The Mission

by Naomi Kryske

  Casey was an effective team leader, and Davies had learnt a lot from him. The mental battle must be fought first, Casey was fond of saying. “Getting your mind straight,” he called it. But Casey hadn’t been able to do it when Jenny married Sinclair. The witness protection officers whom she had considered friends had been invited to the wedding in Texas. They had attended, eager to see at least part of the state they’d heard so much of. All except Casey. He had invented an excuse and had drunk the city dry while they were gone. Davies knew because he had called by Casey’s flat when he returned. A forest of empty bottles had greeted him. Clearly Casey wasn’t particular about what he drank. Or what he wore – his clothes looked slept in, and he hadn’t shaved in days.

  “What’s this about?” he had asked.

  “He’s bedding her. He’s having her,” Casey had replied in a thick voice.

  “Nothing’s changed, mate. They’ve been together for some time.”

  “She’s wed. She’s lost to me.”

  “She’ll be ringing you when she comes back. It won’t do for her to see you like this. Besides, she’s happy. It’s what we wanted, isn’t it? After what she went through? You’d rather see her happy with another man than see her unhappy, wouldn’t you?”

  Casey was silent.

  “Jenny’s parents had a do for us the night before the wedding, dinner at a steak restaurant. I had the 18-ounce prime rib. With shrimp. Sinclair was gracious; no senior officer attitude at all. And some of Jenny’s friends were lovely.”

  “How’d she look?” Casey asked.

  Davies handed him a photo. Jenny’s wedding had taken place in the afternoon. She had not worn a white dress. Her jacket, blouse, and skirt were more the colour of the champagne in the glass she held in her hand, with long sleeves, pearl buttons, and pearls around the collar and cuffs. A strand of pearls was woven into her dark hair. And, as always, she wore around her neck the pearl cross the protection team had given her. The scar on her cheek, although faint, was still visible, yet she had faced the camera head-on, unveiled, smiling.

  “She had a professional photographer. He even made Hunt look good.”

  “Even Hunt,” Casey echoed with a slight smile, remembering Jenny’s nickname for the protection officer whose aggressive ways had initially unsettled her.

  “You should’ve come, mate. She missed you. She’d have had a snap taken with you.”

  Davies watched Casey close his eyes briefly and turn the picture face down. “Listen to me, mate. It’s time to get on with it.”

  Casey’s voice was bitter. “Just what we told her on more than one occasion.”

  “True then and true now.”

  Slowly Casey nodded.

  Since that day Davies had never referred to Casey’s lapse. Casey had returned to duty, quieter and more focussed than ever. Now he addressed the waiting officers. “New intel didn’t change anything. It’s a go,” he said.

  CHAPTER 5

  Jenny’s entire fall was punctuated with breaking news reports. Were terrorist incidents around the world occurring more frequently or just being reported more fully now? Expecting to hear of another terrorist act became the norm, and days with stories only about the economy, crime, or the latest celebrity divorce were the unusual ones. The Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police had acted immediately, however, launching Operation Calm, in which extra officers were assigned to patrol possible target areas. He was taking steps to increase the size of the anti-terrorist squad, and Simon had reported that all specialist units were undergoing additional training. Unfortunately, none of these actions completely reassured her.

  The planes had flown into the towers on days when the skies had been clear and blue, so forecasts of cloudless skies worried her. She wanted dark, stormy days to fill the calendar, days on which air travel was curtailed or cancelled. Heavy thunderstorms and high winds spelled safety. Colin often had to remind her that the most important things in life stayed the same: faith, hope, and their love. Her parents also emphasized the positive, speaking of a new American camaraderie which the events of 9/11 had birthed, a wordless compassion that strangers in their community shared, instances when the individual experience and the universal fused.

  Still under the cloud of 9/11, she lay on the examination table waiting for Dr. Hannaford to come in and wondered how many babies had been born on that date, babies whose parents would struggle in future years to separate the joy of their child’s birth from the sorrow of the national loss.

  She hadn’t felt much compassion from the doctor; he never gave her as much information as she wanted, and his manner was abrupt. Why, she wondered, had he chosen this branch of medicine if he weren’t willing to deal with women’s feelings? Colin’s sister Jillian, who had recommended him to Jenny, hadn’t mentioned his brusque personality, but Jillian had conceived without difficulty and had had two normal pregnancies.

  He hadn’t found any medical reason to explain why she hadn’t conceived. She was young, healthy, and “nonspecifically infertile,” as he put it. It seemed so unfair! Each visit he simply recommended another test. It was hard waiting for him. Why were his patient rooms so stark? Unlike her dentist’s office in Houston – which had a TV screen in the ceiling and a remote so the patient could change the channel – these surroundings had nothing to distract her from what lay ahead. Her bottom half was covered by a sheet, but she still felt exposed. I love Colin, she told herself. He’ll be such a good father, patient and gentle. Maybe the baby will have his blue eyes.

  The door to the examining room opened. “Let’s get started, shall we?” the doctor said. He folded the sheet back and adjusted his light.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She heard him make a comment to the nurse and felt a sudden, sharp pain in her stomach, so strong that it made her dizzy. She cried out and gripped the sides of the examination table. The other tests hadn’t hurt like this! Why hadn’t he told her what to expect? Instead of calling it “discomfort.” Discomfort was when you bumped your knee, not when it felt like something had torn inside! “What are you doing to me?” she gasped.

  “Your uterus is contracting,” the doctor replied. “It’s a normal response.”

  Great, she thought. I had a labor pain without a baby.

  “I’m through for today,” the doctor continued. “See the appointments secretary before you leave.”

  Leave? Jenny didn’t think she could raise her head. And where was Colin?

  CHAPTER 6

  In a flat in far northeast London, the door was stuck again. Alcina Michalopolous pushed against it, hard, knowing her shoulder would be sore the next day as a result. She smiled bitterly at the irony: She had to try hard to enter a flat she wished she could leave. It was neat enough, of course. She had too few possessions now for it to be cluttered. But it was dark and small, the curtains smelled, and the rug was so threadbare she was surprised she hadn’t got splinters from the wood that lay beneath.

  They hadn’t lived in this flat when they first came to the city. Tony had been hired by a man from England who paid handsomely for his services, and she had been eager to come. The farther from her family the better. Tony didn’t talk about his work much, which suited her fine. All work was dull, and they had much more interesting things to share. They had a large, airy flat, fancy, and she had taken the job at Kosta’s Taverna just for something to do during the day. They didn’t need the money. Tony bought her jewellery and all the clothes she wanted, colourful clothes which complemented her thick black hair and olive skin and made Tony proud when they went out together. Of course, waitresses at Kosta’s were required to wear black. Tony had called those her “widow’s weeds.” Had that been an omen? Because the bad times had come, and now, although Tony wasn’t dead, she wore the colour that the widows in her native Greece wore.

  Seven years fat, seven years lean – that was in the Bible, but she knew that Tony could be gone much longer than seven years, and she was already thin. She’d had to move from t
he fancy flat and sell most of her jewellery, only keeping the pearl ring that the buyer had told her wasn’t worth much. She worked nights now as well as days. The tips were always better at night, but she needed even the meagre income from her day shifts.

  As she kicked off her shoes, she counted the money. She always tried to guess which patrons would be generous, those smug men with their mezedes and ouzo, their pastitsio and retsina. Sometimes she could win over those who might give less by swinging her hips when she walked by or brushing up against them.

  She hated everything English: their weather, their food, their pale skin. Their false politeness: Give them a chance, and they stabbed you in the back, like they had Tony. Their snobbery: They thought their ways were best, but their system of justice was a travesty. How could that jury have convicted Tony? She had been so angry when she heard the verdict she thought she would choke. A curse on all of them: the police, the prosecutor, all those who had given evidence. That man Scott, who had employed Tony, had been convicted of horrible crimes, but Tony hadn’t known about them, he had told her so. The man who’d worked with Tony had run. The stupid English police hadn’t been able to find him, of course. He could have vouched for Tony, she was sure of it. Tony had never run from anything.

  The only thing their precious evidence proved was that he had been in that house. Not when or why. The real evidence had pointed to others. Why should Tony suffer because he had been with the wrong crowd? He had sworn to her that he had done none of it.

  It would take all of tomorrow, the trip to and from the prison. She hated the trains.

  CHAPTER 7

  Casey and his team waited in the van for the Go! Go! Go! from the senior firearms officer. They were all suited and booted, their Fives ready. His eyes travelled over the group. Davies was solid, steady, and surprisingly quick on his feet for a big man. As stick man, he would force compliance if any of the suspects were slow to obey commands. Aidan Traylor, the newest and youngest team member, had scored exceptionally well in training, but the lean, affable, soft-spoken man would never say so. Performance on the Job was what counted, and he had yet to prove himself. Because their ops required rapid but not sudden movement, less experienced men could struggle to control the surge of adrenaline that was necessary for energy, quick strength, and alertness. Others might baulk or hesitate, so Traylor would be among the last to make entry. Fortunately he’d already learnt not to waste energy. A vein throbbing high in his forehead was the only sign of tension that showed through his dark, close-cropped hair.

  Casey couldn’t recall Watkins’ first name. Predictably, the fanatic weightlifter who was their method of entry man was called Moe. Dancer, the wiry Welshman with dark eyes and darker brows, had tripped on a training exercise – only the once, but it was sufficient to earn Brice Dermott the name. Donny Miller, or Sleepy, known for his ability to zone out during down times, was heavy lidded even now, his dirty blond hair slightly rumpled.

  Casey was certain they had names for him less flattering than Doc. He had been the team medic before becoming team leader, although all of them knew some first aid and carried not only field dressings but, in case of burns, clingfilm to cover the affected area. He pushed them hard during training and practices, knowing that in times of stress, individuals did not generally rise to meet an unusual challenge but sank to the level of their training. There must be no missed signals, no missteps. Even in training, injuries were always possible, and this morning’s exercise was no drill. These early morning spins carried no guarantee of success. Sometimes intelligence was faulty. Once the suspects had still been awake from the night before. The speed of their entry allowed no time for assessment, yet they needed to be perfect every time. He’d not like to lose anyone.

  Many of his mates were married or had partners, like Clive Hewlett, an ex-smoker who would have a wad of gum in his mouth even now. Their loved ones worried. Jenny said she did; he wondered how much. Or Amanda, his latest flame. He thought not, but they got on well. He played hard when he was off duty, and Amanda kept up with him. A few drinks and she’d be running her fingers up his thighs and asking if he were willing to “share.” He liked her long hair, dark like Jenny’s, and her long legs, particularly when they were wrapped round him.

  “Go! Go! Go!” he heard through his covert earpiece. He relayed the command through the microphone secreted in his body armour. The team exited the van quietly and quickly in the thinning dark that preceded dawn, their black uniforms and gear providing further cover as they approached the target area. Not a word would be spoken until they’d made entry. Noise travelled too well at night, and they had no intention of telegraphing their arrival.

  Davies’ long legs covered the distance easily. Moe, carrying the enforcer, his preferred tool for gaining access, was followed by Hugh McGill, the Scotsman, who would assist him. Ross Pilner, also known as Pilsner, was a true lager lout but the unflappable ex-Army bloke was reliable on the Job, as was Marty Dyer, who muzzled his constant chat with difficulty until the raid was done. The rookie Traylor chugged along behind them. In moments all had reached the stairs. Not far now.

  They were in. The suspects were jarred from a dead sleep by the full-throated screams of “Armed police! Armed police! Hit the floor! Hit the floor! Now! Now!” Because the barrels of their MP5s were only inches away, the baddies were too stunned to resist. Sudden extreme noise was a very effective way to take control fast.

  In seconds it was over. The bad guys were down. Not a shot fired. Once again stealth, speed, and surprise had given them the necessary edge. They plasticuffed the occupants of the squalid flat and withdrew from the scene. It was secure for the locals to sort out. Their work was done. Good job all round. Time to return to base and put on a brew.

  CHAPTER 8

  Jenny and Beth were lunching at the Hampstead Tea Rooms, a fixture on South End Road for over thirty years. Business must have been good; its peach-tinged walls were covered with watercolor paintings the owners had never found the time to adjust from their odd angles. Jenny always had fun with Beth, who was closer to her own age than the wives of Colin’s colleagues. Slightly taller than Jenny, she had bouncy dark curls that matched her light-hearted, bubbly personality. Brian adored her.

  “Ice and slice?” the waitress asked Beth when she ordered her still water.

  “Lemon, yes,” Beth answered. “And I’ll have the club.”

  “Salad with that?”

  Beth nodded, knowing that she would receive lettuce, tomato, and cucumber on her sandwich, not a separate bowl of greens with dressing.

  Jenny ordered orange juice to go with her omelette instead of still or sparkling water.

  “Have you heard the latest about Simon?” Beth asked as their food was delivered. “He broke it off with his girlfriend. Somehow his relationships never last very long! But he already has another: Amanda. That almost sounds posh, doesn’t it? She’s rather wild, though.”

  “I wish he’d find someone and settle down,” Jenny answered. “He’s a good man. He’s been calling more frequently since 9/11, which means a lot. He doesn’t talk much about what he does, though, privately or professionally.” She tasted her ham and cheese omelette.

  “Usually Brian doesn’t tell me about a raid until it’s past, but I worry all the same. He’s such a big target! I don’t know why he’s not in crowd control or something. And his hours are terrible – so many early mornings.” She cut her club sandwich in half and took a bite. “Love this baguette,” she mumbled. “Better than bread. Jenny, you’re lucky. Colin has regular hours, and he’s never in the line of fire. What does the doctor say?”

  That was Beth: changing subjects like quicksilver. “Not much. And Colin hasn’t been with me since the first appointment.”

  Beth laughed. “I don’t expect so! Blokes don’t like that sort of thing. I don’t know how you got him to go even once.”

  It was too wet to sit outside, and because of the personal nature of their conversation, Jenny was glad
they were at one of the tables in the recessed nook instead of near the large front windows that looked out onto the street. “He certainly likes the rest of it – the frequent sex the doctor recommended. I do, too, but I’m beginning to feel used. Sometimes I think it isn’t about me, I’m just the means for getting a baby.”

  “He’s good to you, though, Jenny. He’s thoughtful, and he never tells you to watch what you spend, like Brian does me.”

  Jenny took another bite of her omelette. “That’s true,” she mumbled, chewing quickly. “He’s generous. It’s just that he seems to think sex is the solution for everything. Better than tea.”

  Beth chuckled.

  “The other night we had a real fight,” Jenny continued. “Since 9/11 and the doctor visits, I’ve needed more reassurance from him, and he comes home late and then is tired when he gets there. Not too tired for sex, of course, but too tired to romance me much. Then he tells me I shouldn’t be so dependent.”

  Beth nodded. “Sometimes Brian wants me to depend on him, and sometimes he doesn’t. I can never predict! He wants me to be able to make decisions without him but not to tell him what to do. But I thought the sex was better when we were trying to have a baby.” She ate some of the fruit that came with her sandwich. “We’re thinking on having another. Wouldn’t it be keen if we were pregnant at the same time? I know it’s difficult now, but you’ll love being pregnant. After the morning sickness passes, that is. And when you’re pregnant, you can’t get enough! Brian was over the top! Compensation, I guess, for the time after the baby’s born when sex is off limits for a while. But don’t think about that now,” she laughed. “Enjoy yourself!”