Remote Control ns-1

by Andy McNab

  She looked up at me. There was a slight smile under the tears. If she was right, what we had was one of the people who killed Kev coming out of an office that was fronting for PIRA.

  There was still more tape to run. I tried to sound upbeat.

  "OK then, let's have a look and see if we can see the other men. They were black, too, weren't they?"

  "No, they were white."

  "Oh yes, of course."

  We went on through the tape. I came out with a possible ID of Nelson Mandela, and she saw Michael Jackson. Apart from that, jack shit.

  "Can we go home now and show this to Daddy? Maybe he's better now. You said we could, if we saw anyone."

  I was digging myself deeper.

  "No, not yet. I have to make sure that this is the man who came to see Daddy. But not long now, not long."

  I lay on the bed, pretending to read the fishing magazine.

  She knew who they were. My heart was beating loud and slow.

  I was trying to keep to my game plan of concentrating only on the matter at hand, but I couldn't. Why would Kev be killed by people who knew him? Had it been Luther and company?

  It must have been. What did Kev know, or what was he involved in? Why would he tell me about his problem if he were corrupt? Was the DEA investigating PIRA and drug dealing?

  Maybe Kev was, and the murders were carried out by PIRA or the drug dealers because of something he had done or was about to do? But why did they know him?

  Conjecture would get me nowhere. It was just a waste of time and effort. Kelly was stretched out beside me, looking at the magazine. It was a strange feeling having her head on my chest. I moved my arm around her to look at my watch. She thought I was going to cuddle her.

  It was nearly time for Pat to call. I got up and switched on the mobile phone, then stood by the window, pulling a gap in the curtain, looking at the highway through the rain, deciding on my next move. I tried to think of a good RV It wouldn't be secure to meet again at the shopping mall.

  Right on time the phone rang.

  "Hello?"

  "Hello, mate." I could hear the traffic going past a phone booth.

  "Things are happening," I said.

  "I need an RV" "In two hours, is that OK?"

  "Two hours. Union Station all right for you?"

  "Er... Union yep, no problem." He sounded spaced out.

  I'd traveled through it a few times and could remember the layout.

  "Come in through the main entrance," I said.

  "Go up to the top floor, to the coffee bar facing the stairs. Buy a cup of coffee, sit down, and wait. I'll pick you up there, OK?"

  There was a long, worrying pause.

  "Is that OK, Pat?"

  "I'll be there. See ya." The line went dead.

  Union Station is so grand and elegant that it should be in Paris, not here in the home of cinder block and dark wood veneer At most major railway stations in the world you expect to find the seedier side of life, but not at Union. The ticketing, check-in, and baggage-handling areas look like part of a modern airport. There's even a first-class lounge. You don't see the trains because they're behind screens, and in any case you'd be much too distracted by the shopping mall, the food court, the coffee shops, even a multiplex cinema. More important for me, however, I'd remembered it as a big, busy lo cation, and because of the Easter holiday I knew there'd be a big transient population of people from out of town who would know nothing of the events on Hunting Bear Path.

  A cab got us to the station early. There was just under an hour to fill, so I made the most of it shopping for items I'd be needing for the reconnaissance of the PIRA office, besides the stuff I'd already bought at Wal-Mart. Now that Kelly had recognized the black guy, the only option was to get in there and have a look around.

  I bought a Polaroid camera and six packs of film; a pair of cheap and nasty polyester coveralls, more rolls of gaffer's tape and Scotch tape; heavy-duty scissors that promised I could cut through a shiny new penny with them; a Leatherman, a tool that's a bit like a Swiss Army knife; running shoes; rubber gloves; batteries; Saran Wrap; a plastic bottle of orange juice with a large spout; a box of push pins; a dozen eggs; and a quartz kitchen clock, nine inches in diameter. Kelly looked at it all and raised an eyebrow, but didn't ask.

  By 1:40 I had a couple of shopping bags full of gear, as well as the books and time-wasters I'd had to put in her basket to keep her involved.

  I remembered the beautiful tiled floor in the entrance hall, but I'd forgotten the cathedral ceilings. In the middle was a rotunda with a newsstand and groups of tables outside.

  Above it, reached by a flight of stairs, was a restaurant. It was absolutely perfect for what I needed.

  We were greeted at the top by a waitress.

  I smiled.

  "Table for two, please."

  I pointed to a table right at the back.

  "Can we have that one?"

  We sat down, and I put the bags under the table. I couldn't see the main entrance, but I'd be able to see Pat heading toward the coffee shop because that was farther into the main part of the station and up a level.

  The waitress came to take our drink order. I asked for two Cokes and said, "I'm ready to order now, if that's all right?

  We'll take a nine-inch pizza."

  Kelly looked up.

  "Can we have extra mushrooms?"

  I nodded at the waitress and she left.

  Kelly smiled.

  "Mommy and me both like extra mushrooms. Daddy says we're like forest pixies!" She smiled again, wanting a reaction.

  "That's nice," I said. This was a conversation that needed nipping in the bud.

  Kelly got stuck into her Coke, enjoying being able to watch real people for a change.

  Pat was early, wearing the same clothes as a VDM visual distinguishing mark. Either that or the fucker simply hadn't changed. As he walked past and below me, something about him didn't seem right. There was a very slight stagger in his stride, and I knew it hadn't come from drinking too much beer. I feared the worst.

  I continued my checks, covering his back to protect my own.

  I gave it about five minutes, got up, and said to Kelly, "I have to go to the men's room. I won't be long." On the way out I asked the waitress to keep an eye on Kelly and our bags.

  Another set of doors took me into the main ticketing and train area. The place was heaving; half of the USA must have been on the move. Even the air-conditioning was finding it too much: the combination of heat and humidity from the people made it feel like a greenhouse. I joined the packed crowds slowly shuffling up to the top floor.

  He was in line at the coffee shop, about three or four people ahead of him. Very hale and hearty, I went over and slapped him on the back.

  "Pat! What are you doing here?"

  Reciprocating my big smile, he said, "I'm here to meet somebody." His pupils were as big as saucers.

  "Me, too. You got time for a Mickey D's?"

  "Yeah, yeah, why not?"

  We started to walk beyond the coffee shop, following exit signs through automatic doors, and took the escalator up to the multi story parking garage.

  Pat was a step or two above. He looked down at me, puzzled.

  "What the fuck's a Mickey D's?"

  "McDonald's," I said, as if he should have known. But then he didn't have a seven-year-old on his case day and night.

  "Come on, Pat, get with the program!"

  He started to do a Michael Jackson moon dance

  By now we were nearly at the bus station level. I said, "If there's a drama, I'm going to the bus station area, turning right and out an exit."

  "Fine. No problem!" He sounded OK but looked like shit.

  The cars were on the two levels above. We walked up the bare concrete stairs, stopped at the first level, and got into a position that looked back the way we had come.

  I didn't have time to fuck around.

  "Two things, mate. I've got a list here I didn't
fancy reading to you over the phone." I passed it over.

  "I need all that stuff. And the other thing what's the score on the money?"

  He was already looking at the small notebook I'd handed him. Either he was amazed at the contents or he couldn't focus. Without looking up he said, "I got some money for you today. But fucking hell, most of it's going to be used up on this stuff. I'll be able to get you some more, probably to morrow or the day after. Fuck me." He shook his head.

  "When do you want all this by?" He then started to giggle as if he'd just cracked a joke in his head and wasn't going to share it with me.

  "Actually, tonight, mate. You think you can do it, or what?"

  I moved my head to get eye-to-eye with him.

  The giggle became a laugh until he saw me looking serious. He cleared his throat and tried to switch on.

  "I'll do my best, mate. I'll see what I can get on this list."

  "I'd really fucking appreciate it," I said.

  "Don't let me down. Pat. I really need your help." I hoped the urgency was going to register with him. I was still checking down the stairs.

  "Also at the back there" I opened the page for him to make sure he saw it "I've put a casual pickup I need that to happen at 2300 tonight."

  Pat was looking at the RV notes. I bent my knees to lower myself and moved his face over so I could get eye-to-eye again.

  "Eleven o'clock tonight, mate, eleven o'clock, OK?"

  I knew Pat well enough to tell he knew it was serious. He knew he was fucked up and was trying hard to understand everything I said.

  I was glad now that I'd put the details down on paper for him. He looked as if he needed all the help he could get.

  "What do you drive?" I asked.

  "A red Mustang." He pushed his face closer to mine.

  "Redder than Satan's balls!" He enjoyed the joke so much he couldn't help laughing.

  "Leave via H Street." I pointed away from the rear of the station.

  "See you tonight then." He smiled, moving off. From behind I could see a slight veer to the left as he walked.

  I waited and checked he wasn't being followed, then went on up toward the parking level, making it look as if I were off to my car. From there I took the elevator back down to the coffee shop.

  I went back toward the restaurant, stood off, and watched.

  Kelly was still struggling with the pizza.

  "What took you so long?" she said through a mouthful of mushrooms.

  "They ran out of toilet paper." I laughed as I rejoined her.

  She thought about it a moment and did the same. As soon as we got back to the hotel I put the TV on for Kelly and dumped out the shopping bags on my bed. She asked me what I was doing.

  "I'm just helping Pat. You can watch the TV if you want.

  You hungry?"

  "No." She was right; after a pizza the size of a tank mine, it was a stupid question.

  I picked up the big red-and-white-framed quartz kitchen clock and sat in the chair by the window. I broke off the frame until I was left with just the hands and clock face with the quartz mechanics behind it. By bending it very gently, I now started to break off the plastic face. When there was just about an inch of jagged remains around the center of the hands, I finally snapped off the hour and second hands. Only the minute hand was left. I put in a new battery.

  Kelly was watching.

  "Now what are you doing. Nick?"

  "It's a trick. Once I've finished I'll show you, OK?"

  "OK." She turned back to the TV, but with one eye on me.

  I took the egg carton over to the wastebasket and tipped out its contents. I ripped off the top and half of the bottom so that there were just six compartments left. With Scotch tape I fashioned a small sleeve running all the way up the side of the carton, just big enough to accommodate the minute hand. I called over to Kelly, who was humming the theme to a soap.

  "Do you want to see what this does?"

  She looked intrigued as I slotted the carton onto the minute hand.

  The nightstand was about four inches below the level of the TV's controls. I positioned the clock on it so it was directly below the infrared sensor on the set and secured it in place with gaffer tape.

  Kelly was taking even more interest.

  "What are you doing?"

  "See the remote? Use it to turn the sound up."

  She did. "Now turn it down. OK." I bet you that in about fifteen minutes you can't turn the sound up." I joined her on the bed.

  "Both of us must sit here and not move, OK?"

  "OK." She thought I was going to do something to the remote and smiled as she hid it under the pillow.

  It was quite nice really, watching TV during some downtime, apart from every minute hearing, "Is it fifteen minutes yet?"

  "No, only seven." By now the egg carton, attached to the minute hand, was working its way up toward the base of the TV.

  When the egg carton was upright and obscuring the sensor, I said, "Go on then, try to turn the sound up."

  She did, and nothing happened.

  "Maybe it's the battery?" I teased.

  We put a fresh battery into the remote. Still nothing. She couldn't figure it out, and I wasn't going to explain my trick.

  "Magic!" I grinned.

  I extracted the rest of the gear, drank some of the orange juice and rinsed out the container, made sure that all the electrical equipment had fresh batteries, and prepared everything to be packed.

  It was about 10:20, and Kelly was asleep. I'd have to wake her up and tell her I was going because I didn't want her to get up and start worrying. At times I thought she was just a pain in the neck, but I did want to protect her. She looked so innocent playing starfish again. What would happen to her after all this, I wondered--presuming she survived.

  I tested everything again, unplugged the mobile and put it in my pocket, and finally checked my weapon and made sure I had some cash. I picked up a half-empty pack of cookies to eat on the way.

  Close to her ear, I whispered, "Kelly!"

  I got no response. I shook her a bit. She stirred and I said, "I've put the TV on low so you can watch it if you want--I've got to go out for a couple of minutes."

  "Yeah."

  I didn't know if she understood or not. I preferred telling her this when she was half-asleep.

  "Don't put the lock on this time because I'll take the key. I don't want to wake you when I come in, OK?"

  I left, and went down in the elevator and onto the road. The highway traffic rumbled above me. At last, no rain, just air that smelled damp.

  I turned left and walked in the opposite direction from the usual, just for one last check. I munched on the cookies as I walked past the target. All the same lights were on; nothing had changed. I wondered if the homeless bloke was underneath, waiting with a chain saw for somebody else to piss on him. I quickened my pace to meet Pat on time. I got to the highway and turned right, following the road, with the roar of traffic above me.

  The road swung right, and I started to leave the highway behind. Soon there was a vacant lot on both sides, and the sound of traffic receded. I could hear my footsteps again. To my right were more car pounds. How could Washington be in such a financial mess when the city must be making a fortune on towed vehicles? To my left there were the new, jerry built office-cum-workshops. I got to the first one, moved off the road into its shadow, and waited.

  It was bizarre to be only a few hundred yards from the Pentagon and possibly right under the nose of the people who'd like to see me dead. It was also quite a thrill. It always had been. Pat had a term for it; he called it "the juice."

  I heard an engine coming toward me. I looked around the corner of the building. Just one vehicle. It must be him. I pulled my pistol.

  The red Mustang drew up. I was in a semi crouch fire position, aiming at the driver with my Sig until it stopped. It was Pat. I could see his Roman nose silhouetted in the ambient light from the airport.

  Pistol
still in hand, I walked over to the passenger door and opened it; the interior light didn't come on. I got in and closed the door gently, onto its first click only.

  Pat had his hand on the hand brake and slowly released it to move off. From a distance it's very difficult to tell whether a car is stopping if you can't see brake lights. That was why Pat was using the hand brake with no interior light coming on and no noise of a car door shutting, the pickup would have been very hard to clock.

  Checking the road behind us, I said, "Turn right at the next intersection."

  There was no time to fuck around; he knew it and I knew it.

  Pat said, "Everything's in the back, in that duffel." He'd come down from whatever high he'd been on and sounded quite embarrassed.

  I leaned over and lifted out the laptop. I said, "Is the sound turned off?" When Windows 95 came up, I didn't want the Microsoft sound playing.

  He made a face that let me know I was a dickhead for even asking. We both laughed; it broke the ice.

  We came up to the concrete wall. As we passed the hotel I was careful not to turn my head. We turned right under the highway and pulled up at stop lights on the other side.

  I said, "Go straight and turn right on Kent."

  "No problem."

  The area was urban and well lit. He kept checking in his rearview mirror to see if we were being followed. My eyes were fixed on the side mirror. I didn't turn and look now; neither of us wanted to appear aware.

  There were a few cars behind us, but they had come from other directions. That wasn't to say they weren't following us.

  I looked at Pat. His 9mm semi was snug under his right thigh, and in the foot well under his legs he had a 9mm MP5K, an excellent in-car weapon because of its compact size and rate of fire. He'd clipped on double thirty-round magazines.

  "What the fuck did you bring that thing along for?"

  "I didn't like the sound of your new best mate, Luther. I didn't want him and his buddies dragging me in for a little chat."

  We approached another set of lights.

  "Do a right to left switch here, mate. Let's see if we have any groupies."

  There were one or two cars behind us. The shape of a vehicle's headlights, once it is up close, helps a lot to ID it. If the same shape is up your ass on three turns in the same direction, it's time to get out the worry beads.