by RJ Bailey
I strap the medi-pack back on. A shower of grit breaks over us from a mortar shell. Freddie grabs her rifle. We are governed by the LOAC, the internationally accepted (apart from insurgents such as the Taliban) Law of Armed Conflict. We are medics, it says, not combat troops. We can fire in self-defence. We can engage if we think our casualties are in danger. Freddie has a broad interpretation of this – you can lay down covering and suppressing fire for a colleague and if you hit an enemy, then tough titty. I fully endorse this attitude.
As I grab the top of the trench, I can hear engines over the residual hum in my ears. I look up. Three Apache helicopters. Flame bursts from the sides of the lead one, the reassuring whoosh of the solid-fuel rocket engine reaches us later. He has let his Hellfires go. The ground shakes as the thermobaric warheads create fireballs and the ground ripples beneath my feet with the rolling detonations. Part of the ditch wall collapses. The other choppers unleash the air-to-surface missiles and the air feels alive and squirming, like it is made of invisible snakes. Spirals of black smoke climb to sully the blue sky. I suspect the atomised enemy mortars and their crews are in there somewhere.
Our casualty groans. Freddie pours some water on his lips. His eyes flicker open. ‘OK, Jones. The party is over, the Apaches just toasted them. We can get you out of here now.’ Freddie lifts the radio handset to order a casevac, now the chopper won’t be flying into a mortar zone.
‘I’ll let you know what Cat the other casualty is.’
I pull myself out of the ditch, feeling suddenly naked, even though the gunfire has ceased. I begin my jog over to the bunkhouse. The pack almost unbalances me, but I hump it higher onto my shoulders. I’ve gone five or six steps when the bullet finds me. It really is like being hit by a truck. I am spun around almost a hundred and eighty degrees and I go down hard. I wait for the pain. It’s on time. I feel like I am being branded.
Freddie drags me back into the ditch and cuts the straps of my pack. I can feel her fingers probing and I scream.
‘Lucky bitch. In and out. Lie still.’ She puts a clean dressing round the back so the bacteria-laden dirt can’t get into the exit wound.
‘Is it near . . .?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘Not unless you were planning to give birth through your waist. You’re going to keep the baby.’
And I did.
FORTY-TWO
Neither phone was working. Not the Nokia, not Sharif’s. Again, brilliant technology until you really, really need it, and then it decides to fuck up. I tried Nina on speed dial, then punching in the numbers manually, but I had zero coverage.
‘Fuck,’ I snarled. I was a hair’s breadth away from smashing the damn phone on the dashboard.
‘What is wrong?’ asked Asma as we jerked to a halt outside the Asparovs’ front door. It opened and there was the reassuring figure of Elliott, framed by a silvery light.
‘Look, I’ve got to go. You’ll be OK here.’
‘What? Go where?’ There was panic in her eyes at the thought of being abandoned.
Elliott gave his habitual bend at the waist. ‘Welcome back, ma’am.’
‘Can I use a landline?’ I asked him. ‘I can’t get a signal.’
‘There is one in the main reception room, ma’am.’
‘Where’s Tom? Mr Buchan?’
‘Also in the main reception room.’
I shoved the Glock in my waistband – the ‘Safe Action’ system to prevent accidental discharge really does work – and if the sight of the gun gave Elliott pause for thought he didn’t show it.
‘Aren’t we close to Highgate?’ Asma asked as she got out of the car.
‘Yeah, your parents’ place is not much more than a mile away. But don’t worry, nobody knows we’re here. And Elliott will lock it down tight once I go. Won’t you, Elliott?’
‘Indeed, ma’am,’ he said with just a touch of glumness. I guess he didn’t sign up for hosting a ragbag of fugitives.
The house felt oddly sepulchral as we walked down the hallway, past the office where I had first been interviewed a lifetime ago, and the lift down to the gym, our footsteps echoing about the lofty ceilings. The only sign of habitation was a faint grace note of smoke, either pipe or cigar, in the air.
‘Elliott, can you get Ms Sha . . .’ Then I remembered myself. ‘Ms Abbas something to eat?’
My own stomach rumbled – when did I last eat? A sandwich, but I tossed that onto Jack’s tarmac. But more importantly I was desperate for the lavatory. Buster was back – I had to have a pee. ‘Is there a loo down here?’ I asked Elliott.
He pointed to a door we had just passed. ‘Great. I’ll catch you up.’
It was mock-Victorian, full of cutesy Pears soap ads and Dickensian drawings and came complete with a high-level cistern with a chain pull. The lighting, though, was ultra-modern bright and the mirror unforgiving. I peeled the round of plaster off my cheek and looked at the crater from which I had removed the pellet. It was going to look like I had one hell of a smallpox scar. I replaced it with another from the Elastoplast pack I had got from Okan, then, carefully placing the gun on the sink edge, sat and emptied my bladder.
When I had finished and wiped, I hitched up my jeans and put the Glock back in my waistband. I splashed water on my face and pulled my hair back. I needed something to hold it in place, but the various wall cabinets contained nothing so useful as a hairband, so I let it fall again. Still, the reflection in the mirror was marginally better now. I looked at my phone again. Still no coverage. I thought of the way I had been betrayed and, harder than intended, punched the glass. A jagged crack appeared, distorting my face. I looked like a Mr Hyde version of myself.
‘Put it on the tab,’ I said to my fractured face.
I bustled out of the lavatory, determined to be on my way as quickly as possible while the anger still burned within me. I could hear voices and I followed them down the hall.
I stepped into a large room clearly partly inspired by the Palace at Versailles, what with its Christmas-tree of a chandelier, elaborate plaster wall panels, enormous portraits of people you wished were your ancestors, gilded mirrors and white, embroidered sofas and padded seats. It was the sort of room that demanded you wear a periwig. As advertised, Tom Buchan was there.
I just didn’t expect to find him hog-tied to one of those fancy chairs.
I scanned the room from right to left as usual, but you didn’t need any formal PPO training to know what was wrong with this particular picture. Tom was strapped to the chair with gaffer tape. Asma was on a sofa, shaking. Next to her, smoking a small cheroot, was a relaxed-looking Swincoe. Not MI5, of course, but working on The Circuit. I wondered who was paying his wages. Whatever was happening, this was what we called an OTT-plot, a long-play scenario named, not for being over-the-top, although they often were, but the founder of the International Bodyguard Association, famous for his elaborate ploys. Major Lucien Victor Ott was long dead, but his penchant for deception and mischief playing lived on.
Elliott was standing to my left, as stiff as a cigar-store Indian, and I gave him a look that should have seared a hole in his forehead. He returned a small, apologetic shrug.
But it was the two men standing by the grand piano who really took the wind out of my sails, although it probably shouldn’t have. After all, an OTT-plot sometimes required grand deception and misdirection. And I had been misdirected all right. The pair I hoped never to see again were both smiling at my obvious shock and dismay. One Russian, one Serbian.
‘Welcome back,’ said Bojan.
‘Please, sit down,’ said Swincoe.
I looked at the phone in my hand. I needed to make that call.
‘Don’t bother,’ said Mitval. ‘The house has been numbrella’d.’
Even I knew that a numbrella was a blanketing device invented by the Israelis to prevent calls from mobile phones. The idea was to stop anyone setting off an IED by phone when its troops raided a house. I could see a regular, old-fashioned telephone on a small ta
ble close to the piano. I looked at it greedily.
‘I need to call my daughter,’ I said to Swincoe. ‘It’s not about . . . about this. It’s personal. You have my word.’
‘No calls,’ he replied, sucking on his cheroot. ‘Not now at any rate. If you will put the gun down at your feet before you sit down. Thank you.’
I did as I was told. Now Bojan came over and patted me down. He found the knife and the air pistol. He relieved me of my phones, too. He carried on with the search, paying particular attention to my breasts.
‘Careful, they’re programmed to explode if handled incorrectly.’
‘I look forward to seeing them without all the armour on them.’
If I had been in possession of exploding tits I would happily have detonated them right there and then. ‘I thought you were under arrest.’
He laughed in my face. I could smell the sweetness of alcohol. ‘’Fraid not.’
‘And Vuk? That was a ploy?’
‘No, Vuk is dead,’ said Bojan with some satisfaction. ‘Vuk was an arsehole. Vuk was talking about doing a deal with the ICC. He had to be got rid of. Two birds with one stone . . .’ The ICC was the International Criminal Court in The Hague. So Bojan needed to shut him up and Swincoe needed a way to convince me he was the real deal, an MI5 operative. What better way than to kill a man before my very eyes?
Bojan picked up the Glock and walked back, placing my entire arsenal on the closed mirror-finished lid of the piano.
‘Sit,’ repeated Swincoe.
I did so, trying to keep as calm as possible. I looked at Tom, but he was wise enough to keep quiet. I didn’t want a man promising me it would be all right, we’d get out of here somehow. We were outnumbered, outgunned, out-manoeuvred.
‘How did you know I’d come here?’
It was Mitval who answered. ‘We recognised the Porsche.’
‘Very distinctive colour,’ added Bojan.
‘So you were tailing me from the airfield?’
‘In two cars,’ said Mitval. ‘So your little stunt didn’t inconvenience us too much. How is the Porsche?’
‘A wreck,’ I confessed.
‘The Jaguar too,’ admitted Mitval, without much irritation. I wondered if that was Asparov’s too. That was quite a bill we were racking up.
‘So what’s the plan now?’ I asked Swincoe.
‘Where’s Lawrence?’
‘In Asma’s flat.’
‘Alive?’
‘With what we technically call a flesh wound. I dressed it before I left. I doubt he would have done the same for me.’
‘You know, you really have been so very troublesome. Not what we were led to believe at all.’
‘So Lawrence said. He seemed to think I should just walk away.’
‘But you won’t, will you?’
‘That’s not the point. The point is you can’t be sure what I’d do if you let me go. Would I keep my mouth shut? Who knows?’
‘She would. We both would,’ said Tom, looking at me as if I had taken leave of my senses. ‘You’d have my word.’
I shook my head at him. The amused look on Swincoe’s face at the thought of Tom’s ‘word’ being worth anything told me I was thinking along the right lines. Any promises we made or guarantees we tried to make were just hot air. They weren’t going to let us go. Not at this stage.
‘So, you’re not MI5,’ I said to Swincoe. ‘You’ve been hired to disgrace the Sharif family by an outfit back in Pakistan. Right?’
‘Close enough.’
‘Matrix A?’
It was his turn to look surprised and possibly impressed. ‘Very good.’
‘Matrix A has the Pakistani Cricket Board contract,’ I said to Tom. ‘Cricket is a pretty corrupt game over there. Who is to say the PPOs don’t get infected.’ I turned back to Swincoe. ‘So, the whole business with those two clowns over here was set up to make me think you were MI5.’
‘It was a bit of late improvisation. When we found out someone was following you, we made it our business to find out who and why. We found Mitval and Bojan. Bojan there gave us Vuk to dispose of, you were then convinced we were after Blade of Islam.’
‘And Asparov? In on it too?’
‘No,’ said Swincoe. ‘Asparov is a man blinded by love.’
‘There must be simpler ways to dislodge Sharif.’
‘There is. Kill him. But we dismissed that. In the event of his death, Mrs Sharif gets control. And after that, Nuzha. The family balked at mass murder.’ He sounded disappointed. ‘The thing is, we can still release the computer files that you discovered. We have already recovered the drive from your friend at the airfield. It wasn’t the only one, but it was inconvenient to have a duplicate in other hands.’
‘Jack? And his son? Did you hurt them?’
‘They saw reason,’ Swincoe said softly, in a tone I found chilling.
‘I need to call my daughter.’
‘So you keep saying. The answer is still no.’ He turned to Elliott. ‘When is Asparov due back?’
‘Ten days, sir.’
‘That’s plenty of time to bring the Sharif empire tumbling down. Especially now we have the lovely Asma.’
The girl let out a frightened sob.
‘Oh, don’t worry, all we need is some, shall we say, candid shots of you naked. Showing the world what a freak Sharif has for a son. Or should I say daughter? Perhaps he is Sharif’s very own ladyboy.’
‘I am not a ladyboy,’ Asma hissed.
Swincoe gave a bemused smile. ‘Have it your way. But anyone who looks to see if those photos are doctored will be unpleasantly surprised.’
‘And what about us?’ I asked.
‘Well, I’ve been thinking about that. Mitval here has been showing me the panic room. You two might be quite cosy in there for a week or so. Get to know each other a little better. I’m afraid we will have to disable the switch that opens the door, and the one that summons help from an outside security force, but once we’ve done the job . . . Elliott tells me there are plenty of provisions.’
There was something in the leering way he said ‘get to know each other a little better’ which suggested he already knew that we were more than friends. ‘Did you torch the boat?’ I asked. ‘Tom’s boat?’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because he knew the truth about how Paul died. And therefore that you were bullshitting me. And I was stupid enough to tell you about him.’
‘Neverthless, it wasn’t me.’
Swincoe looked over at Bojan and Mitval. They both shook their heads.
‘Not us.’
I closed my eyes. If I was locked away for a week, God knows what might happen to Jess. Especially if they did release those computer files. If the authorities could find her to put her into care, that is . . . I needed to speak to Nina.
‘Look, I really do need to call my daughter.’
‘Change the bloody record, will you?’ Swincoe snarled. Then he took a breath and spoke more evenly. ‘I’ll tell you what. We are not monsters. Write a note saying you have been called away on business for a few days and we’ll make sure—’
‘No!’ My voice was unnaturally loud in the room and the single word seemed to hang around for an age. ‘You don’t understand. She’ll be gone.’ The thought detonated a pipe bomb going off in my chest and when I closed my eyes I felt tears squeeze out onto my cheeks. ‘He’ll take her.’
‘Your domestic problems are no concern of ours. If you had just done your job for MI5, like you thought, none of this would have happened.’
‘Fuck you,’ I said, with all the feeling I could muster. ‘Fuck you.’
A shrug. ‘Mitval, perhaps you and Bojan can take these two to the panic room. I’ll set up for the photographs of our little hermaphrodite friend here.’
‘Hold on. You promised.’ It was Bojan, stepping forward from his place at the piano to stand in front of Swincoe. ‘Remember?’
‘Promised what exactly?’ But I could tel
l Swincoe was teasing. He knew perfectly well what the Serb meant.
Bojan looked at me. ‘A return match.’
FORTY-THREE
‘What sort of return match?’
‘Shush.’
We had been deposited in the panic/safe room, the all-white, tasteful one that Asparov had shown me, while Bojan ‘got a few things ready’, whatever that meant. I was in no mood to admire the décor, the modern art or indeed listen to Tom. Only one thing was going through my mind: Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess.
And to get to Jess I had to get out of this house.
‘I want to know what he is talking about,’ Tom insisted.
‘Don’t speak to me,’ I snapped. ‘I have to think.’
I began at the beginning, the call summoning me back to the PPO world, through Bojan and Mitval’s novel interview technique, the Sharifs, Swincoe’s rescue at the church, the ‘chance’ meeting with Tom at the canal.
Tom.
I looked at him, opening cupboards and pulling out drawers, trying to keep busy. Who are you, Tom Buchan, with your cock and bull stories about Albanians and why my husband was murdered? What were the odds of you pitching up along my canal? But I was beginning to think everyone I thought I could trust had betrayed me. All it needed was for Freddie, Nina and Jack to be hookey and I had a full set.
‘What do you think happens if there is a fire in here?’ he asked, rapping a knuckle on the wall.
‘Those circles on the ceiling blow off as sprinklers descend. Might be foam, too. There’s steel cladding, too, probably. Fireproofed. You’re wasting your time thinking we can burn our way out.’
He pulled out some tinned food from a cupboard. ‘We could live here for ten days, easily.’
I meant to laugh at the ludicrousness of that, but it came out as a strange honking noise. ‘Look, what’s happening?’ he asked, coming over.
