve.”
“Yeah? Just the two of us, same as I was supposed to meet McCluskey? Only McCluskey turned up with his private personal army, and you, Kosigin, you’d turn up alone-right?”
“Right.”
“Apart from Jay, of course, training a laser sight on my forehead.”
Another pause.
Reeve was enjoying this. “I’ll call back in ten minutes,” he told Kosigin, then hung up.
He walked out of the mall into bright afternoon sun and a warm coastal breeze. He didn’t think he’d ever felt more alive. He made the next call from outside the main post office.
“So, Kosigin, had any thoughts?”
“About what? I believe you’re a wanted man in Europe, Mr. Reeve. Not a very pleasant situation.”
“But you could do something about that, right?”
“Could I?”
“Yes, you could hand Jay over to the French authorities, you could tell them he set me up.”
“You two know one another, don’t you?”
“Believe it.”
“There’s some sort of enmity between you?”
“You mean he hasn’t told you? Get him to tell you his version. It’s probably so fake you could install it as a ride at Disneyland.”
“I’d like to hear your version.”
“I bet you would, and at length too, right?”
“Look, Mr. Reeve, this is getting us nowhere. Why don’t you just tell me what you want.”
“I thought that was obvious, Kosigin. I want Jay. I’ll phone later with the details.”
Reeve walked back to the office-supply shop and handed over the mobile, signing some more documents and getting back his deposit.
“Any calls will be charged to your credit card,” the assistant told him.
“Thanks,” Reeve said. He went next door to the coffee shop. Cantona was reading a crumpled newspaper. Reeve bought them both a coffee.
“Hell,” Cantona said, “I didn’t recognize you there.”
Reeve reached into his pocket and drew out a miniature of whiskey. “Here’s something to pep you up.”
“I meant what I said, Gordon.” Cantona’s eyes were bloodshot and he hadn’t shaved in a few days. His stubble was silver and gray. “I don’t drink when I’m working.”
“But you’re not working an
ymore. I’m heading out.”
“Where to?” Cantona received no reply. “Best I don’t know, right?”
“Right.” Reeve handed over the money from his mobile de-posit.
“What’s this for?”
“It’s for looking after Jim, and taking some shit on my behalf last time I was here.”
“Aw hell, Gordon, that wasn’t anything.”
“Put it in your pocket, Eddie, and drink up.” Reeve stood up again, his own coffee barely touched. Cantona glanced out of the window. It had become a reflex.
“There’s McCluskey,” he said.
Reeve watched the detective get into his car. He didn’t look happy. Reeve kept watching. If Jay walked out of the building, Reeve would finish it now. He’d leave the coffee shop, sprint between the traffic, and take the bastard out.
But there was no sign of Jay.
“Go home,” Reeve told Cantona. It was like he was telling himself.
He drove to L.A.
It took him a while to find Marcus Aurelius Dedman’s Auto-Breakers. He’d phoned ahead, and Dedman was waiting for him.
Dedman gave the car a cursory inspection. “She drive all right?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“No problems at all?”
“No problems at all,” Reeve echoed.
“Well in that case,” Dedman said. “I might as well use her to give you your ride.”
Dedman had agreed to drive Reeve out to the airport. He insisted on driving, and Reeve was quite happy to rest in the passenger seat. On the way, Dedman talked about cars, using a language Reeve only half understood. He’d done a course in car mechanics as part of his SAS training, but that had been on elderly Land Rovers, and had been cursory at best. It seemed a long time ago.
Reeve shook Dedman’s hand at the airport and watched him drive off. He didn’t think they’d be expecting him to leave so soon. Kosigin would be waiting for the next call. Reeve walked around the concourse until he found a bulletin board. He scribbled a note on the back of a napkin he’d taken from the coffee shop, then folded the note over, wrote a surname in large capitals, and pinned the napkin to the bulletin board.
Then he checked himself onto the next available flight and made straight for the departure gate. There wasn’t much to do at LAX; it was no Heathrow-which these days was more department store than airport. Reeve ate a pizza and drank a Coke. He bought a magazine, which he didn’t read. There was no duty-free shop, so he sat by the row of public telephones until just before his flight was called.
Then he called Kosigin.
“Yes?” Kosigin said impatiently.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“I don’t like games, Mr. Reeve.”
“That’s a pity, because we’re deep in the middle of one. Have somebody-Jay preferably-go to LAX. There’s a public bulletin board in the departures hall, near the information kiosk. There’s a note there.”
“Look, why can’t we just-”
Reeve cut the connection. His flight was being called over the loudspeaker.
He had probably got one of the last places on the aircraft. He was seated by the aisle in a middle row of three. Next to him were an Australian couple heading over to Ireland to trace the wife’s ancestors. They showed Reeve some photographs of their children.
“Old photos, they’re all grown now.”
Reeve didn’t mind. He smiled and ordered a whiskey, and watched the sharp blue sky outside. He was just happy to be away from San Diego. He was glad he was going home. When the in-flight movie started, he pushed his cushion down so it was supporting his lumbar, and then he closed his eyes.
Old pictures… He had a lot of those in his head: old pictures he would never forget, pictures he’d once dreamed nightly, the dreams breaking him out in a sweat.
Pictures of fireworks in Argentina.
PART EIGHT. STALWART
TWENTY-ONE
IT WAS THE THIRD NIGHT, and enemy activity was increasing still further. There were constant patrols, firing searing pink-burn flares into the sky. An order would be yelled, and a patrol would spray their designated area with bullets. Reeve and Jay knew the tactic. The Argentine soldiers were trying to rile them, flush them out. They were trying to break them.
Reeve understood the shouted orders and would shake his head at Jay, meaning there was nothing to worry about. But they were both nervous. They’d been kept so low by the patrols that sending any more data to the ship was impossible; it had been that way for the best part of the day. They’d been forced farther inland, away from the air base, so that they could no longer see the runway or any of the buildings, and the planes taking off and landing were droning flies.
In fact, not transmitting was the only thing keeping them alive. The patrols were so close they’d have DF’d the two-man team in seconds. Reeve and Jay maintained complete silence throughout. Reeve couldn’t remember the last time either of them had spoken. Muscles were seizing up from being kept still and rigid for hours at a time. The back of Reeve’s neck ached terribly, and he daren’t crack it. The fingers on his M16 felt arthritic, and he’d already had two bouts of cramp.
Whenever he glanced over towards Jay, Jay would be looking at him. He tried to read the look in those eyes. They seemed to be saying, quite eloquently, “We’re fucked,” and they were probably right. But because Jay thought that, he was getting edgier and edgier, and Reeve suspected he might be on the verge of panicking. It was all about nerve now: if they lost theirs, the only possible outcome was “brassing up,” blasting away at anything and anybody until your ammo ran out or you copped one.
Reeve fingered the two Syrettes of morphine which hung around his neck. They felt like a noose. He hoped he wouldn’t need to use them. He’d rather put a bullet to his head first, though the regiment considered that the coward’s way out. The rule was, you fought to the death, and if the enemy didn’t kill you but captured you instead, then you did your damnedest to escape. Both men had been trained to withstand various interrogation techniques, but maybe the Argentines had a few tricks Hereford hadn’t heard of. Unlikely, but then torture was a broad sub-ject. Reeve reckoned he could withstand quite a bit of physical abuse, and even psychological wearing-down. What he knew he couldn’t cope with-what no one could cope with-were the various chemical forms of torture, the drugs that fucked with your mind.
The name of the game was beating the clock. On the regiment’s memorial clock back in Hereford were written the names of all SAS men killed in action. As a result of the war in the Falklands, there were already a lot of new names to be added to the clock. Reeve didn’t want his to be one of them.
When he looked at Jay again, Jay was still looking at him. Reeve gestured with his head for Jay to return to watch. They were lying side by side, but facing opposite directions, so that Jay’s boots rested an inch or so from Reeve’s left ear. Earlier, Jay had tapped a Morse message with his fingers on Reeve’s boot-“Kill them all”-repeating the message three times. Kill them all.
The ground was cold and damp, and Reeve knew his body temperature was dropping, same as it had done the previous night. A couple more nights like this and they would be in serious trouble, not so much from the enemy as from their own treacherous bodies. They had eaten only chocolate and drunk only water for the past thirty-six hours, and what sleep they’d taken had been fitful and short-lived.
Even when planning their escape route and emergency rendezvous they had not spoken, but had lain head to head with the map on the ground in front of them. Reeve had pointed to a couple of possible routes-if they were forced to withdraw from the OP in the midst of a firefight, chances were they’d be split up-then had tapped the map at the ERV. Jay had then traced a line with his unwashed finger from the ERV to the Chilean border, leaving no doubt what his route would be after the ERV.
Reeve wasn’t so sure. Would the Argentine command expect them to make for the border or for the coast? They were still a lot closer to the coast than the bo
rder, so maybe the border was the best plan. Besides, there was no point reaching the coast if no ship had been alerted of your plight. They wouldn’t be able to radio that message in the middle of brassing up, and if forced to retreat they would lighten their load, which meant leaving the rucksack and very probably the transmitter. Reeve had already mentally checked off the contents of his rucksack and had decided he needed nothing out of it but a few more rations. It was because he was thinking along these lines that he knew the mission was at an end. There’d be time later to wonder where and why it had gone wrong, always supposing he was still alive at the end of it all. The coast was closer; Reeve couldn’t get that idea out of his head. He had an emergency beacon with him. If they could find a boat and head out to sea, they could switch on the beacon and then pray someone would pick up the signal. The problem with that was, it was as likely to be an Argentine plane returning to base as anyone else.
The sky turned pink again and started to fizz and crackle as the flare started its gentle parachute-borne descent. Reeve could see a four-man patrol five hundred yards off to his right. Reeve and Jay were lying beneath netting and local foliage, and the patrol would have to get a lot closer to see them, even with the help of the flare. There was a sudden shrill whistle, like one of the old tin-and-pea jobs football referees use.
“Half time,” Jay whispered. He’d broken the code of silence, but he’d also broken the tension. Reeve found himself grinning, stifling laughter which wrenched itself up from his gut. The way Jay’s feet were quivering, he was laughing, too. It became almost uncontrollable. Reeve took a deep breath and expelled it slowly. The patrol was moving away at speed-and there was nothing funny about that.
Then the first rocket thudded into the ground several hundred yards to Reeve’s left. The earth beneath tried to buck his body into the air, and his face slammed down hard into the dirt.
“Shit,” Jay said, not caring who heard him. Not caring because he knew, like Reeve knew, that there was no one around to hear: the patrols had been signaled to evacuate the area.
