by Amy Cross
Ten years ago
As the sun continues to dip behind a distant ridge, the old shepherd shuffles over to his well and places a tin bucket on the wall. He winces slightly as a familiar pain ripples up his spine, and then he reaches out to attach the bucket to a rope.
Suddenly there's a roaring sound in the distance, and the shepherd turns just in time to see a truck rattling along the road. The shepherd is accustomed by now to these vehicles occasionally racing past his home, but this time the truck stops and men climb out from the front. This is new. This makes the shepherd worry.
The shepherd watches, not daring to make a move.
The two men open the back of the truck, and a moment later three human figures are thrown out the back. Without saying a word, the men close the truck and climb back in, and then they drive back the way they came, kicking up dirt and dust until they disappear over the horizon.
Once silence has returned, the shepherd makes his way cautiously over toward the three figures on the road. One of the figures is completely still, and the shepherd sees after a moment that it's entirely missing its head. The other two figures are moving slightly, however, and the shepherd steps around until he can see their bruised, bloodied faces. One is a woman, and one is an older man, and they both look as if they've been beaten relentlessly.
And then, slowly, the woman turns and looks up at him, and a single word slips from her lips:
“Help.”
Chapter TwentyEight
Ten years ago
“Novosibirsk,” Anders mutters darkly, shivering as he shuffles along the gloomy corridor. “I think, all things considered, I preferred the desert.”
“Do you want to go back there, my friend?” Malone asks. “Perhaps it could be arranged.”
Anders stops at the door and turns.
“I think my desert days are over,” he explains. His face is still cut and sore, with stitches in several spots following the beating he took just one month earlier. “In fact, I think a lot of my days are over.”
“Here,” Malone says, handing him a bundle wrapped in paper.
“I won't take your charity,” Anders tells him.
“It's not for you,” Malone says, nodding toward the door. “Tell her she should come out of there some time. Tell her we don't bite. Really, we're far more friendly than we look. We'd like to help.”
Anders pauses, before nodding and taking the package. Then, once Malone has left, he opens the door and slips into the room that he has been calling home ever since he was evacuated from the Middle Easts.
Cassie is sitting in her usual spot on the bed, leaning against the wall with her knees drawn up almost to her chin. She's staring into space, as usual, and the injuries on her face are much worse than anything that Anders suffered back in the desert.
“Some extra food,” Anders tells her, limping over and setting the package on the table before sitting on a wooden stool next to the bed. “Courtesy of our friend from British Intelligence. Turns out, they're not quite the assholes I took them for when we arrived. Some of them are actually decent people.”
He looks at Cassie for a moment, but he sees no flicker of recognition on her face. Her bottom lip is trembling slightly, but otherwise she might as well be a statue.
“We're being sent back to Britain,” he says finally. “I told you that's what they were going decide, and the orders came in about an hour ago. We're damaged goods, Cassie. They can't trust us, not after what happened out there in the desert. They still act like they think I gave Essien information. I know I didn't, but I'll never be able to persuade them. I'll be retired with a pension. So will you, even at your age. They'll give us a few medals, they'll make a few speeches, and then we'll be shunted out into the civilian world. We're being disposed of.”
He pauses.
“Try to contain your excitement,” he adds after a moment, hoping to see a smile.
He watches Cassie, but there's still no hint of recognition.
“They'll give us support,” he continues. “I told them they have to find someone to help you. Someone you can talk to. A psychiatrist, perhaps, or just someone to ease the process so that we can -”
“I don't need anyone,” she says, suddenly turning to him. It's the first time she's spoken properly since the pair of them arrived in Siberia. “I'm fine.”
“Being fine is not fine in these circumstances.”
“I want to go back there,” she continues. “I want to find him and kill him.”
“Not possible.”
“I want -”
“Nobody even knows where he is now.”
“Someone does. We keep tracking people until we get a lead.”
“We're not a -”
“He has to die!” she sneers.
“He will, but we won't be the ones who kill him.” He pauses again, before reaching out and putting a hand on her shoulder. He notices her flinch, but he doesn't pull his hand back. “It's over for us now, Cassie,” he explains. “We've played our part and it's time for us to shuffle off into the shadows. We're going to be one of the worst things anyone can be, we're going to be ex-spies, but you're young and you still have a life ahead of you. I know it's going to be hard, but you have to find something else to live for.”
He waits, but she simply stares at him.
“I can't turn it off,” she says finally.
“Turn what off?”
“That feeling I got when I saw Tom die.”
“Cassie, there's no -”
“Something changed in me!” she continues, with a hint of anger. “And it won't change back! It's just going to get stronger and stronger until either I kill Essien, or I get shaken apart. Do you understand that? Do you know how it feels?”
“I'll make you a promise,” he replies. “Michael Essien is a smart man with powerful connections. I know this might be unlikely, but if an opportunity ever comes up – I mean, a realistic opportunity – then we'll come out of retirement and we'll get the job done. Fuck the rules, fuck official sanction. We'll find him, we'll get to him, and we'll murder him. Do you understand?”
“I can't wait for the right opportunity,” she says, and now her voice is cracking with pain. “The right opportunity is an illusion. It's a daydream that'll never come true.”
“Trying it now would be suicide,” he points out, “and do you think Tom would want us to do that? No, he'd want us to be smart. Maybe God will give us a proper crack at Essien one day. Miracles happen, right? We have to be ready. Can you do that, Cassie?”
She pauses, before slowly nodding.
“A vow,” he adds, holding his hand out. “For Tom.”
She shakes his hand.
“For Tom,” she whispers.
“I think our chance will come one day,” he continues. “I have no idea how, or when, but Essien's not supernatural. Stay in shape, keep a collection of weapons. We might not have much warning when the moment comes. We might have to spring into action pretty fast. But maybe Essien will get sloppy as he gets older, or maybe he'll be weakened. When that time comes, we're going to be ready. Aren't we?”
She nods.
“Now eat this fucking sandwich,” he adds, grabbing the package and passing it to her. “For me, Cassie. Let me see you eat, so I know that you're going to live.”
She pauses, and then – with trembling hands – she starts unwrapping the sandwich. Finally she takes a big bite, and then she sits chewing for a moment before offering the sandwich back to him.
“I ate already,” he says with a faint smile, and with tears in his eyes. “Get that down you, while I go and find out how we're getting back to England. I swear, if they think I'm hitching a ride in another freight plane surrounded by pigs and chickens, they've got another thing coming.” Wincing, he gets to his feet. “I do not want to arrive back in England, after all this time away, covered in shit.”
He heads to the door, where he stops and glances back to see that Cassie is still eating the sandwich. Then, after making his way out into t
he corridor, he walks toward the main office, where he finds Malone sitting at a desk.
“Everything okay?” Malone asks, not looking up from his paperwork.
“I just made a promise that I don't think I'll have to keep,” Anders replies. “But if I do have to keep it, then I will.”
“Oh yes?” Malone says, clearly not very interested. “And the girl's okay?”
“Cassie is stronger than she realizes.”
“Excellent news.” He checks his phone. “And I've just got the details of your journey back to London. You'll be traveling together. We have to keep things a little under the radar, so I can't get you on a commercial flight.” He smiles at Anders. “You're going to be traveling with the fine fellows of Trans-Siberian Bovine Shipping.”
“Cows?” Anders says, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “You want us to take a plane with a bunch of cows?”
Chapter TwentyNine
Ten years ago
“Tea and a bacon buttie?”
Looking up, Cassie sees that the girl from the counter has brought her order over. For a moment, too startled to really know what to do, Cassie simply stares, until finally she realizes that she's making things uncomfortable.
“Thanks,” she mumbles, leaning back a little so that the girl can set the mug and plate down.
“Let us know if you want anything else, yeah?”
It's a cold, wet morning in London. Outside the rain-spattered window, buses are thundering past Hammersmith station and a few brave cyclists are trying to survive the fury of a harsh wind. For a moment, Cassie can only stare out the window and try to let her thoughts drift away, to empty her mind of all her concerns. Even now, after a couple of months, she can't quite figure out how to settle into British life again. Not that she was ever really comfortable before. Up until she entered the military, she only knew the orphanage. Nothing about 'normal life' feels normal to her at all.
Suddenly something bumps against the back of her head.
“I'm so sorry!” a man says, struggling past with several huge bags filled with Christmas shopping. “I'm sorry, did I hit you?”
“It's fine,” she murmurs.
“Do you mind if I -”
He stops and looks around, at all the bustling tables, and then he turns to Cassie.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” he asks finally. “I wouldn't intrude normally, but I need to put these things down for a minute or two, or my arms are going to fall off.”
“Sure,” she says, although she doesn't really like the idea of company. In fact, she's already thinking that it's time to go. She's not even hungry, anyway. “You can have the whole -”
“Thanks,” he gasps, putting the various bags on the opposite bench. “I have four nieces and four nephews. If this is what it's like being an uncle, I can't imagine what it's like when the kids are actually your own.” He manages to get the last bag down, and then he flexes his fingers a few times as if he wants to check that his hands still work. “So much for getting everything done weeks in advance. Here I am, doing it all at the last minute as usual. Would you mind watching these while I run to the counter and grab something to drink?”
“That's fine,” Cassie says, and the man immediately turns and hurries away.
Sighing, Cassie realizes that she can make an excuse once the man returns. She slips her phone away and takes a sip of tea, and then she has a bite of the bacon buttie. She's still not hungry, but she knows she has to eat. She tells herself that she'll eat and drink as much as she can before the man comes back, and then she'll be on her way. There are plenty of other cafes she can try. And even when she runs out of places, she can always go home, back to that dark little flat next to the pub, where she sits night after night, struggling to sleep.
Sometimes she thinks about going to the train tracks in the dead of night.
“I got you a cake.”
Startled, she looks up and sees that the man has returned with a tray.
“I saw you had tea and a sandwich,” he continues as he takes a seat, “so I figured maybe you'd like a cake as a kind of thank you gift. For letting me sit here.”
“I, uh...”
She stares at the cake for a moment, not really knowing what to say.
“Or I can just go and sit somewhere else,” the guy says. “I think there's a spare seat next to a tramp by the other window. Keep the cake.”
He starts to get up.
“No, it's fine,” she says suddenly, surprising even herself. “I mean, you can sit here. I was about to leave anyway.”
“Not on my account, I hope.”
“Of course not, I just...”
Her voice trails off for a moment.
“Can I ask your opinion on something?” the man says, before reaching into one of the bags and rummaging around for a moment.
Finally he pulls out a toy bear strapped inside some cardboard packaging, and he sets the bear on the table.
“I know it's an ugly bear,” he explains, peering around from behind the toy, “but I'm starting to think that the voice really pushes it over the edge. Ugly's one thing, but I think this bear might actually be possessed. Listen.”
He presses a button on the bear's chest.
“I love you!” a high-pitched voice shrieks, attracting attention from several nearby tables. “I want to be with you forever and ever!”
Cassie's eyes widen with shock.
“Let's always be friends!” the bear yells. “Nothing's ever going to tear us apart!”
“It's very loud, isn't it?” the man says. “Do you think it might terrify a four-year-old girl?”
Cassie stares at the bear for a few seconds, before closing her eyes and starting to laugh. Somehow, the sheer ridiculousness of the entire situation has finally become too much for her, and she finds herself laughing for the first time in many, many months. She laughs so hard that her few remaining stitches start to hurt, but even this doesn't stop her and it takes a few more seconds before she manages to open her eyes again, at which point she has to wipe away a solitary tear that has begun to run down her left cheek.
“It's too terrifying, isn't it?” the man says with a hint of despondency. “I knew it in the store. I should have listened to my doubts, but I just wanted to get all the Christmas gift-buying done. I'm only halfway through, and I'm already stuck with this monstrosity.”
“It's not that bad,” Cassie tells him. “I mean, you could always get the kid some earplugs to go with it.”
“I could,” he mutters, before leaning back with a sigh. “I've still got some more things to buy and I'm worried I'll end up with more of these horrible bears.” He pauses, and then he leans forward again. “You don't happen to know anywhere that's good for toys in the area, do you? I'm trying to avoid going back into the center today.”
“I think there's a shop on Crawford Road,” she tells him. “I've walked past it a few times.”
“Crawford Road? Is that close?”
“It's about twenty minutes away. Past the fish and chip place.”
“The one with the golden cod in the window? Sorry, I left my phone at home so I can't check a map.”
“A different place,” she replies. “It's kind of difficult to describe, but you go past the Mermaid's Locker fish and chip shop and then you take a left at the roundabout and then you go right at the postbox. You reach an industrial estate and then you have to follow the signs on the walls.”
“I'm sure I can find it,” the man says. “Thank you, you've been very helpful.”
He hesitates, as if he wants to add something else, and then finally he starts getting to his feet.
“I don't have time for a drink after all,” he tells her, as he starts gathering the bags back up. “I think I need to just go and find this toy-shop. Thanks for the tip and I hope you have a good Christmas.”
He turns to leave.
“I can show you,” Cassie says suddenly.
He glances back at her.
“I can show you the sho
p, I mean,” she continues, although she's surprised by the words that are coming out of her own mouth. Rain is lashing against the window and she feels as if only a lunatic would go out in such bad weather. Then again, it might be a better prospect than sitting around in endless cafes for yet another long day.
“I don't want to put you out,” the man tells her.
“It's no problem. I wasn't really hungry.” She gets to her feet. “It's almost on my way home, anyway.”
“You're very kind.”
She steps past him, heading toward the door.
“Steve,” he says.
She looks back at him and finds that he's holding a hand out toward her.
“My name, I mean,” he continues. “I'm Steve.”
“I'm Cassie,” she replies, before cautiously shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you, Steve.”
Chapter Thirty
Ten years ago
“I hate people sometimes,” he mutters as he stands at the window, looking out at the guests in the garden while keeping his back to everyone in the ballroom. “They make me want to jump off a cliff. You do everything you can for them, and then they bitch and moan because it's not perfect. Do they have any idea how hard it can be to get even the most basic policy ideas through the cabinet? And then I end up talking to myself because no-one else is -”
“Prime Minister?”
Turning, Fowler sees that one of the waiters has come over to find him.
“What do you want?” Fowler asks. “Can't the bloody country run itself for five minutes without my intervention?”
“I'm sure it can, Sir,” the waiter says cautiously, clearly a little nervous, “but... A gentleman has asked to speak to you, Sir. I told him that you didn't wish to be disturbed, but he was most insistent.”
“Well, I'm insistent too,” Fowler snaps. “Tell him -”
Before he can finish, Fowler spots a figure standing over in the doorway.
“Oh great,” Fowler mutters, before downing the rest of his champagne and then setting the empty glass on the waiter's tray. “What the fuck is he doing here?”
