by Dawson, Mark
She paid, bagged the items, thanked the girl on the till and took them outside to the Impala. She got inside and fired up the phone, bringing up the internet and searching for locations where she could get the other items on her list.
There were several places that looked promising.
She copied the address of the first stop and pasted it into the mapping app. She slotted the phone into the mount, stuck it to the window and waited as it generated directions.
She fired up the engine and drew away, turning to the west and driving back out of town.
The things Beatrix needed to buy were not the kinds of things that someone like her would be expected to need and certainly not in the quantities that she had in mind.
She had to be careful.
The most important thing was fertiliser. There was a Southern States farm co-op on the outskirts of Chesapeake. She knew that she wouldn’t be able to buy more than a couple of bags without encouraging questions that she wouldn’t be able to answer, and so she heaved two twenty-five pound sacks into her cart and wheeled them to the checkout. The clerk asked for her identification, and Beatrix pulled out the fake driving license that she had brought with her from Morocco.
The woman lowered her glasses and squinted at the picture, then back up at Beatrix.
She smiled sweetly at her.
“What are you going to be using this for, ma’am?”
“Horses,” she explained. “The waste from the stables. You stir this in with the wood shavings and the manure, and it composts twice as fast.”
“It surely will,” the woman said. “Sorry for asking.”
“It’s alright.”
“We have to be so careful these days.” She cocked an eyebrow at her and said, in a tone of great opprobrium, “Terrorists. You can make a mighty big bang with a few bags of this.”
“So I hear.”
A staff member helped her to load the fertiliser into the trunk of the Impala. She thanked him and set off again.
She scrolled through her notes and selected the second waypoint, continuing west until she reached the hardware store near Lake Cavalier. It was a friendly mom-and-pop kind of place, and she walked the aisles and selected two twenty-five-litre polyethylene tubs and four large bottles of commercial cleansing solution with liquid nitromethane. The owner talked to her about the weather as she settled up her bill.
The next place was another farm store in Portsmouth. She bought two more big bags of fertiliser, stowing those on the back seats.
She drove to the fourth destination, following the back roads for another hour until she had found a suitably quiet gas station. She parked next to the pump, took the nozzle and filled the Impala’s tank to the brim. Then she went around to the trunk and, ensuring that she wasn’t observed, pumped another five gallons of fuel into each of the tubs, sealing them with the airtight lids.
The pain and fatigue started to mount, but she was done. She paid the attendant, bought a bottle of water and a packet of gum, and set off again, heading back to the camp. She had been out for just over three hours, but she had everything she needed.
She rolled the car to a stop, crunching the tires in the gravel that covered the road. She was apprehensive as she opened the door and stepped outside. Isabella was a capable girl, but she knew that she was asking a lot of her. The year that she had spent training her had several aims. She wanted her to be able to fire a range of weapons, defend herself, be fit and strong. One of its main goals, the least tangible one, had been to impart a streetwise edge to her that was beyond her years. She had been only partially successful in that. It was a testament to her daughter’s character that she retained her innocence, just below the surface, despite it all. In some ways, she had been pleased that she had failed in that regard, but now, as she stepped up onto the porch, she hoped that had not been a liability that would put her in harm’s way.
The door was closed. She turned the handle and pushed it open.
“Isabella?”
“In here,” she said.
Beatrix went inside. The girl had turned one of the chairs around so that she could sit and face the door to the bedroom. She went closer and looked down to see the Beretta resting in her lap.
“Is everything alright?”
“I’m fine,” she said.
“She give you any trouble?”
“Tried to get me to untie her, but I said I wouldn’t.”
“Good girl,” Beatrix said, relieved. She leaned down and kissed her on the top of the head. The movement elicited a jolt of pain, and she winced, glad that her daughter was facing away and couldn’t see it.
She took the pistol and went into the bedroom. Cassidy was sitting on the bed, her back resting against the headboard and her knees clutched up tight against her chest.
“You’re back,” the girl said sourly.
“I am.”
“Are you going to untie me?”
“Yes,” she said, reaching down and releasing the rope. “This is nearly over for you.”
“Really? Any reason I should believe that?”
“No. But it is. There’s just one thing I want you to do.”
“What?”
“I want you to call your father.”
“And say what?”
“The truth. Tell him what’s happened to you. Tell him you’re with me.”
“What do I call you? I don’t know your name.”
“I’m Beatrix. He’ll know who I am. But don’t try and tell him where we are. I don’t want you to try and give him even the slightest clue. That will just make me angry, and it’s not in your interest to do that. You’ll be on with him for fifteen seconds maximum, and then you’ll give the phone to me.” She looked at her hard, staring right into her eyes. “Can you do that for me, Cassidy?”
“Sure. Fine. Give me a phone.”
Beatrix took out the burner phone she had purchased in Radio Shack, powered it up and gave it to her. She took the pistol and rested it in her lap. “Remember. Don’t try anything stupid.”
Cassidy blanched, looked down at the phone and started to tap out numbers.
Chapter Fourteen
Control sat at the glass conference table, only half focussed on the presentation that was being delivered. The meeting was not a happy occasion. Beatrix Rose had caused Manage Risk almost incalculable damage in Iraq, and the discussion had been scheduled so that they could try and take stock and consider their next move.
The senior management of the company were all present. One of the intelligence officers had been given the onerous task of recapping the situation, and he did so carefully and precisely, warily sending glances to the head of the table where Jamie King brooded quietly.
Control was wearily familiar with it. There had been a problem with one of the operatives, Mackenzie West, who they had employed down there. They got it wrong now and again, and this was one of those occasions. The man, an ex-soldier who now professed something so foolish as a conscience, had threatened to go public after witnessing a riot that had left protesters dead after Manage Risk attempted to disperse it. They had become aware that he was unstable and had detained him for “medical evaluation,” although that was a bland euphemism for dropping him in a dark box until they worked out the best way to neutralise him.
He had been broken out of custody and spirited away into Kuwait.
Control could detect the hand of British intelligence from a mile away.
It was the kind of operation he himself would have attempted when he was in command of Group Fifteen. His successor, Michael Pope, had enjoyed an auspicious coup.
“And if he gives evidence against us?” King asked.
“The case would have to go against us first.”
“And if it did?”
“The Iraqis will cancel the contract and put it back out to tender
.”
“Can we persuade them that they have overreacted?”
The man shook his head.
“How much will that cost us?” King demanded.
“The contract is for twenty-five million,” the chief financial officer reported.
“Twenty-five!”
“It’s not just our contract, Jamie,” the woman responsible for government affairs said. “It’s everything. The oilfield will be back in play again, and that’s worth billions in taxes. I’ve had heat from the White House and the Treasury, and that’s without even mentioning the shit I’m getting practically every hour from the oil companies.”
“What kind of shit?”
“The shit where they say Hell will freeze over before they ever think about working with us again.”
“Legal exposure?” King asked, looking to the lawyer.
The man tapped his pencil against the table. “The State Department have said they’ll revoke our licence to operate over there. That’s not a bluff. Justice is talking about opening a prosecution against us. My source says the FBI have already spoken to West. Two agents flew out to Kuwait. We managed to fight it off last time, but that was without this new evidence. It’ll be more difficult now. And those are corporate charges. They could affect all of us.”
“What do you mean?”
“Personal liability, Jamie. Fines. Custodial sentences, even.”
King swivelled to Control. “That fucking woman,” he said. “That’s one expensive grudge.” His tone was jovial, but there was an edge behind it that Control did not misunderstand.
The discussion moved on to the financial implications of the incident. The stock market had yet to hear of the scale of the problem, but the consensus was that investors would be spooked, and unless they moved decisively, it could spark a run on their shares. If that happened, there was a chance that the banks would take fright and start to call in their loans. That, in turn, could give their customers a reason to kill their deals. All of their key contracts had termination provisions that could be triggered in the event of doubts over the company’s solvency. It wasn’t difficult to see what might very easily happen if they did not force the situation back under control: one consequence would trigger another and another, like falling dominos, and there was no way of telling how much damage might eventually be caused. The whole company could be at stake.
Control was staring disconsolately at the doodles he had made in the margins of his notepad, when his phone started to vibrate on the table.
Only a tiny handful of people knew the number.
He took it quickly and checked the display.
Unknown caller.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to take this.”
King glared at him.
He put the phone to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Daddy?”
He frowned. “Cassy?”
“Daddy!”
Her voice was tight with tension. The dots all joined, and he started to panic.
“Are you alright?”
“I don’t have very long. Just a few seconds. I’ve been kidnapped by a woman. She says you know her.”
“Beatrix Rose?”
“Yes,” she said. “Beatrix.”
Control looked at King and pointed at the phone, mouthing, “It’s her.”
King picked up his own phone and called the comms room to make sure that the call was being triangulated.
“Daddy?”
“I’m still here.”
“She says she wants to talk to you.”
“Are you alright . . . ?”
There was no answer, just the sound of the phone being passed.
“Hello, Control.”
“Beatrix?”
“Yes.”
“If you hurt her . . .”
“What? What are you going to do?”
“I . . .”
“You’re not going to do anything apart from what I tell you to do. I don’t want to hurt her. If you do what I want, I won’t. I won’t touch a hair on her head.”
He took the phone away from his ear and activated the speaker. “What do you want?”
“To meet. We have a lot to discuss.”
“Discuss?”
“In a matter of speaking.”
“Are you mad? I know what you’ve done to the others.”
“That’s your only choice. You agree to meet me, and I’ll bring Cassidy along. As soon as we’re done, she’s all yours.”
King wound his finger in the air, a signal that he should keep her on the phone. Control knew it wouldn’t work.
“You’ll kill me,” he said.
“Want me to send her back to you in pieces?”
Control swallowed. “Where?”
“There’s an old drive-in movie theatre outside Carrsville.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning. Six.”
He looked over at King, who nodded at him.
“Alright. We can talk. We can settle this.”
“Don’t be late.”
The line went dead.
Chapter Fifteen
Beatrix had stopped at a grocery store for provisions on the way back from her errands, and Isabella prepared sandwiches for the three of them that evening. She flicked on the TV, and they watched the news and then a sitcom that she hadn’t seen before. Cassidy ate sullenly, saying nothing, sitting away from them in a corner of the room. Beatrix had locked the door and was comfortable with her being with them, rather than in the bedroom. The girl had accepted what had happened, and now that there was an end in sight, she seemed willing enough to cooperate.
Beatrix washed up the dirty plates and then cleared the dining table and laid out the items she had purchased at Radio Shack.
She started with the power supply. She cut a metre of intercom wire and stripped the insulation from the ends. She connected one of the ends to a nine-volt battery clip and snapped that onto an AA battery holder. She unscrewed the end of a 1/8" mono plug and connected the stripped wire ends to it, separating each with a piece of electrical tape. The connection looked sound. She slotted the batteries into the holder.
She was aware that Cassidy had turned her attention away from the television and was watching her instead.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Never mind.”
She put the power supply aside and moved on to the detonator, taking the drill and piercing the plastic casing, making holes for the switch and LED on the front side, and the push button and 1/4" jack on the top. She screwed the components into place and wired them up.
She attached the battery pack and flipped the switch. The LED lit up.
Cassidy was still watching.
“What is it?” she asked her more forcefully.
“Watch the TV.”
“It’s a bomb, isn’t it?”
“What it is has nothing to do with you. Just watch the TV.”
“This is about my father. You want to kill him.”
She felt her anger flicker. “Your father and I have a long history.”
“And so you’re making a bomb?”
She put the parts down on the table.
“Do you want to know what your father did to me?”
Cassidy said nothing.
“Well? Do you?”
“I won’t believe anything you say.”
“Did he ever tell you what he did before he came here?”
“He worked for the government.”
She chuckled bitterly.
“The civil service,” Cassidy added, a moment of confusion on her face.
“How many times have I heard it described like that? He was paid by the government, but not through any budget that ever gets reported.”<
br />
“What does that mean?”
“Your father was the agent in charge of a team of assassins. Twelve assassins. It was called a lot of things—I’ve heard the Feathermen, I’ve heard Echelon, but most of the time it was Group Fifteen. He sent them all around the world. Anyone who was a threat to the interests of the British government, anyone who wouldn’t get into line, anyone like that, they were liable to get a visit from one of his agents. I was one of those agents, Cassidy. Your father was my commanding officer.”
She laughed at her. “That’s crazy.”
Beatrix ignored her. “You want to know why I want to speak to your father?” She paused and Cassidy started to interrupt, but Beatrix talked over her. “Ten years ago, your father ordered that two Russian agents in London had to be murdered. We thought it was a standard operation until I found out that he wanted them gone because they were about to expose him as a traitor. And when he found out that I knew what he was doing, he ordered five of my colleagues to murder me and my family.”
She paused, and this time Cassidy didn’t speak.
“They killed Isabella’s father. They shot me. And then, when they found out that I wasn’t as easy to kill as they thought I would be, they abducted Isabella and took her away from me. I had to go into hiding until last year. Your father killed my husband. He robbed me of the chance to see my little girl grow up. He took away the only two things I ever cared about.”
She pulled up the sleeve of her T-shirt to expose the four roses that had been tattooed onto her right shoulder and arm.
“You see these?”
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“Each one is for one of the people who ruined my life. There should be a fifth, but I haven’t had time to get that one done yet. There’s space for a sixth, too. And that one’s for your father.”
“You’re crazy,” she said again, although all the conviction was gone.
“What do you think he’s doing in America? What do you really think?”
“He’s here for work.”
“He’s here because he’s hiding from me. He’s been whoring himself to a private security company for years. He thinks that they can protect him. But he’s wrong. They can’t. No one can. After what he did to me, he might as well have put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Because no one can stop me, Cassidy. I am relentless. The other five thought that they could hide, but they’re all dead. Your father is the last name on my list. And you’re going to help me cross him off.”
