Энди МакНаб. Последний свет(engl)
страница №3
...eappeared. I looked up, trying to read theirexpressions.
They didn't look good.
The first kick was aimed at my chest. My body re flexed into a ball but
Sundance's boot connected hard with my thigh. By now my chin was down, my
teeth were clenched, and I'd closed my eyes. There was nothing I could do
but accept the inevitable, curled up like a hedgehog, my hands still cuffed,
trying to protect my face. I started to take it and just hoped that it
wouldn't carry on for long.
They grabbed my feet and dragged me towards the centre of the room. One
of the mugs rattled over on the tiles. I kept my legs as bent as I could,
fighting against them being stretched out to expose my stomach and bollocks.
I opened one eye just in time to watch a Caterpillar boot connect with my
ribs. I brought my || head down further, in an attempt to cover my chest. It
must have worked, because another boot swung right into my arse this time,
and it felt as if the inside of my sphincter had exploded. The pain was off
the scale and to counteract it I tried to clench my cheek muscles together
but to do that I had to straighten my legs a little.
The inevitable boot flew into the pit of my stomach. Bile exploded from
me. The acid taste in my mouth and nose was almost worse than the kicking.
It was past midnight and I was curled up back in my corner. At least
they'd taken the cuffs off now. The lights were off and the
TV flickered away with a Channel 5 soft-porn film. They'd had pie and
chips earlier and made me crawl over to wipe up my bile from the floor with
the used paper as they drank more tea.
There was no more filling in, not even an acknowledgement of me being
there. I had just been left to stew as Sundance lay half asleep on the
settee. Trainers was wide awake and on stag, smoking his roll-up, draped
across the two armchairs, making sure I didn't have any stupid ideas.
I slowly stretched out flat on my stomach to lessen the pain from the
kicking, and rested my face on my hands, closing my eyes to try to get some
sleep. It was never going to work: I could feel the blood pumping in my neck
and couldn't stop thinking about what might happen to me next. My Beachy
Head trip could still be on the cards with these two; it all depended on
what the Yes Man had to say yes to, I supposed.
In the past, I'd always managed to get out of even the deepest shit
with just the thinnest layer still stuck to me. I thought of my gunshot
wound, sewn-back on earlobe, and dog-bite scars, and knew how lucky I'd been
on those jobs in the last few years. I thought of other jobs, of being
blindfolded and lined up against the wall of an aircraft hangar, listening
to the noise of weapons being cocked. I remembered hearing the men each side
of me, either quietly praying or openly crying and begging. I hadn't seen
any reason to do either. It wasn't that I wanted to die; just that I'd
always known that death was part of the deal.
But this did feel different. I thought of Kelly. I hadn't spoken to her
since this job started. Not because there had been no opportunity1 had
agreed timings with Josh last month it was just that I was too busy with
preparations, or sometimes I just forgot.
Josh was right to fuck me off when I did get through: she did need a
routine and stability. I could see his half-Mexican, half-black shaved head,
scowling at me on the phone like a divorced wife. The skin on his jaw and
cheekbone was a patchwork of pink, like a torn sponge that had been badly
sewn back together.
The scarring was down to me, which didn't help the situation much. He
wouldn't be getting too many modelling offers from Old Spice, that was for
sure. I tried to break the ice with him once by telling him. He didn't
exactly fall about with laughter.
I turned my head and rested my cheek on my hands, watching Trainers
suck on the last of his roll-up. I supposed I'd always known the day would
come, sooner or later, but I didn't want this to be it. Stuff flashed
through my mind as if I was a split second away from a massive car crash,
all the sorts of things that must hit any parent when they know they're
about to die. The stupid argument with the kids before leaving for work. Not
building that tree-house. Not getting round to filling out a will. The
holidays not taken, the promises broken.
Josh was the only person apart from Kelly I cared for and who was still
alive.
Would he miss me? He'd just be pissed off that we had unfinished
business. And what about Kelly herself? She had a new start now would she
just forget all about her useless, incompetent guardian in a few years?
SEVEN
Monday 4 September Sundance's StarT ac short, sharp tones cut the air
after a long, painful night.
It was just after eight. I didn't bother to move from the prone
position because of my kicking, but tried instead to convince myself that
the pain was just weakness leaving the body, something like that.
Trainers jumped up to turn off the BBC breakfast news, showing the
embankment, as Sundance opened up his phone. He knew who it was. There was
no preliminary waffle, just nods and grunts.
Trainers hit the kettle button as the StarT ac was closed down and
Sundance rolled himself off the settee. He gave me a big grin as he brushed
back his hair with spread fingers.
"You have a visitor, and dye know what? He doesn't sound too pleased."
It was the witching hour.
I sat up and leant into the corner of the brick walls as they pulled
the armchairs apart and put their shirts on while waiting for the kettle to
boil.
It wasn't long before I heard a vehicle and Trainers went out to open
the shutter. Sundance just stood there staring at me, trying to get me
flapping.
The kettle cut out with a click just before the shutter opened; it
looked like their brew was on hold for a while. I pulled myself up against
the wall.
The slamming of car doors drowned out the sound of Kennington's morning
commute.
Before the shutter had come down, the Yes Man was striding into the
room.
Throwing a glance at Sundance, he walked towards me, screwing up his
nose at the smell of roll-ups, chips and early-morning farts.
He was dressed today in a light grey suit, and still in enraged-teacher
mode. He stopped a couple of paces short of me, put his hands on his hips,
and looked down at me in disgust.
"You, Stone, are going to be given one chance, just one, to rectify
matters. You don't know how very lucky you are." He checked his watch. The
target has just left the UK. You will follow him tonight, to Panama, and you
will kill this target by last light Friday."
I kept my head down and let my legs flop out straight, just inches from
his highly polished black brogues, and raised my eyes to him.
Sundance made a move towards me. Should I be saying something? The Yes
Man held up a hand to stop him, without taking his eyes off me.
"PARC are waiting for the delivery of a missile launch control system a
computer guidance console to you."
I looked down again, concentrating on the pattern of his shoes.
"Are you listening?"
Nodding slowly, I rubbed my sore eyes.
"One anti-aircraft missile is already in their possession. It will be
the first of many. The launch system has to be stopped if PARC have a
complete weapons system in their hands the implications for Plan Colombia
will be catastrophic.
There are six hundred million dollars' worth of US helicopters in
Colombia, along with their crews and support. PARC must not get the
capability to shoot them down. They must not get that launch control system.
You don't need to know why, but the young man's death will stop that
happening. Period."
He hunched down and thrust his face so close to mine I could smell
menthol aftershave, probably for sensitive skin. There was a whiff of
halitosis, too, as we had eye-to-eye just inches apart. He breathed in
slowly, to help me understand that what he was about to say was more in
sorrow than in anger.
"You will carry out this task in the time specified, with due
diligence. If not? No matter when next week, next month, or even next year
when the time is right, we will kill her. You know who I'm talking about,
that Little Orphan Annie of yours. She will simply cease to exist and it
will be your doing. Only you can stop that happening."
He burned with the kind of evangelical zeal I supposed he'd copied from
whoever he'd heard in the pulpit last week, while Sundance smirked and moved
back towards the settee.
The Yes Man hadn't finished with me yet. His tone shifted.
"She must be about eleven now, eh? I've been told that she's settled in
very well back in the States. It seems that Joshua is doing an absolutely
sterling job. It must be hard for you now she lives there, eh? Missing her
growing up, turning into a fine young woman..."
I kept my eyes down, concentrating on a minute crack in one of the
tiles as he carried on with his sermon.
That's the same age as my daughter. They're so funny at that age, don't
you think? One minute wanting to be all grown up, the next needing to cuddle
their teddies. I read her a story last night when I'd tucked her in. They
look so wonderful, yet so vulnerable like that... Did you read to Kelly,
isn't it?"
I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of an acknowledgement, just
concentrated hard on my tile, trying to show no reaction. He was really
making a meal of this. He took another deep breath, his knees cracking as he
straightened up and hovered above me once more.
"This is about power, Stone, who has it and who does not. You do not.
Personally, I am not in favour of you being given a second chance, but
there is the broader matter of policy to consider."
I didn't exactly understand what that meant, but it was a fair guess
he'd been told to sort out this situation or he'd be severely in the shit.
"Why kill the boy?" I said.
"Why not the father? I presume he's the one moving this system."
He kicked my thigh with his shiny toecap. It was pure frustration. I
was sure he'd meant it to be harder, but just didn't have it in him.
"Clean yourself up look at the state of you. Now go. These gentlemen
will collect you from your residence at three."
He gave 'residence' the full three syllables, enjoying every one.
Sundance smiled like the village idiot as I hauled myself to my feet, the
muscles in my stomach protesting badly.
"I need money." I looked down like a scolded schoolboy as I leant
against the wall, and that was exactly how I felt.
The Yes Man sighed with impatience and nodded at Sundance. The Jock dug
out his wallet from the back of his jeans, and counted out eighty-five
pounds.
'You owe me, boy."
I just took it, not bothering to mention the six hundred US dollars
he'd liberated from my pocket, and which had already been split between the
two of them.
Jamming it into my jeans, I started to walk, not looking at either of
them as I reached the door. Trainers saw me in the doorframe and hit the
shutter, but not before the Yes Man had the last word: "You'd better make
good use of that money, Stone. There is no more. In fact, think yourself
lucky you're keeping what you already have. After all, Orphan Annie will
need new shoes from time to time, and her treatment in the States will cost
a great deal more than it did at the Moorings."
Fifteen minutes later I was on the tube from Kennington, heading north
towards Camden Town. The dilapidated old train was packed tight with morning
commuters, nearly every one radiating soap, toothpaste and designer smells.
I was the exception, which was bad luck for the people I was sandwiched
between: a massive black guy who'd turned his crisply laundered,
white-shirted back on me, and a young white woman who didn't dare look up
from the floor in case our eyes met and she sparked off the madman reeking
of bile and roll-ups.
The front pages of the morning papers were covered with dramatic colour
pictures of the police attacking the sniper positions and the promise of a
lot more to come inside. I just held on to the handrail and stared at the
dot-com holiday adverts, not wanting to read them, instead letting my head
jolt from side to side as we trundled north. I was in a daze, trying to get
my head round what had happened, and getting nowhere.
What could I do with Kelly? Nip over to Maryland, pick her up, run away
and hide in the woods? Taking her away from Josh was pure fantasy: it would
only screw her up even more than she was already. It would only be
short-term, in any event: if the Firm wanted her dead, they'd make it happen
eventually. What about telling Josh? No need: the Firm wouldn't do anything
unless I failed. Besides, why stir him up any more than I had already?
I let my head drop and stared at my feet as we got to a station and
people fought each other to get on and off all at the same time. I got
shoved and jostled and gave an involuntary gasp of pain.
As the carriage repacked itself for the journey under the Thames, a
pissed-off voice on the PA system told everybody to move right down inside
the cars, and the doors eventually closed.
I didn't know if the Yes Man was bluffing any more, probably, than he
knew if I was. But it made no difference. Even if I did expose the job, that
wouldn't stop Sundance and Trainers taking their trip to Maryland. There
were enough Serb families short of a kid or two because Dad hadn't gone
along with the Firm's demands during the latest Balkan wars, and I knew it
hadn't stopped there.
Try as I might, I couldn't stop myself picturing Kelly tucked up in
bed, her hair spread in a mess over the pillow as she dreamt of being a pop
star. The Yes Man was right, they did look both wonderful and vulnerable
like that. My blood ran cold as I realized that the end of this job wouldn't
put an end to the threats. She would be used against me time and again.
We stopped at another station and the crowd ebbed and flowed once more.
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I was starting to get pins and
needles in my legs. No matter which way I looked at it, my only option was
to kill the boy.
No, not a boy, let's get this right, just as the Yes Man said, he was a
young man some of those weapons being cocked in the aircraft hangar all
those years ago had been held by people younger than him.
I had fucked up big-time. I should have killed him yesterday when I had
the chance. If I didn't do this job Kelly would die, simple as that and I
couldn't let that happen. I wouldn't fuck up again. I'd do what the Yes Man
wanted, and I'd do it by last light Friday.
The train stopped again and most of the passengers left for their jobs
in the City. I was knackered and fell into a seat before my legs gave out.
As I wiped the beads of sweat off my brow, my mind kept going back to Kelly,
and the thought that I was going to Panama to kill someone just so that Josh
could have her to look after. It was madness, but what was new about that?
Josh might not exactly be my mate, these days, but he was still the
closest thing I had to one. He'd talk through gritted teeth, but at least
he'd talk to me about Kelly. She'd been living with Josh and his kids since
mid-August, just a couple of weeks after her therapy sessions had ended
prematurely in London when the Yes Man handed me the sniper job.
She hadn't fully recovered from her PTSD (post-traumatic stress
disorder), and I didn't know whether she ever would. Seeing your whole
family head-jobbed took some recovering from. She was a fighter, just like
her dad had been, and had made dramatic strides this summer. She'd moved
from being a curled-up bundle of nothing to being able to function outside
the private care home in Hampstead where she'd spent the best part of the
last ten months. She wasn't in mainstream schooling yet with Josh's kids,
but that would happen soon. Or at least I hoped it would: she needed private
tuition and that didn't come cheap -and now the Yes Man had cancelled the
second half of the money... Since March I'd had to commit myself to being
with her during the therapy sessions three times a week in Chelsea, and on
all the other days had visited her at the place in Hampstead where she was
being looked after. Kelly and I would tube it down to the plush clinic, the
Moorings. Sometimes we'd talk on the journey, mostly about kids' TV;
sometimes we'd sit in silence. On occasion, she'd just cuddle into me and
sleep.
Dr. Hughes was in her mid-fifties and looked more like an American news
reader than a shrink in her leather armchair. I didn't particularly like it
when Kelly said something that Hughes considered meaningful. She would tilt
her elegant head and look at me over the top of her gold half-moons.
"How do you feel about that, Nick?"
My answer was always the same: "We're here for Kelly, not me." That was
because I was an emotional dwarf. I must be Josh told me so.
The train shuddered and squeaked to a halt at Camden Town. I joined a
green haired punk, a bunch of suits and some early-start tourists as we all
rode the up escalator. Camden High Street was teeming with traffic and
pedestrians. We were greeted by a white Rastafarian guy juggling three
bean-bags for spare change and an old drunk with his can of Tennants waiting
for Pizza Express to open so that he could go and shout at its windows. The
din of pneumatic drills on the building site opposite echoed all around us,
making even people passing in their cars wince.
I diced with death as I crossed the road to get into Superdrug and pick
up some washing and shaving kit, then walked along the high street to get
something to eat, hands in my pockets and eyes down at the pavement like a
dejected teenager.
I waded through KFC boxes, kebab wrappers and smashed Bacardi Breezer
bottles that hadn't been cleaned up from the night before. As I'd discovered
when I moved in, there was a disproportionate number of pubs and clubs
around here.
Camden High Street and its markets seemed quite a tourist attraction.
It was just before ten o'clock but most of the clothes shops already had an
amazing array of gear hanging outside their shop fronts, from psychedelic
flares to leather bondage trousers and multicoloured Doc Martens. Shop
workers tried ceaselessly to lure Norwegians or Americans, with day sacks on
their backs and maps in their hands, inside with loud music and a smile.
I passed under the scaffold that covered the pavement on the corner of
Inverness Street and got a nod from the Bosnian refugee who sold smuggled
cigarettes out of a sports bag. He was holding out a couple of cartons to
passers-by and in his leather-look PVC bomber jacket and tracksuit bottoms
he looked just like I felt, tired of life. We knew each other by sight and I
nodded back before turning left into the market. My stomach was so empty it
ached, adding to the pain from the kicking. I was really looking forward to
breakfast.
The caff was full of construction workers taking a break from building
the new Gap and Starbucks. Their dirty yellow hardhats were lined up against
the wall like helmets at a fire station, whilst they filled their faces with
the three quid all-day breakfast. The room was a noisy haze of fried food
and cigarette smoke, probably courtesy of the Bosnian. I put in my order and
listened to the radio behind the counter while I picked up my mug of instant
coffee. The news on Capital gave only bullet-point headlines about
yesterday's terrorist incident.
It was already taking second place to Posh Spice's new hairdo.
I settled down at a four-seater wrought-iron-and-marble-effect garden
table, moved the overflowing ashtray out of the way, and stared at the sugar
bowl. The pins and needles had returned and I found that my elbows were on
the table and my face was stuck in my hands. For some reason I was
remembering being seven years old, tears running down my face, trying to
explain to my stepfather that I was scared of the dark. Instead of a
comforting cuddle and the bedroom light left on, I got a slapped face and
told not to be such a wimp or the night monster would come out from under
the bed and eat me. He used to make me flap big-time, and I'd spend the
whole night curled up under the blanket, petrified, thinking that as long as
I didn't look out the night monster wouldn't get me.
The same feeling of terror and helplessness was with me again after all
these years.
I was jolted from my trance.
"Set breakfast, extra egg?"
That7 s me!"
I sat back down and threw bacon, sausage and egg down my neck and
started to think about my shopping list. At least I wouldn't need much
clothing for my Central American trip. There now, maybe things weren't that
bad: at least I was going somewhere warm.
I'd never been to Panama, but had operated on its border with Colombia
against PARC (Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia) while in the Regiment.
We were part of the UK's first-strike policy in the eighties, an
American-funded operation to hit drug manufacture at source, which meant
getting into the jungle for weeks on end, finding the DMPs
(drug-manufacturing plants) and destroying them to slow the trafficking to
the UK and US. We might as well not have bothered. Over 70 per cent of the
cocaine entering the States still originated from Colombia, and up to 75 per
cent of the heroin seized on the east coast of the US was Colombian.
PARC had their fingers in a substantial amount of that pie, and those
kinds of numbers were also heading this way, to the UK.
Having operated in the region for over a year, I still took an interest
especially as most of the Colombians I'd cared anything about had been
killed in the war. To keep the peace with PARC, the Colombian government had
given them control of an area the size of Switzerland, and they ran all
their operations from there. It was hoped that things would change now that
Plan Colombia was getting into full swing. Clinton had given the Colombian
government a $1.3 billion military aid package to combat drug trafficking,
including over sixty of the Yes Man's precious Huey and Black Hawk
helicopters, along with other military assistance. But I wasn't holding my
breath. It was going to be a long and dirty war.
I also knew that, for most of the twentieth century, the USA had paid
for, run and protected the Panama Canal and stationed SOUTH COM (the US
Army's Southern Command) in-country. It was SOUTH COM that had directed all
military and intelligence operations from Mexico's southern border to Cape
Horn during my time in Colombia. Thousands of US troops and aircraft
stationed in Panama had been responsible for all the anti-drug operations in
Central and South America, but that had stopped at midnight on 31 December
1999 when the US handed back control of the canal to the locals, and SOUTH
COM and all American presence was withdrawn. It was now fragmented, spread
around bases all over Central America and the Caribbean, and nowhere near as
effective at fighting any kind of war as it once had been.
From what I'd read, the hand-over of the canal had sort of sneaked up
on the American public. And when they discovered that a Chinese company, not
American, had been awarded the contract to operate the ports at each end of
the canal and take over some of the old US military facilities, the right
wing went ape shit I couldn't see the problem myself:
Chinese-owned companies ran ports all around the world, including Dover
and others in this country. I hadn't thought of it at the time, but maybe
that was why the Chinaman had been in the delegation, as part of the new
order in Central America.
I felt a little better after some death-by-cholesterol, and left the
caff wiping egg yolk off my fingers and on to my jeans, where a fair amount
of it had dribbled anyway.
A fifteen-minute shopping frenzy in the market bought me a new pair of
rip-off Levi's for sixteen quid, a blue sweatshirt for seven, a pair of
boxers and a pack of three pairs of socks for another five.
I carried on walking past fruit and veg stalls until I came to
Arlington Road, and turned right by the Good Mixer pub, a 1960s monstrosity
in need of a lick of paint. The usual suspects were sitting against the pub
wall, three old men, unshaven and unwashed, throwing cans of Strongbow Super
down their necks obviously this week's special offer at Oddbins. All three
held out their grime ingrained palms for money without even looking up at
the people they were begging from.
I was just a few minutes away from a hot shower. Maybe a hundred metres
ahead, outside my impressive Victorian redbrick residence, I could see
someone being troll eyed into the back of an | ambulance. This was nothing
unusual around here, and no one r passing gave it a second look.
( Walking past the graffiti-filled walls of the decaying,
pollution-stained buildings, I approached the front entrance as the
ambulance moved off. There was a white Transit behind it.
Gathered around its open rear doors were a group of Eastern Europeans,
all carrying sports bags or day sacks Of course it was Monday: the boys from
Manchester were dishing out smuggled cigarettes and rolling tobacco for them
to sell in the market and pubs.
Two worn stone steps took me to a set of large, glazed wooden doors
which I pushed my way through. I buzzed to be let through the second lot of
security doors, and pressed my head against the glass so whoever was on duty
could check me out.
The door buzzed and I pushed through. I got a smile off Maureen at
reception, a huge, fifty-year-old woman who had a liking for tent-sized
flowery dresses, and a face like a bulldog with constipation. She took no
nonsense from anybody. She looked me up and down with an arched eyebrow.
"Hello, darling, what you doing here?"
I put on my happy face.
"I missed you."
She rolled her eyes and gave her usual loud bass laugh.
"Yeah, right."
"Is there any chance of using a shower? It's just that the plumbing in
my new place has gone on the blink." I held up my bag of washing kit for her
to see.
She rolled her eyes at my story and sucked her teeth, not believing a
word of it.
"Ten minutes, don't tell."
"Maureen, you're the best."
Tell me something I don't know, darling. Remember, ten minutes, that's
your lot."
I'd only said about a dozen words to her all the time I'd lived here.
This was the closest we'd been to a conversation for months.
I walked up the steps to the second floor, where the decor was
easy-clean, thick-gloss walls and a light grey industrial-lino staircase,
then walked along the narrow corridor, heading for the showers at the end.
To my left were rows of doors to bedrooms, and I could hear their occupants
mumbling to themselves, coughing, snoring. The corridor smelt of beer and
cigarettes, with stale bread slices and dog-ends trodden into the threadbare
carpet.
There was a bit of a racket on the floor above as some old guy gob bed
off, having an argument with himself, and profanities bounced off the walls.
It was sometimes difficult to work out if it was alcohol, drugs or a mental
condition with these guys. Either way, Care in the Community seemed to mean
leaving them to look after themselves.
The showers were three stained cubicles and I got into the centre one,
slowly peeling off my clothes as men wandered around the corridor and noises
echoed.
Once undressed, I turned on the water. I was in a daze again, just
wanting my day to end, i;?, forcing myself to check the bruising on my legs
and chest, even though I didn't care if it hurt. I Somebody in the corridor
called out my name, and I re cog- lr nized the voice. I didn't know his
name, just that he was always s drunk. As with the rest of them, it was the
only way that he could escape his miserable life. In a slurred northern
accent he shouted the same old thing, over and over again, about how God had
fucked him over. He used to have a wife, kids, a house, a job. It had all
gone wrong, he'd lost everything, and it was all God's fault.
I got under the water, trying my hardest to block out the noise as the
others started to join in, telling him to shut the fuck up.
The council-run 'hostel' was what we used to call a doss-house when we
were kids. Nowadays it was filled not only with home less men of every age
with uniformly sad lives, but also Bosnian, Serbian and Kosovan refugees,
who seemed to have brought their ' war to London as they fought amongst
themselves in the corridors and washrooms.
The noises outside the shower started to merge and magnify side my
head. My heartbeat went into overdrive and my legs felt numb with pins and
needles again. I slumped down in the shower tray and covered my ears with my
hands.
I just sat there covering my ears, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to
block out the noise, plagued by the same childlike terror that had
overwhelmed me in the cafe.
The image that the Yes Man had planted in my head, of Kelly in bed
asleep, in the dark, was still with me. She'd be there now, this minute, in
Maryland. She would be in her bunk bed, below Josh's eldest daughter. I knew
exactly how she would look. I had woken up and tucked her back in so many
times when it was cold, or when a memory of her murdered family had returned
to haunt her. She would be half in, half out of her duvet, stretched out on
her back, arms and legs out like a starfish, sucking her bottom lip, her
eyes flickering under their lids as she dreamed.
Then I thought of her dead. No sucking of the lip, no REM, just a
stiff, dead starfish. I tried to imagine how I would feel if that happened,
knowing that I had the responsibility to make sure that it didn't. It didn't
bear thinking about. I wasn't sure if it was in my head, or I was yelling it
out loud, but I heard my own voice shout, "How the fuck did you end up like
this?"
EIGHT
I was turning into one of those nutters out there in the corridor. I'd
never had much difficulty understanding why they turned to drink and drugs
to escape the shit of the real world.
I sat there for a few minutes longer, just feeling sorry for myself,
looking at the only things I had to show for my progress through the real
world: a pink dent in my stomach from a 9mm round, and the neat row of
puncture holes on my right forearm from a North Carolina police dog.
I lifted my head out of my hands and gave myself a strict talking-to.
"Sort yourself out, dickhead! Get a grip. Get yourself out of this ..."
I had to cut away, just like I'd learnt to do as a kid. No one was
coming to help me deal with the night monster; I had to get on with it on my
own.
I cleared my nostrils of mucus, and it was only then that I realized I
must have been crying.
Hauling myself to my feet I pulled out the washing and shaving kit and
got to work. After I'd cleaned myself up I stayed in the cubicle for another
ten minutes, using my old clothes to dry myself. I threw on my new jeans and
sweatshirt; the only old things I put back on were my Timberlands, bomber
jacket and belt.
I left everything else in the shower they could have that as my leaving
present and walked back along the corridor. Through his open door
whatever-his-name-was had finished gob bing off about God and collapsed face
down on his urine-stained bed. A bit further on, I passed the closed door to
my old cell-like room. I'd only left the previous Saturday but it already
had a new occupant; I could hear a radio being tuned in. He, too, probably
had his carton of milk out on the sill of the narrow window. We all did
well, the ones who had a kettle.
I made my way down the stairs, brushing my hair back with my fingers
and regaining some composure.
Down in the reception area, I picked up the wall-mounted phone, shoved
in six and a half quid's worth of coins, and started dialling Josh, trying
desperately to think of an excuse for calling him so early. The east coast
of the US was five hours behind.
The distinctive tone rang just twice before I heard a sleepy American
grunt.
"Yeah?"
"Josh, it's me, Nick." I hoped he wouldn't notice the tremor in my
voice.
"What do you want, Nick? It's just after six."
I covered the other ear to cut out some young guy who needed help up
the stairs from an old drunk as he staggered about with glazed and
drugged-out eyes. I'd seen them both before: the old guy was his father, who
also lived in.
"I know, I'm sorry, mate. It's just that I can't make it until next
Tuesday and
I-'
There was a loud sigh. He'd heard my I-can't-make-it routine so many
times before. He knew nothing of my situation, he knew nothing of what had
been going on this last few months. All he'd seen of me was the money I
sent.
"Look, I know, mate, I'm sorry, I really can't make it."
The earpiece barked: "Why can't you get your life in good order? We
arranged this Tuesday that's tomorrow, man. She's got her heart set on it.
She loves you so much, man, so much -don't you get it? You can't just breeze
in and-' I knew what he was going to say and cut in, almost begging, "I
know, I know. I'm sorry .. ." I knew where the conversation was going and
also knew that he was right in taking it there.
"Please, Josh can I talk with her?"
If He lost his cool for once and went ballistic.
"No!"
"I-.."
It was too late; he'd hung up.
I slumped down on a plastic stack able chair, staring at one of the
notice boards telling people what and what not to do, and how to do it.
"You OK, darling?"
I looked across at Maureen, the other side of the reception. She waved
me over, sounding like an older sister, I supposed.
"You look fed up. Come and have a chat, come on, darling."
My mind was elsewhere as I approached the hole in the wall that gave
access of a kind to her desk. It was at head height. Anything bigger and
lower and she wouldn't have had any protection from the drunks and the
drugged-up who had a problem with the house rules.
"Been a bad call to that little girl of yours?"
"What?"
"You keep yourself to yourself, but I see things from this little
cubbyhole, you know. I've heard you on the phone, coming off more depressed
than when you went on. I don't just buzz the door open, you know!" She gave
a loud roar as I smiled and acknowledged her attempt to cheer me up.
"Was it a bad one, darling? You
OK?"
It was all right."
"That's good, I'm glad. You know, I've watched you come in and out of
here, looking so sad. I reckoned it was a divorce1 can normally tell. It
must be hard not seeing your little 'un. I was just worried about you,
that's all, darling."
"No need, Maureen, things are OK, really."
She tutted in agreement.
"Good ... good, but, you know, things normally-' Her attention was
drawn momentarily to the staircase. Kosovans or whoever had started shouting
angrily at each other on one of the upper landings. She shrugged at me and
grinned.
"Well, let's just say things have a way of sorting themselves out. I've
seen that look of yours in here before. And I tell them all the same, and
I'm always right. Things can only get better, you'll see."
At that moment a fight erupted above us somewhere and a
Nike sports bag tumbled down the stairs, soon followed by its
tobacco-selling owner in a brown V-neck jumper and white socks. Maureen
reached for her two-way radio as a couple of guys jumped down after him and
started giving the boy a good kicking. Maureen talked into her radio with a
calm assurance that only comes from years of experience.
I leant against the wall as a couple more tobacco-sellers appeared and
tried to stop the fight.
Within minutes, sirens were wailing in the distance, and getting
louder. Maureen hit the door buzzer and tobacco-sellers bomb-burst back into
the hostel, bags in hand, thinking they were getting raided, running to
their rooms to hide their stashes and leaving the boys from Manchester
outside to fend for themselves.
Close behind them, four police officers pushed their way in to sort out
the fracas.
I checked Baby-G, a new black one with purple illumination. Over three
hours to go before pick-up, and there was nothing I wanted to do. I didn't
want to eat, didn't want to drink, didn't even want to just sit around, and
I certainly didn't want Maureen gazing into my soul, no matter how helpful
she was trying to be. She knew too much already. So I started heading out
towards the street, nodding my thanks. Even in a time of crisis she gave me
a second of her time.
"You need to stop worrying, Nick. Worrying too much affects this, you
know." She tapped the side of her forehead with her index finger.
"I've seen enough of that in here to know, darling."
One of the phones rang behind her as the scuffle continued at the
bottom of the stairs.
"Got to go, luv. I hope things work out for you they normally do, you
know. Good luck, darling."
Once outside, the noise of the construction site drowned out the
shouting. I slouched on the steps, staring at the paving slabs as the
fighters were dragged away, their angry voices lost amongst the roar of
pneumatic drills.
On the dot of 3 p.m. the Merc cruised past and found a space further
down the road. Trainers was at the wheel and Sundance next to him. They left
the engine running.
I unstuck my very numb arse from the steps and dragged myself towards
them. They were dressed in the same clothes as this morning, and drinking
coffee out of paper cups. I took my time not to make them wait, but because
my body couldn't move any quicker, just like my mind.
They gave me no acknowledgement as I got into the back and they put
their seatbelts back on.
Sundance threw a brown envelope over his shoulder at me as we drove
off.
"I've already taken five hundred out of the account, so don't bother
trying again today. That covers the eighty-five sub plus interest."
They grinned at each other. The job had its compensations.
My new passport and credit card were hot off the press but looking
suitably aged, along with my new PIN number and open-return air ticket,
leaving Miami to Panama City, 7.05 a.m. tomorrow. How I got to Miami by then
didn't bother me I'd be told soon enough.
I flicked through my visas so I knew that I'd been on holiday for two
weeks in Morocco in July. The stamps were all related to the truth I had
been there, just not as recently. But at least it meant I could bluff my way
through a routine check at Immigration and Customs. The rest of my cover
story would be the same as ever, just travelling after a boring life selling
insurance; I had done most of Europe, now I wanted to see the rest of the
world.
I still wasn't impressed by my cover name, though. Hoff why Hoff? It
didn't sound right. Nick Hoff, Nick Hoff. It didn't even start with the same
letter as my real surname, so it was difficult not to get confused and
hesitant when signing a signature. Hoff sounded unnatural: if you were
called Hoff, you wouldn't christen your son Nicholas unless you wanted to
give him a tough time at school: it sounded like someone with a speech
impediment saying 'knickers off.
Sundance didn't ask for a signature, and that bothered me. I got pissed
off with bullshit when it was official, but even more so when it wasn't.
"What about my CA?" I asked.
"Can I call them?"
Sundance didn't bother to look round as we bumped along in the traffic.
"It's already done." He dipped into his jeans and brought out a scrap
of paper.
"The new mini roundabout has been built at last, but everyone is still
waiting on the decision about the bypass. That comes through some time next
month."
I nodded; it was an update on the local news from what the Yes Man had
renamed the Cover Address. James and Rosemary had loved me like a son since
I boarded with them years ago, or so the cover story went. I even had a
bedroom there, and some clothes in the wardrobe.
These were the people who would both confirm my cover story and be part
of it.
They'd never take any action on my behalf, but would back me up if I
needed them to.
"That's where I live," I could tell whoever was questioning me.
"Phone them, ask them."
I visited James and Rosemary whenever I could, so my cover had got
stronger as time passed. They knew nothing about the ops and didn't want to;
we would just talk about what was going on at the social club, and a bit of
other local and personal stuff. I needed to know these things because I
would do if I lived there all the time. I hadn't wanted to use them for the
sniper job, because that would have meant the Firm knowing the name I was
travelling under, and where to.
As things had turned out, it looked as if I'd been right.
Sundance started to tell me how I was going to make it to Miami in time
for my flight to Panama. The Yes Man hadn't hung about. Within four hours I
was going to be lying in a sleeping bag on top of some crates of military
kit stuffed into an R.A.F Tristar, leaving R.A.F Brize Norton, near Oxford,
for Fort Campbell in Kentucky, where a Jock infantry battalion was having a
joint exercise with the 101st Airborne Division "Screaming Eagles'. They had
given up their parachutes years ago and now screamed around in more
helicopters than nearly all of the European armies put together. There were
no commercial flights this time of day that would get me where I needed to
be by tomorrow morning; this was the only way. I was getting kicked off in
Florida, and a US visa waiver would be stamped in my passport at the Marine
base. I then had three hours in which to transfer to Miami airport and make
the flight to Panama.
Sundance growled as he looked out at two women waiting for a bus.
"Once you get there you are being sponsored by two doctors." He glanced
at his notes again.
"Carrie and Aaron Yanklewitz. Fucking stupid name."
He looked at Trainers, who nodded in agreement before getting back to
the scrap of paper.
There will be no contact with Mr. Frampton or anyone here. Everything
to, or from, is via their handler."
I wondered if there was just a faint chance the Yanklewitzes were
Polish Americans. My head was pressed against the window as I gazed out at
real life passing me by.
"Are you listening, fuckhead?"
I looked in the rear-view mirror and could see him, waiting for a
reply. I nodded.
They'll be at the airport with a name card and a pass number of
thirteen. You got that? Thirteen."
I nodded once more, this time not bothering to look at him.
They'll show you the wee boy's house, and should have all the imagery
and stuff by the time you get there. They don't know what your job is. But
we do, don't we, boy?" He swivelled round to face me as I continued to gaze
at nothing in particular, not feeling anything, just numb.
"And that's to finish the job, isn't it?" He jabbed the air between us
with his forefinger as he spoke.
"You're going to finish what you were paid to do. And it's going to be
done by Friday, last light. Do you understand, Stone? Finish it."
I felt more depressed and pissed off each time the job was mentioned.
"I'd be lost without you."
Sundance's finger and thumb jabbed the air again as he made not too
good a job of containing his rage.
"Kill the fucking boy." He spat the words and flecks of saliva showered
on to my face.
I got the feeling everyone was under pressure in this car, and I bet
that was because the Yes Man was himself. I wondered if C had been told
about my security blanket or had the Yes Man decided to claim that the
'scuppering' was down to bad com ms After all, that was what I'd told him,
wasn't it? I couldn't remember now.
The Yes Man had probably told C that good old Stone whom C wouldn't
know if I fell out of the sky and landed on his head -was on the case, and
everything was going to be just fine. But I had the sneaking suspicion I was
only going to Panama instead of Beachy Head because I was the only one on
the books soft enough in the head to try to pull it off.
As we joined the A40 out of London and headed for Brize, I tried to
focus on the job. I needed to fill my head with work instead of woe. At
least that was the theory. But it was easier said than done. I was
penniless. I'd sold the Ducati, the house in Norfolk, even the furniture,
everything apart from what I could shove into a sports bag, to pay for
Kelly's treatment. Twenty-four-hour private care in leafy Hampstead and
regular trips to the Moorings had cleaned me out.
Walking away from the Norfolk house for the last time, I'd felt the
same trepidation I had as a sixteen-year-old walking away from the housing
estate to join the Army. Back then, I hadn't had a sports bag, but a pair of
holed socks, a still-wrapped bar of Wright's Coal Tar soap, and one very old
toothbrush in a Co-op plastic carrier. I planned to buy the toothpaste on my
first pay day, not knowing when exactly that was, or how much I was going to
get. I hadn't really cared, because however bad the Army might be, it was
getting me out of a life of correction centres and a stepfather who had
graduated from slaps to punches.
Since March, the start of Kelly's therapy, I hadn't been able to work.
And with no national insurance number, no record of employment not so much
as a postcard to prove my existence after leaving the Regiment I couldn't
even claim the dole or income support. The Firm wasn't going to help: I was
deniable.
And no one at Vauxhall Cross wants to know you if you aren't able to
work, or if there isn't any to give you.
For the first month or so of her sessions I'd done the bed sit shuffle
around London if I was lucky, being able to do a runner whenever the
landlord was stupid enough not to ask for money up front. Then, with the
help of Nick Somerhurst's national insurance number bought in the Good
Mixer, I was able to get a place in the hostel, lining up at mealtimes by
the Hari Krishna van, just outside the Mecca bingo hall. It had also got me
the Somerhurst passport and supporting documents. I didn't want to have the
Yes Man tracking me with docs from the Firm.
I couldn't help smiling as I remembered one of the Krishna gang, Peter,
a young guy who always had a grin on his face. He had a shaved head and skin
so pale he looked as if he should have been dead, but I soon discovered he
was very much alive. Dressed in his rusty red robes, hand knitted blue
cardigan, and a multicoloured woolly hat, he used to run about inside the
rusty white Mercedes van, pouring tea, dishing out great curries and bread,
doing the Krishna rap.
"Yo, Nick! Krishnaaa, Krishnaaaa, Krishnaaaa. Yo!
Hari rammaaaaa." I never felt quite up to joining in, though some of
the others did, especially the drunks. As he danced about inside the van the
tea would spill and the odd slice of bread would fall off the paper plate,
but it was still much appreciated.
I went on staring out of the window, cocooned in my own little rusty
world while the other one passed me by on the street.
The A40 opened up into motorway and Sundance decided it was time for a
bit of a performance.
"You know what?" He looked over at Trainers, making sure I could hear.
Trainers swung into the outside lane at the same time as passing his
tobacco to Sundance.
"What's that, then?"
"I wouldn't mind a trip to Maryland ... We could go to Washington and
do the sights first..."
I knew what they were trying to do to me and I continued to stare at
the hard shoulder.
Trainers was sounding enthusiastic.
"It'd be good craze, I'm telling yer."
Sundance finished licking the Rizla before answering.
"Aye, it would. I hear Laurel..." He turned to face me.
"That's where she lives now, isn't it?"
I didn't answer. He knew very well it was. Sundance turned back to face
the road.
"Well, I hear it's very picturesque there -you know, trees and grass
and all that shite. Anyway, after we finished up there in Laurel, you could
take me to see that half-sister of yours in New York .. ."
"No fucking way you're getting near her!"
I had a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach and had to breathe
out quickly as I thought about what might happen if I didn't get the job
done. But I was fucked if I was going to play their game. Besides, I was
just too tired to react.
Just over an hour later the Merc pulled up outside the air movement
centre at Brize, and Trainers got out to organize the next stage of my life.
Nothing was said in the car as I listened to the roar of R.A.F
transport jets taking off and watched soldiers from the Argyll and
Sutherland Highlanders wander past in DPM camouflage, berg ens on their
backs and Walkmans clamped to their ears. It was like going back in time. I
felt I'd spent half my military life at this airfield, because as well as
loading up for flights on a regular basis, just like the Highlanders, I had
learnt to parachute here. I'd loved it:
after being stationed in a garrison town with only three pubs one of
which was out of bounds to low-life like me and a chip shop, this place had
been Butlins. They...
