Энди МакНаб. Удаленный контроль(engl)

     REMOTE CONTROL [042-011-4.5]
     By: Andy McNab


     Synopsis:
     Don't expect to see Andy McNab's  photograph on the cover of his  first
thriller, Remote Control--the former British  Special Air Service agent says
both the Colombian drug  cartel and the Provisional IRA still have contracts
out on him.  His two  nonfiction books, Bravo Two Zero and Immediate Action,
give more detail about his prolific past.
     Remote Control is the fictional story of an SAS agent named Nick Stone,
who is  on  the  case of two  Irish terrorists. He  follows  them across the
Atlantic to Washington, D.C.,  but is suddenly ordered back home on the next
available flight.  His old mate Kevin Brown, now with the  Drug  Enforcement
Agency, lives  near the  airport,  so  Nick  decides to  drop in. He finds a
slaughterhouse: Kev, his wife, and youngest  daughter have been battered  to
death,  but  daughter  Kelly has  survived  in  a  special  hideout.  Prying
information  from the  shocked child,  Nick links  the killers to either the
CIA,  the  DEA, or his own organization--which  means that  he and Kelly are
virtually on their own. As Nick trundles the spunky youngster from one seedy
motel to another, stuffs her with junk food,  and teaches her the  rudiments
of spy craft, he also  begins to  piece together a picture  of why Kevin and
his family were killed. There is a connection between a terrorist bomb scare
in  Gibraltar   in  1988,   the  Colombian   drug  cartel,  and   high-level
intelligence-agency  skullduggery. McNab keeps dropping those  shiny nuggets
of believability  along the trail and winds up holding  our  attention until
the predictable but satisfying end. 
     BALLANTINE BOOKS NEW  YORK Sale of this book  without a  front cover
may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to
the  publisher  as "unsold or  destroyed"  and neither  the  author  nor the
publisher may have received payment for it.
     A  Ballantine  Book  Published   by  The  Ballantine  Publishing  Group
Copyright 1997 by Andy McNab
     All  rights  reserved  under International  and  Pan-American Copyright
Conventions.  Published in the  United States  by  The Ballantine Publishing
Group, a division of Random House, Inc." New York.
     Originally  published  in Great Britain by Bantam Press, a  division of
Transworld Publishers Ltd." London.
     This  book  is  a  work of  fiction.  Names,  characters,  places,  and
incidents  are either  the  product of  the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously.
     Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
     www. random house.com/BB/
     Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 9991022
     ISBN 0345428064
     Manufactured in the United States of America
     First American Hardcover Edition: June 1999  First American Mass Market
Edition: January 2000 GIBRALTAR: SUNDAY, MARCH 6,1988
     We didn't  know which  of the three was going to detonate the bomb. All
Simmonds  had been able to tell  us  was that it was a  big one, and that it
would be initiated remotely.
     For now, though, there was nothing to do but wait. The security service
had triggers  out on the checkpoints with mainland Spain. Until  the players
were  sighted, Pat, Kev, and I were to stay  exactly  where we were: sitting
outside a cafe just off Main Street, drinking coffee, looking and listening.
     The   spring  air  was  crisp  and  clear  under   a  blindingly   blue
Mediterranean  sky,  the morning sun just  starting to  make it  comfortable
enough for shirtsleeves. The  trees that lined the  square were  packed with
birds so small I couldn't see them  among the foliage, but they  made enough
noise  to drown out the sound of  traffic  going up and down the  main drag,
just out of sight. It was strange to think that this small  outpost,  on the
tip of southern Spain, was still under British jurisdiction, a last  bastion
of Empire.
     Through  my earpiece  I heard Euan make a radio check to the operations
room. Everything he said on the net was very precise, very clear, very calm.
Euan was the tidiest man in the world. If you sat on a cushion he would puff
it up again the moment you stood up. Dedication was his middle name.
     I heard a loud hiss of air brakes and looked up.  A tour bus had turned
into the square and was parking about twenty  yards away. The  sign  in  the
windshield said young at heart.
     I didn't pay much attention. I was bored, looking for things to do. The
laces on one of my running shoes had come undone.
     I bent down to do them up and got a  jab in the ribs from the hammer of
the 9mm Browning.  The holster was covert, inside my  jeans; that  way, only
the  pistol grip  would  be in view  if I pulled open my  black nylon bomber
jacket. I  preferred to have my pistol  at the front. A lot of the guys wore
theirs  on the side, but I could  never  get  used  to  it.  Once you find a
position you like,  you don't change; you might be in deep  shit one day, go
to draw your weapon and it isn't there it's several more inches to the right
and you're dead.
     I  had  an extended twenty-round  magazine  protruding from the  pistol
grip. I also had three standard thirteen-round mags on my belt if fifty-nine
rounds weren't enough, I shouldn't be doing this for a living.
     The senior citizens began getting off the bus. They were typical  Brits
abroad,  the men  dressed  almost  identically:   beige flannels,  sensible
shoes, and a V-neck sweater over a shirt and tie. Most of the  women were in
polyester  slacks with  elastic waistbands and  a sewn-in  crease  down  the
front. They  all had flawless,  blow-dried, jet black, white, or blue-rinsed
hair. They spotted the cafe and started to move as a herd toward us.
     Pat muttered,  "Fuck me, the  enemy must  be getting desperate  They've
sent the Barry Manilow fan  club. Friends of  yours, grand ad He grinned  at
Kev, who offered him a finger to swivel on. Whether you like it  or not, you
have  to quit  the SAS the Special  Air Service at the age of forty, and Kev
had just a year or two of his contract with the Regiment left.
     The  young  at heart settled down  at  nearby tables and picked up  the
menus. It was now decision time for them whether to have dessert or go for a
sandwich, because it was halfway between coffee break and lunchtime and they
didn't know which way to jump.
     The waiter came out, and  they started talking to him one syllable at a
time. He looked at them as if they were crazy.
     On the net I heard, "Hello, all call signs, this is Alpha. Radio check,
over." Alpha, who was located in the ops room, was our controller. When we'd
flown in sixty  hours ago, our team of eight SAS soldiers  and support staff
had requisitioned rooms in the accommodation block at HMS Rooke, the British
naval base in the docks, and turned them into living space.
     Kev responded quietly into his concealed microphone:
     "Golf."
     Pat: "Oscar."
     I heard Euan: "November."
     My turn came: "Delta."
     The elderly Brits started taking pictures of themselves.
     Then  they were swapping  cameras so  they  could  appear  in their own
photographs.
     Slack Pat got up and said to one of them, "Here yare,  love, want me to
take one of all of you?"
     "Ooh, you're from England, are you? Isn't it nice and warm now?"
     Slack was in his early thirties, blond-haired, blue-eyed, good-looking,
clever, articulate, funny; he was everything I hated. He was also six  feet
two,  and one of  those people who naturally  shit muscle. Even his hair was
well toned;  I'd seen him  climb into his sleeping bag with his hair looking
groomed and perfect and wake  up with  it in the same condition.  Pat's only
saving grace, as  far as I  was concerned, was  that when he stood up, there
was nothing where  his  ass  should have  been. We used  to  call him  Slack
because he had lots of it.
     He had just started doing a Richard Avedon when we got:
     "Stand by, stand by!" on the net from one of the female triggers.
     "That's a possible, a possible--Bravo One toward the town square."
     Alpha came back, "Roger that. Delta, acknowledge."
     I got to my  feet, gave two  clicks  on the  radio transmitter that was
wired into my jacket pocket, and started walking. It was pointless all three
of us moving at this stage.
     Families on their Sunday paseo  strolled across from my  left. Tourists
were taking pictures  of buildings, looking  at maps,  and  scratching their
heads; locals were sitting down, enjoying the  weather, walking  their dogs,
playing    with   their    grandchildren.   There    were   two   men   with
comfortable-looking  beer  bellies,  old  and not  giving  a  fuck,  smoking
themselves to  death.  Pants  with  big  suspenders, shirt  and  undershirt,
soaking up the March sun.
     I  wondered how  many  of them would survive if the bomb  went off just
here.
     I was just  starting  to  get in  my  stride when  a very fired up male
trigger  shouted: "Stand  by, stand by! That's also a possible Bravo Two and
Echo One at the top end of Main Street."
     This got me quite excited.
     I listened for  Euan.  His task in this operation was the same as mine:
to confirm  the "possibles" with a positive  ID. I  imagined him  sauntering
along the sidewalk like me. He was short, with  an acne-scarred face and the
world's  biggest motorcycle, which he  could just about keep upright because
his toes only brushed the ground. I liked to take the piss out  of him about
it  as often  as I could.  I  knew the guy like a brother--in fact, probably
better; I hadn't seen  any of my family for more than ten years. Euan and  I
had  been young soldiers together; we'd passed  Selection  at the same time,
and we'd been working together  ever since. The fucker was so  unflappable I
always thought his heart must  have been only barely  beating. I'd been with
him in Hereford when the police arrived to tell him that his sister had been
murdered. He  just  said,  "I think I'd  better go  to London then  and sort
things out." It  wasn't  that he didn't  care; he  just didn't get  excited
about anything. That sort  of calm is  contagious.  It  always made  me feel
secure to have guys like him around me.
     I hit Main Street and spotted Bravo One right away.
     I got  on  the net: "Alpha, this is Delta.  That's confirmed-Bravo One,
brown pinstripe on faded blue."
     He  always wore that brown  pinstriped suit jacket; he'd had  it for so
long that it sagged in the  pockets, and  there were constant creases in the
back from  wearing it in a car. And the same old faded and threadbare jeans,
the crotch halfway down between his balls and his knees. He was walking away
from me, stocky, slight stoop, short hair, long sideburns , but I recognized
the gait. I knew it was Sean Savage.
     Bomb maker number one for the Provisional Irish Republican Army--PIRA.
     I followed him to a small square at the bottom end of Main Street, near
the  governor's residence, where  the band  of the resident British infantry
battalion  would fall out  after the  changing of the guard.  It  was  where
Simmonds suspected the PIRA team might plant their bomb.
     Alpha, the base station controlling the operation for now, repeated the
message so that everyone knew which direction  Savage was walking in. I knew
that Golf and Oscar Kev and Slack Pat would soon start moving up behind me.
     There  were six  or  seven  cars parked up  against the  wall of an old
colonial  building, taking advantage of  the shade. I saw Bravo One push his
hand into his jacket pocket as he headed toward them. For  a  split second I
thought he was going for the initiation device.
     Without  checking  his  stride,  Savage  focused  on  one  vehicle   in
particular and headed toward it.  I moved slightly  to the right  so I had a
clear view of the license plate.
     "Alpha, this is Delta," I said.
     "That's Bravo One now at vehicle Mike Lima 174412."
     I  pictured Alpha  with the  bank of computers  in front of him  in the
control room. He confirmed, "Roger  that, Mike  Lima  174412. That's a white
Renault Five."
     "It's on the right, third car from the entrance," I said.
     "That's nose in."  By now the keys were in Savage's hands.
     "Stop, stop, stop. Bravo One at the car, he's at the car."
     I was committed to  passing him quite close now  I couldn't just change
direction. I could see his profile; his chin and top lip  were full of zits,
and I knew what that meant.
     Under pressure, his acne always blew up.
     Savage was  still at the Renault.  He turned, now with his back  to me,
pretending to sort his keys out, but I knew he'd be checking the  telltales.
A sliver  of  Scotch  tape across a door, things arranged  in a certain  way
inside the vehicle; whatever, if they were not  as he had left them.  Savage
would lift off.
     Kev and Slack Pat would be  somewhere near the  entrance to the square,
ready to "back." If I got overexposed to the target, one of  them would take
over, or if  I got in deep shit and had a contact, they would have to finish
it and we'd all worked together long enough  for me to know that, as friends
as well as colleagues, they'd let nothing stand between them and the task.
     The  buildings were casting shadows across  the square. I couldn't feel
any breeze, just the change in temperature as I moved out of the sunlight.
     I was too close to  Savage now to  transmit. As I walked past the car I
could hear the keys going in and the click of the lock.
     I headed for a wooden bench on the far side of the square and sat down.
There  were newspapers  in  a trash can next  to me;  I picked  one  out and
pretended to read, watching him.
     Savage made a suspicious move and I got back on the net:
     "Alpha, this is Delta that's his feet outside, he's fiddling underneath
the dashboard, he's fiddling under the dashboard.
     Wait..." I had my finger on the button,  so  I was still commanding the
net. Could he be making the final connection to the bomb?
     As  I was doing my  ventriloquist act, an  old guy wandered toward  me,
pushing his bike.  The  fucker  was  on his way over for a chat. I  took  my
finger off the  button  and  waited.  I  was deeply  involved  in the  local
newspaper but didn't have a clue what it said. He obviously thought I did. I
didn't want to  stick around and discuss the weather, but I wasn't going  to
just blow him off either because he might start jumping up and down and draw
Savage's attention.  The old guy  stopped, one hand  on his bike, the other
one flailing around. He asked  me a question. I didn't  understand a word he
was saying. I made a face  that said I didn't know what the world was coming
to,  shrugged, and looked down again at  the  paper. I'd obviously  done the
wrong thing. He said some angry shit, then wheeled his  bike away, arm still
flailing.
     I got back on the  radio. I couldn't exactly see what Savage was doing,
but both of his feet were still outside the Renault.
     He  had his ass on the driver's seat  and  was leaning  under neath the
dash. It  looked  as if he  was trying to get  something  out  of the  glove
compartment as  if he'd forgotten  some thing  and  gone  back to  get it. I
couldn't  confirm  what  he  was doing but  his hands  kept going  into  his
pockets.
     Everything was closing in. I felt  like a boxer I could hear the crowd,
I was listening to my seconds and the referee, I was listening for the bell,
but mostly I was focused on the  boy I was  fighting. Nothing else mattered.
Nothing. The only important people in the world were me and Bravo One.
     Through my earpiece I could hear  Euan  working  like a  man possessed,
trying to get on top of the other two terrorists.
     Kev and Slack Pat were still backing me; the other two boys in our team
were with Euan. They'd all still be satelliting, listening on the net so  as
to be out of sight of the targets, but always close enough to back  us if we
got in trouble.
     Euan closed  in on  Bravo Two  and  Echo One. They  were coming in  our
direction. Everybody knew where they  were; everybody would keep out  of the
way so they had a clear run in.
     I recognized them as soon as they turned the corner.
     Bravo  Two  was  Daniel Martin McCann.  Unlike  Savage,  who  was  well
educated and an expert bomb maker, "Mad Danny" was  a butcher by trade and a
butcher by nature. He'd  been  expelled from  the movement by Gerry Adams in
1985  for  threatening to initiate  a  campaign  of murder  that  would have
hampered the new political strategy.  It was a bit like being kicked  out of
the Gestapo  for cruelty.  But  McCann had  supporters and soon got  himself
reinstated. Married with two children, he  had twenty-six killings linked to
his name. Ulster Loyalists had  tried  to whack him once,  but failed.  They
should have tried harder.
     Echo  One  was  Mairead  Farrell.  Middle  class   and   an  ex-convent
schoolgirl,  she was, at thirty-one, one of the highest-ranking women in the
IRA. See her picture and you'd think, aah,  an angel.  But she'd served ten
years for planting a  bomb in Belfast and reported back for duty  as soon as
she was released. Things hadn't gone her way; a few months earlier her lover
had accidentally blown himself up. As Simmonds  had  said at  the  briefing,
that made her one very pissed off Echo One.
     I knew them  both  well; Euan and I had been working  against them  for
years. I got on the net and confirmed the ID.
     Everybody was in place. Alpha would be in  the  control  room  with the
senior policeman,  people  from  the Foreign Office, people  from  the  Home
Office, you name it, every man and his dog would be there, everybody wanting
to  put  in  their two cents' worth, everybody with their  own concerns.  We
could only hope that Simmonds would be looking after ours.
     I'd  met  the Secret  Intelligence Service  desk officer  for  Northern
Ireland only a couple of days earlier, but he certainly seemed to be running
our side of the  show.  His voice had the sort of confidence that was shaped
on the playing  fields  of  Eton, and he  measured his words slowly,  like a
big-time attorney with the meter running.
     We wanted the decision made now. But I knew there would be a big debate
going on in the ops  room; you'd  probably have  to cut your way through the
cigarette  smoke with a knife. Our liaison officer  would be listening to us
on his radio and explaining everything that we were doing,  confirming  that
the team was in position. At crunch time, it was  the  police, not us, who'd
decide that we go  in. Once  it was handed over  to the military, K.ev would
control the team.
     The frustration was unendurable. I just wanted to get this over.
     By  now  Farrell was  leaning against the  driver's  door, the two  men
standing and facing her. If  I  hadn't  known differently I'd have said they
were trying to chat her  up. I couldn't hear what they were saying but their
faces showed no sign of stress, and now and then I could hear laughter above
the traffic  noise. Savage even got out a packet  of mints  and  passed them
round.
     I  was still giving a  running commentary when Alpha  came back  on the
net.
     "Hello, all call signs, all call signs, I have control, I have control.
Golf, acknowledge."
     Kev acknowledged. The police had handed over; it was Kev's show now.
     The  targets started to  move  away from the vehicle,  so I pushed  the
button four times.  Golf came back: "Stand by, stand by!"
     That was it; we were off.
     I  let  them walk toward the main square, and then I  got up. I knew we
wouldn't lift them here. There were far  too many people  around. For all we
knew, the  players  might  want to go  out  in  a blaze of glory  and  start
dropping the civilians, take them hostage, or, even worse,  go into kamikaze
mode and detonate the device.
     Alpha came back on the net.
     "Hello, all call signs, all call signs cancel, cancel, cancel! I do not
have control! Cancel!
     Golf, acknowledge."
     At once I heard Kev's not-so-formal reply:  "What the  fuck's going on?
Tell me what's going on?"
     "Wait .. . wait ..." Alpha sounded under pressure.
     There were voices in the background.
     "All stations, all stations, the police need another  ID, they  need to
be sure.
     Golf, acknowledge."
     What do they want, introductions?
     "Hi, I'm Danny, bomber and murderer, I enjoy traveling and working with
children."
     We were in danger of losing them if we didn't act soon.
     Alpha  came back:  "All  stations, ATO is  moving to check the vehicle.
Delta,  we need that  confirmation."  The  ATO  is the ammunitions technical
officer.
     I acknowledged. There was obviously  some  sweating going on in the ops
room. The boss  was getting a hard time from  the police; it sounded  like a
chimpanzees' tea party in there.
     The terrorist team would  be crossing  the border within minutes.  Once
they were on the other side, they could detonate the bomb with immunity.
     I was now  on  the other side of the road, and wanted  at  least to get
parallel to them  so I could see their faces again. I had to reconfirm  the
players, then stick with them.
     More  activity on the  net. I could hear the  tension in Alpha's  voice
now, telephone lines ringing, people milling about.
     Kev cut in: "Fuck the ops room, let's keep on top of them until someone
somewhere makes a fucking decision. Lima and Zulu, can you get forward?"
     Zulu came on the net for  himself  and Lima,  very  much out of breath:
"Zulu and Lima, we... we can do that."
     "Roger that, move up, tell me when you're there."
     Kev wanted them beyond the health center. They were running hard to get
ahead of the targets; they didn't care who saw  them as long as  the players
didn't. But we still hadn't got control.
     Kev came back on the net: "Alpha,  this  is Golf. You  need to get your
finger out now we're going to lose them. What do you want us to do?"
     "Golf, wait, wait.. " I could still hear noise in the  background: lots
of talking, more telephones ringing, people shouting instructions.
     Everything went quiet.
     "Wait... wait..."
     All I could  hear now was the background  noise of Alpha  on my  radio,
plus my pulse pounding in my head. Then, at last, the voice of Simmonds very
clear, a voice  you wouldn't argue with. I heard him say to Alpha, "Tell the
ground commander he can continue "  "All call signs,  this is Alpha. I  have
control. I have control.
     Golf, acknowledge."
     Kev got on the net, and instead  of acknowledging, said, "Thank God for
that. All  call signs, if they get  as far as the  airport,  we'll lift them
there. If not on my word, on my word. Zulu and Lima, how's it going?"
     They came back on the net.
     "That's  us  static  at the junction. We  can take."  They were  at the
intersection of Main Street and Smith Dorrien Avenue, the main approach road
to the crossing into Spain. The players were moving toward them.
     I could lift off soon. I'd done the  job I'd been brought here to do. I
prepared myself for the han dover.
     But then they stopped.
     Fuck.
     "Stop, stop, stop!" I said.
     "That's Bravo One, Two and Echo One static."
     Everybody was closing in. Come on, let's lift them here and now.
     Savage split from  the other  two and headed  back the way they'd come,
toward the town center. It was  all going to rat shit.  We had two groups to
control now, and we didn't know who had the detonation device.
     Kev arrived to back me. On the net,  I could hear the other two players
being followed toward the border by  the rest of  the team  as I moved in to
take Savage. He turned left down an alleyway.
     I  was just about  to  get  on  the net when  I  heard a  police siren,
followed by gunfire behind me.
     At the same instant Euan came on the net: "Contact!
     Contact!"
     Then more shots.
     Kev  and I  looked at  each other. What the fuck was  going  on? We ran
around the corner. Savage had heard  the shots, too, and turned back  toward
us.  Even at this distance  I could see his eyes, big  as plates and jerking
like he was having a seizure.
     There was a female  pedestrian between us. Kev shouted, "Stop, security
forces! Stop!"
     With his  left hand, he had to push the woman over to the side and bang
her against the wall to keep her out of the way.
     She  was going down, blood pouring from her head. At least she wouldn't
get up and become a target.
     She began screaming. We had Kev hollering and screaming at Savage,  and
all the people in the area were starting  to scream. It  was  turning into a
gang fuck.
     Kev  flicked back  the right side  of  his sport  jacket to  reach  the
pancake holster  over his kidneys. We always put a bit of weight in a pocket
a full magis good to help the jacket flick back out of the way.
     But I  wasn't really looking at Kev; I  was  looking at Savage. I could
see  his  hand  moving  to the right side  of  his  jacket.  He  wasn't some
knuckle-dragging moron from the backstreets. The moment  he saw us, he  knew
the score. It was decision time.
     Kev drew his pistol, brought it up, and prepared to fire.
     Nothing.
     "Stoppage! Fuck, Nick, fuck, fuck!"
     Trying to clear  his weapon, he dropped on one knee to  make  himself a
smaller target.
     That was when everything seemed to go into slow motion.
     Savage and  I had eye-to-eye. He knew what I was going  to do; he could
have stopped, he could have put his hands up.
     My bomber jacket was held together with Velcro, so at times like this I
could just pull it apart and draw my pistol.
     The only way a weapon can be drawn and used quickly  is by breaking the
whole movement into stages. Stage one, I kept looking at the target. With my
left hand I grabbed a fistful  of  bomber jacket and  pulled it as hard as I
could toward my chest. The Velcro ripped apart.
     At the same time I was sucking  in my stomach and sticking out my chest
to make the pistol grip easy to access. You get only one chance.
     We still had eye contact. He started to shout, but I didn't hear. There
was too much  other shouting going on,  from everyone on  the street and the
earpiece in my head.
     Stage two, I pushed the web of my right hand down onto the pistol grip.
If I got this wrong, I  wouldn't  be able to aim correctly: I would miss and
die. As I  felt  my web push against the pistol grip, my lower three fingers
gripped hard around it.
     My  index  finger  was  outside the trigger  guard,  parallel with  the
barrel. I didn't want to pull the trigger early and kill my self. Savage was
still looking, still shouting.
     Savage's hand was nearly at his pocket.
     Stage three, I drew my weapon, in the  same movement taking  the safety
catch off with my thumb.
     Our eyes were  still locked. I  saw that Savage knew he had lost. There
was just a curling of the lips. He knew he was going to die.
     As my pistol came out I flicked it parallel with the ground.
     No time to extend my arms and get into a stable firing position.
     Stage four, my left hand was still pulling my jacket out of the way and
the pistol was now just  by my belt buckle. There was no need to look at it;
I  knew  where it was  and  what it was pointing  at. I kept my eyes  on the
target, and his never left mine. I pulled the trigger.
     The weapon report seemed to  bring everything back into real  time. The
first round hit him. I didn't know where I didn't need  to. His eyes told me
all I wanted to know.
     I kept on firing. There is no such thing as overkill. If he could move,
he  could  detonate the  bomb. If it took  a whole  magazine to  be sure I'd
stopped the threat, then that  was what I'd fire. As Savage hit the ground I
could  no  longer see  his hands.  He  was curled up in a ball, holding  his
stomach. I moved forward and fired two shots at the head. He was no longer a
threat.
     Kev ran over and was searching inside Savage's coat.
     "It's not here," he said.
     "No weapon, no firing device."
     I looked down at Kev as  he wiped the blood off his hands onto Savage's
jeans.
     "One of the others must have had it," he said.
     "I didn't hear the car go up, did you?"
     In all the confusion I couldn't be sure.
     I  stood  over  them  both. Kev's  mother came  from southern Spain; he
looked like  a  local: jet black  hair, about five  feet ten inches, and the
world's bluest  eyes. His wife reckoned he was a dead ringer for Mel Gibson,
which he scoffed at but secretly liked. Right now his face was a picture; he
knew he owed me one. I wanted to say, "It's OK, these things happen," but it
just didn't seem  like the time. Instead  I said, "Fucking hell, Brown, what
do you expect if you have a name the same color as shit?"
     As I spoke we put our safety catches on, and Kev and I swapped weapons.
     "I'm glad I won't be at any inquest." I grinned at Kev.
     "You'd better start getting your shit together."
     He smiled as he got  on  the  radio  and  started  to send  a situation
report.  It was all right for him and  the others,  but Euan and I shouldn't
have been here. We had  to vanish before  the  police  arrived. We  had been
flown in  from  doing undercover work  in  Northern  Ireland  with  Fourteen
Intelligence Group;
     it was illegal for its members  to operate anywhere else.  If either of
us were caught in Gibraltar, there would be a shit storm.
     The ops room  at HMS  Rooke was about  fifteen minutes away  on foot. I
tucked Kev's weapon inside my jeans and started walking fast.
     The  mood was subdued aboard the C-130  as it lifted from the tarmac at
11 p.m. that night.
     Spanish  police had found PIRA's car  bomb  in an  under ground parking
garage in Marbella, thirty miles away, across the Spanish border; 145 pounds
of  Semtex high explosive and  an unattached  timing device preset at  11:20
a.m." the time the Gibraltar guard-changing ceremony  ended and the soldiers
dispersed in the square. The white Renault had been a blocking vehicle after
all.
     When  Simmonds came  over. Pat said,  "As far as we knew, they had  the
means to detonate a bomb big enough to separate Gibraltar from the mainland.
All it would have taken was one press of a button. If there's going to be an
inquest, fuck it.
     Better to be tried by twelve, I say, than carried by six."
     Deafened suddenly by the roar of the C-130's engines, I glanced at Kev,
Pat, Euan and tried to forget what I was going back to. A house isn't a home
when there are no pictures on the walls.
     Back when we were in the Persian Gulf, Pat  had a battle  cry: "All for
one  and  one for all." We'd laughed when  he used it, but he  was  right on
target.  Any  one of us would  put  his life on  the  line for the others. I
cracked a smile; with these  guys around  me,  who needed family?  Without a
doubt, I thought, this was as good as it was ever going to get.  NINE YEARS
LATER
     If you  work for  the British intelligence service (also known  as  the
Firm) and get formally  summoned to a meeting at their headquarters building
on the south bank of the River Thames at Vauxhall, there are three levels of
interview. First is  the one with coffee and  cookies,  which means  they're
going to give you a pat on the head. Next  down the  food chain is the  more
businesslike coffee  but no cookies,  which  means  they're not  asking  but
telling you to follow orders. And finally there's no cookies, and no coffee,
either, which basically means  that you're in deep  shit. Since  leaving the
SAS in 1993 and working on deniable operations,  I'd had a number  at  every
level,  and  I wasn't expecting  a nice  frothy  cappuccino  this particular
Monday. In  fact I was quite worried, because  things hadn't been  going too
well.
     As  I  emerged  from the subway  station at Vauxhall the omens  weren't
exactly with me, either.  The  March  sky was dull  and  overcast, preparing
itself for the Easter holiday; my path was blocked by roadworks, and a burst
from a jackhammer sounded like  the crack of a firing squad. Vauxhall Cross,
home  of  what  the  press  call  MI6  but  which  is  actually  the  Secret
Intelligence  Service,  is  about  a  mile  upstream  from  the   Houses  of
Parliament. Bizarrely shaped like  a beige and black  pyramid that's had its
top cut off, with staged levels, large towers on either side,  and a terrace
bar  overlooking the  river,  it needs  only  a few swirls of neon and you'd
swear it was a casino. It wouldn't look out of place in Las Vegas.  I missed
Century House, the old HQ building near Waterloo station. It might have been
1960s ugly, square with
     IS
     loads of  glass, net curtains, and  antennae, and  not so handy to  the
subway, but it was much less pretentious.
     Opposite  Vauxhall  Cross and about  two hundred yards  across the wide
arterial road is an elevated section of  railway line, and  beneath that are
arches  that have  been turned  into shops,  two of which  have been knocked
through to make a massive motorcycle shop. I was  early,  so I popped in and
fantasized  about which Ducati  I  was  going  to  buy  when  I  got  a  pay
raise--which wasn't going to be today. What the hell, the  way  my luck  was
going I'd probably go and kill myself on it.
     I'd  fucked up severely. I'd been  sent  to Saudi  to  encourage,  then
train, some Northern Iraqi Kurds to kill three leading members of the Ba'ath
party; the hope  was that  the assassinations would heat everything  up  and
help dismantle the regime in Baghdad.
     The first part of my task was to take delivery in Saudi of  some former
Eastern bloc  weapons  that had been smuggled  in--Russian  Draganov  sniper
weapons,  a  couple of  Makharov pistols,  and two AK  assault  rifles,  the
parachute version with  a folding stock. All serial numbers had been erased
to make them deniable.
     For maximum chaos, the plan was to get the Kurds to make three hits  at
exactly the same time in and around Baghdad.
     One was going to be a close-quarters shoot, using the Makharovs.
     The idea was for the two boys to walk up to the family house, knock  on
the  door,  take  on  whatever  threat presented itself, make entry into the
house, zap the target, and run.
     The second was going to be a sniper option. The target saw himself as a
big-time fitness freak; he'd come out and have a little jog around a  track,
all  of about four hundred yards. He  emerged from his  house every day in a
lime green, fluffy velour tracksuit, did  one lap, and that was his training
for the day. The boys were going to hit  him just as he started to sweat and
slow down--which by the  look of him would be after about a hundred yards. I
would be on this one to coordinate the hit so that both fired at once.
     The third target was going  to be taken out on his way to the ministry.
Two bikes would pull  up at stoplights and give him the good news with their
AK-47s.
     I landed  up  in  Northern Iraq without any  problems  and started  the
buildup training. At this stage not even the  Kurds knew what their task was
going  to be. The Draganov sniper rifles were  a heap of  shit. However, the
weapon is never as important as the ammunition,  which in this case was even
worse, Indian 7.62mm. Given a free  hand I would have wanted to use  Lapier,
manufactured in Finland and the best in the world for sniping because of its
consistency, but Western rounds would have given the game away.
     The Indian ammunition was hit and miss mostly miss.
     On top of that the Draganovs were  semiautomatic rifles.  Ide ally, you
need a bolt-action weapon, which  is not only better for taking the hit,  it
also doesn't leave an empty case behind because it stays in the weapon until
you reload. However, it had  to be Russian shit that they were zapped  with,
and it had to be deniable.
     Once all  three jobs  went down, the  weapons were  to  be  dumped  and
destroyed.  They weren't. On the AK there is  a  forward  leaf sight, with a
serial  number scratched  underneath  it.  I had  been told  that all serial
numbers had been  removed at  the source, and  had taken  the information at
face value. I didn't check I fucked up.
     The only  way to save the situation as far as London  was concerned was
to kill  the Kurd teams I'd  been  training.  It  was damage  control  on  a
drastic scale, but it had  to be done. De tail counts.  If the Iraqis could
trace the weapons, they might make the UK connection. If they  then captured
the Kurds,  who just  happened to  mention  that they  had been trained by a
Westerner  called Nick, it wouldn't take a mastermind  to  figure out  which
country  he came  from. It  actually  pissed  me  off to  have to kill them,
because I'd gotten to know these guys really well. I was still wearing the G
Shock watch one of the snipers  had given me. We'd had a bet when we were on
the  range, and he  lost. I knew that  I could beat him,  but still  cheated
because I had to win. I'd really gotten to like him.
     Back in the  UK  there had been  an  internal  inquiry; every  body was
covering their ass. And because I was a K, they could land it all on me. The
armorers and technicians from the intelligence service said it  was my fault
for not checking.
     What could I say? I didn't even exist. I was bracing myself to take the
hit.
     I  entered Vauxhall Cross  via a  single metal  door  that funneled  me
toward reception. Inside, the building could be  mistaken for  any high-tech
office  block  in  any city--very  clean, sleek,  and  corporate. People who
worked there were swiping their identity cards through electronic readers to
get in,  but I had to go over  to the  main  reception  desk. Two women  sat
behind thick bulletproof glass.
     Through the intercom system I said to one of them, "I'm here to see Mr.
Lynn."
     "Can  you  fill  this in, please?"  She passed a  ledger through a slot
under the glass.
     As I signed my name in two boxes, she picked up a telephone.
     "Who shall I say is coming to see Mr. Lynn?"
     "My name is Stamford."
     The ledger held tear-off labels. One  half was going to  be  ripped off
and put in a plastic badge container, which I would have to pin on. My badge
was blue and said escorted
     EVERYWHERE.
     The  woman came  off  the phone and said, "There'll be somebody  coming
down to pick you up."
     A young clerk appeared minutes later.
     "Mr. Stamford? If you'd like to come with me." He pressed the elevator
button and said, "We're going to the fifth floor."
     The whole building is a maze. I just followed him; I didn't have a clue
where we were going. There was little noise coming from any of  the offices,
just  people  bent  over papers or working  at  PCs.  At  the far end of one
corridor we turned left into a room. Old metal filing  cabinets, a couple of
six-foot  tables  put  together, and  like in any office anywhere, the cups,
packets  of coffee  and  sugar,  and  a milk roster. None  of  that  for me,
though--in free-fall talk, I'd just stand by and accept the landing.
     Lieutenant Colonel Lynn's office  was  off  to one  side  of the larger
area. When the clerk  knocked on  the door, there  was a crisp and immediate
call of "Come in!" The boy turned the handle and ushered me past him.
     Lynn  was  standing behind  his desk. In  his early  forties, he was of
average build, height, and looks  but  had that  aura about him that singled
him out  as  a  high achiever. The only thing  he didn't have,  I was always
pleased to note, was plenty of hair. I'd known him on  and off for about ten
years;  for the last two years his job had been liaison between the Ministry
of Defense and SIS.
     It was only as I walked farther into the room that I realized he wasn't
alone. Sitting to one side  of the desk, obscured until now by the half-open
door, was Simmonds. I hadn't seen him since  Gibraltar. What a  professional
he'd  turned out to be, sorting out  the  inquest and basically making  sure
that Euan and I didn't exist. I felt a mixture of surprise and relief to see
him here. He'd had nothing to do with the Kurd job. We  might be getting the
coffee after all.
     Simmonds   stood   up.   Six    feet   tall,   late   forties,   rather
distinguished-looking,  a very polite man, I thought,  as he  ex tended  his
hand. He was dressed in corduroy trousers the color of Gulden's mustard, and
a shirt that looked as if he'd slept in it.
     "Delighted to see you again. Nick."
     We shook hands and Lynn said, "Would you like some coffee?"
     Things were looking up.
     "Thanks milk, no sugar."
     We all sat down. I took  a wooden chair that was  on  the other side of
the  desk and had a quick  look  around  the office  while Lynn pressed  the
intercom on his desk and passed the order on to the clerk. His office was at
the rear of  the building and overlooked  the  Thames. It was  a very plain,
very functional, very impersonal  room save  for a  framed photograph on the
desk of a group  I presumed were  his wife and two children. There were  two
Easter eggs and wrapping paper on the  windowsill. Mounted on a wall bracket
in one corner was a television;  the screen was scrolling through world news
headlines. Under the TV was the  obligatory officers' squash racquet and his
jacket on a coatrack.
     Without  further formalities Lynn leaned  over  and said, "We've got  a
fastball for you."
     I looked at Simmonds.
     Lynn  continued,  "Nick,  you're  in  deep shit  over the last job, and
that's just tough. But  you can rectify that by going on  this  one. I'm not
saying it'll help, but at least you're still working. Take it or leave it."
     I said, "I'll do it."
     He'd known what I was going to say. He was already reaching for a small
stack of files containing photographs and bits of paper. As a margin note on
one of the sheets I could see a scribble in  green  ink.  It could have been
written only by the head of the Firm. Simmonds still hadn't said a word.
     Lynn handed me a photograph.
     "Who are they?"
     "Michael Kerr and Morgan McGear. They're on their way to Shannon as  we
speak, then  flying to Heathrow for a flight to Washington. They've booked a
return  flight  with Virgin,  and they're running on forged  Southern  Irish
passports. I want you to take them from Shannon to Heathrow and  then  on to
Washington. See what they're up to and who they're meeting there."
     I'd followed  players  out of  the  Irish  Republic  before  and  could
anticipate a problem. I  said,  "What happens if they don't follow the plan?
If they're  on forged passports, they  might go through  the motions just to
get through the  security  check then use  their  other  passports  to board
another flight and fuck off to Amsterdam. It wouldn't be the first time."
     Simmonds smiled.
     "I understand your concern, and it is noted. But they will go."
     Lynn passed me a sheet of paper.
     "These are the flight de tails. They booked yesterday in Belfast."
     There was  a knock  on  the  door. Three coffees arrived, one in  a mug
showing the Tasmanian Devil, one with a vintage car on it, and a plain white
one. I got the impression Lynn and Simmonds were on their second round.
     Simmonds  picked  up the plain one, Lynn picked up  the car, and  I was
left with the Tasmanian Devil running up a hill.
     "Who's taking them from Belfast to Shannon?"
     Simmonds  said, "Actually, it's  Euan. He has them at the moment. He'll
hand over to you at Shannon."
     I smiled to myself at the mention of Euan's name. I was  now out of the
system  and  basically just  used as  a  K on  deniable operations. The only
reason  I did it was  to finance the other things  I wanted to do. What they
were I didn't know yet;
     I was a thirty-seven-year-old  man with a lot  on his mind, but not too
much in it. Euan, however, still felt very much part of the system. He still
had that sense of moral responsibility to fight the good fight whatever that
meant and he'd be there until the day he was kicked out.
     Simmonds handed me the folder.
     "Check that off," he said.
     "There are thirteen pages. I  want you to sign  for it now and  hand it
over to the air crew when you've finished. Good luck," he added, not meaning
it at all.
     "Am I going now?" I said.
     "I don't have my passport with me -fastball isn't the word."
     Lynn said, "Your passport's in there. Have you got your other docs?"
     I looked at him as if I'd been insulted.
     Passport, driver's license, credit cards are the basic requirements for
giving depth  to a cover story. From there the K builds up his own  cover by
using  the credit cards to  buy  things,  or maybe  make direct payments for
magazine subscriptions  or  club memberships. I had  my cards with me as  al
ways,  but  not my passport. The one Simmonds handed  me  had probably  been
specially produced  that morning, correct  even down to visas  and the right
degree of aging.
     I didn't have time to  finish my coffee.  The clerk reappeared and took
me downstairs. I signed for the documents in the outer office before I left;
thirteen pieces of paper with the in formation  on them,  and  I had to sign
each  sheet.  Then  I  had  to  sign  for  the  folder  it was  in.  Fucking
bureaucracy.
     A car was waiting for me outside. I jumped in the front;
     when I  was a kid I'd look at  people  being chauffeured and think. Who
the fuck  do they think they are?  I talked shit with  the driver,  probably
bored him silly; he didn't really want to talk, but it made me feel better.
     A  civilian Squirrel  was  waiting  on  the pad at  Battersea heliport,
rotors slowly turning. I had one last job to do before boarding;  from a pay
phone I called up the family  who covered for me, people who'd vouch  for me
if I was ever up  against it. They'd never take any action on my behalf, but
if I got lifted I could say  to the police, "That's where I live-phone them,
ask them."
     A male voice answered the phone.
     "James, it's Nick. I've just been given a chance  to  go  to the States
and visit friends. I might be a week or two. If  it's more, I'll call" James
understood.
     "The Wilmots  next door had a break-in two days ago and  we're going to
see Bob in Dorset over the Easter weekend."
     I needed to know these things because  I would if I lived there all the
time. They even sent the local paper to my accommodation address each week.
     "Cheers, mate. When you see that son of yours next weekend, tell him he
still owes me a night out."
     "I will... Have a nice holiday."
     As we skimmed over the Irish Sea I opened the briefing pack and thumbed
through the material. I needn't have bothered.
     All they  knew  for certain was  that two boys had  booked  tickets  to
Washington, D.C." and they wanted to find out why.
     They wanted  to know who they  were meeting and what was happening once
they  met.  I knew  from  experience that the chances of failure were great.
Even  if they kept to the script and  landed  in D.C." how was  I  going  to
follow them around?
     There  were  two  of them and  one of me; as a  basic anti surveillance
drill they were sure to split up at some point. But hey, the Firm had me  by
the balls.
     Judging from one of the documents, it seemed that we'd reached the time
of the year when all good PIRA fund raisers headed for the dinner circuit in
Boston, New York, Washington, D.C.--even down as  far as Tucson, Arizona, to
catch Irish American sympathizers who'd retired to the  sun.  It seemed that
the seizure often tons  of explosives and  weapons  during the  search of  a
warehouse in  north London last September had  produced a financial  crisis.
PIRA  wasn't exactly asking its bank for an overdraft yet,  but the increase
in legitimate fund-raising  in Northern  Ireland was an indication that they
were sweating. There were also  other, less  public, ways of raising cash. I
was sure my new friends were part of that.
     Apart  from that, I  was still none the wiser about the  job. I had  no
information  on the  players' cover stories, or  where they  might be going,
inside  or outside D.C. All  I knew was  who they were and what  they looked
like. I read  that Michael Kerr had been  a  member of the South Armagh  ASU
(Active  Service Unit).  He'd  taken part in four mortar attacks on  Special
Forces bases and in  dozens  of shootings against  the  security  forces and
Protestants. He'd  even gotten wounded once  but escaped  into the  South. A
tough nut.
     The same could be said for Morgan McGear. After  a career as a  shooter
in the border area  of  South Armagh, the  thirty-one-year-old subcontractor
had  been promoted  to PIRA's security  team, where his  job was to find and
question informers.
     His favored  method  of interrogation was a Black & Decker power drill.
The  helicopter  was operated by a civilian front company,  so the  arrival
procedure at Shannon, the Irish Republic's premier airport, was no different
than if I'd been a horse breeder coming to check the assets at his stud farm
in Tipperary, or a  businessman flying  in from London to fill his briefcase
with European Union subsidies. I walked across  the tarmac into the arrivals
terminal, went through Customs, and followed the exit signs, heading for the
taxi stand. At the last minute I doubled back into departures.
     At the Aer Lingus ticket desk I picked up my ticket for Heathrow, which
had  been booked  in the name of  Nick Stamford. When  choosing a cover name
it's always best to keep  your own first  name--that way you react naturally
to it. It also helps if your last name begins with the  real initial because
the signature flows better. I'd picked Stamford after the battle of Stamford
Bridge. I loved medieval history.
     I headed straight to the  shop to buy  myself a bag. Everybody has hand
luggage; I'd stick out like the balls on a bulldog if I boarded the aircraft
with nothing but a can of Coke. I never traveled with luggage that had to be
checked in  because then you're in the hands of whoever it is who decides to
take bags  marked Tokyo and  send them to Buenos Aires instead. Even if your
baggage  does arrive safely, if it reaches the  carousel  five minutes after
the target's, you're fucked.
     I bought some toothpaste and other odds and  ends, all the time keeping
an eye  out for Euan. I  knew that he'd be glued to Kerr and McGear,  unless
they'd already gone through the security gates.
     The departures lounge seemed full  of Irish families who  were going to
find  the  Easter sun, and newly retired Americans who'd come  to find their
roots,  wandering  around  with   their   brand-new  Guinness   sweatshirts,
umbrellas, and  baseball  caps, and leprechauns in  tins and little pots  of
grow-your-own shamrock.
     It was  busy, and  the bars were doing good business. I spotted Euan at
the far end of the  terminal, sitting at a  table in a coffee shop, having a
large frothy coffee and reading a paper. I'd always  found  "Euan" a strange
name for him. It always made me think of a guy with a kilt on running up and
down  a hill somewhere, tossing a caber. In fact, he was born in Oxford, and
his parents came from Surrey.
     They must have watched some Scottish movie and liked the name.
     To the left was a bar. Judging by where Euan was sitting I guessed that
was where the players were. I didn't bother looking; I knew Euan would point
them out. There was no rush.
     As I came out of the pharmacy,  I looked toward the coffee shop and got
eye-to-eye.  I started walking toward him, big  grin all over my  face as if
I'd just spotted a long-lost pal, but  didn't say anything yet. If somebody
was watching him, knowing he was on his own, it wouldn't look natural for me
just to come up and sit next to him and start talking. It had to look like a
chance  meeting,  yet not  such a  noisy one that  people  noticed  it. They
wouldn't think. Oh, look,  there's two spies meeting,  but it  registers. It
might not mean anything at the time, but it could cost you later.
     Euan started to stand and returned my smile.
     "Hello, dickhead, what are you doing here?" He gestured  for me to join
him.
     We sat down, and since Euan was sponsoring the RV (rendezvous), he came
up with the cover story.
     "I've just come to see  you from Belfast before you fly back to London.
Old friends from schooldays." It helps to know you both have the same story.
     "Where are they?" I said, as if asking after the family.
     "My half left and  you've got  the  bar. Go right  of  the  TV  They're
sitting--one's got  a jean jacket on, one a black three-quarter-length suede
coat. Ken is on the right-hand side. He's now called Michael Lindsay. McGear
is Morgan Ashdown."
     "Have they checked in?"
     "Yes. Hand luggage only."
     "For two weeks in Washington?"
     "They've got suit bags."
     "And they haven't gone to any other check-in?"
     "No, it looks like they're going to Heathrow."
     I walked over to the counter and bought two coffees.
     They  were  the only Irishmen at  the  bar,  because everybody else was
wearing a  Guinness polo shirt and drinking  pints of the black stuff. These
two had Budweisers by the neck and were watching soccer. Both had cigarettes
and were smoking like ten  men; if I'd been watching them in a bar in Derry,
I'd have taken it as nervousness, but Aer Lingus has a  no-smoking policy on
its flights; it looked as if  these  boys were  getting their big hit before
boarding.
     Both were looking very much the tourist, clean-shaven, clean  hair, not
overdressed as businessmen, not underdressed  as slobs. Basically they were
so nondescript you wouldn't give  them a second glance, which indicated that
they were quite switched  on--and that was a problem for me. If  they'd been
looking  like  a  bag of  shit or at  all nervous, I'd have  known  I was up
against second or third-string players--easy job. But these  boys were Major
League, a long way from hanging around the docks on kneecapping duty.
     There were  kids everywhere, chasing  and  shouting, mothers  screaming
after  two-year-olds who'd  found  their feet  and were skimming  across the
terminal. For us, the more  noise and activity  the  better. I sat down with
the drinks. I wanted to get as  much information as I could from Euan before
they went through security.
     On cue, he  said, "I picked McGear up  from  Deny. He went to  the Sinn
Fein office on Cable Street and presumably got briefed. Then to Belfast. The
spooks tried to  use the listening device but  didn't have any luck. Nothing
else to report, really.
     They spent the night getting drunk, then came down here.
     Been here about two hours. They booked the flight by credit card, using
their cover names. Their cover's good. They've even got their Virgin luggage
tags on; they don't want anything to go wrong."
     "Where are they staying?"
     "I  don't know.  It's all  very  last-minute and Easter's a busy  time.
There're  about ten  Virgin-affiliated hotels in D.C.; it's  probably one of
them--we haven't had time to check."
     I didn't write anything down. If you write stuff down, you can lose it.
I'd have to remember it.
     "Is that all?" I asked.
     "That's your lot. I don't  know how they're  going to transfer from the
airport, but it looks like they're off to D.C." big boy."
     Subject  closed, as far as Euan  was concerned. It was now time to talk
shit.
     "You still see a lot ofKev?"
     I took a sip of coffee and nodded.
     "Yeah, he's in Washington now, doing all right. The kids and Marsha are
fine. I saw them about four months ago. He's been promoted, and they've just
bought  the  biggest  house in  suburbia. It's  what  you'd  call  executive
housing." Euan grinned, looking like Santa  Claus  with white  froth on his
top lip.  His own place was  a stone-walled  sheep farmer's  cottage  in the
middle of nowhere in the Black Mountains of Wales. His nearest neighbor  was
two miles away on the other side of the valley.
     I said, "Marsha loves  it  in D.C.--no one trying to shoot holes in the
car."
     Marsha, an  American, was Kev's second wife. After leaving the Regiment
he'd  moved  to the  States with  her and  had joined  the  Drug Enforcement
Administration. They had two young kids, Kelly and Aida.
     "Is Slack Pat still over there?"
     "I think  so, but  you know  what  he's  like--one minute he's going to
learn how to build houses,  and  the  next minute he's going to take up tree
hugging and crocheting. Fuck knows what he's doing now."
     Pat had  had a job for two  years looking after  the family of  an Arab
diplomat in D.C. It worked out really well--he even got  an apartment thrown
in--but  eventually the children he was minding grew  too old to  be  looked
after. They went back to Saudi, so he  blew off his job and  started bumming
around.
     The fact was, he'd made so much  money during those two years he wasn't
in a hurry.
     We  carried  on chatting  and  joking, but  all  the  time Euan's  eyes
flickered toward the targets.
     The players ordered another drink, so it looked as if we were going  to
be sitting here for a while. We carried on spinning the social shit.
     "How's year ten of the house building program?" I grinned.
     "I'm still having problems with the boiler."
     He'd decided that he was going to put the central  heating  in himself,
but it was  a total screw up.  He'd ended up spending twice as much money as
he would have, had he paid someone to do it.
     "Apart  from that,  it's all  squared  away. You  should come down some
time. I can't wait to finish this fucking tour; then I've got about two more
years and that's it."
     "What are you going to do?"
     "As long as  it's  not  what you're doing, I  don't care. I thought I'd
become a garbageman. I don't give a fuck, really." I laughed.
     "You do! You'll be itching to stay in; you're a party  man. You'll stay
in forever. You moan about it all the time, but actually you love it."
     Euan checked  the players, then  looked back at me. I knew exactly what
he was thinking.
     I said, "You're right. Don't do this job; it's shit."
     "What have you been up to since your Middle Eastern adventure?"
     "I've been  on  holiday, got some downtime in, did a bit of  work for a
couple of the companies, but  nothing much, and  to tell  you the truth it's
great. Now I'm just waiting for the out come of the inquiry.  I think I'm in
deep shit unless this job gets me out."
     Euan's eyes moved again.
     "It looks like you're off."
     The two boys must have started to sort themselves out at the bar.
     I said, "I'll call you after this is finished. When are you back in the
UK?"
     "I don't know. Maybe a few days."
     "I'll give  you a call;  we can  arrange something. You  got yourself a
woman yet, or what?"
     "You've got to be drunk! I was going  out with someone  from the London
office for a  while, but she wanted to make me all nice  and fluffy. She was
starting to do my washing and all sorts of  shit. I really  didn't get  into
it."
     "You mean she didn't iron a crease in the front of your jeans?"
     Euan shrugged.
     "She didn't do things my way."
     Nobody  did. He was the sort of guy  who  folded his socks  instead  of
putting  them  inside  each  other,   and   stacked   his  coins   in  their
denominations.      Since      his     divorce     he'd      become      Mr.
I'm-going-to-have-the-best-of-everything. People even  started  to  call him
Mr.  Ikea--you name it,  track lights, entertainment center,  the whole nine
yards. The inside of his house was like a showroom.
     I could  tell Euan was watching the  two players pick up their gear and
walk away from the bar.
     I took my time; no  need  to get right up their ass. Euan would tell me
when to move.
     "Do a one-eighty," he said.
     "Look to the right, just approaching the newsstand."
     I casually got to my feet. It had been great to see him.
     Maybe  this job would turn out to be a waste  of time, but at least I'd
seen my closest  friend. We  shook hands, and I  walked away. Then I turned,
looked  ninety degrees to the right, and spotted them,  suit bags over their
arms.
     The departures lounge looked like an  Irish craft fair. I  was starting
to feel out of place; I should have gotten myself a Guinness hat.
     What was I  going to do once I got to D.C.?  I didn't  know if somebody
was going to pick them up, whether they were taking a cab or the bus, or, if
they'd managed  to  get  a  hotel,  whether transport was  included. If they
started moving around the city, that would be fun,  too. I knew Washington a
bit but not in any great detail.
     They were still smoking like fiends. I sat in the lounge and  picked up
a  paper  from the  seat. McGear started scrabbling  about for change in his
pocket  as they talked  to each other, standing at the bar.  He was suddenly
looking purposeful;  he was either going to go  to the slot machines  or the
telephone.
     He got a note out  and leaned  over  to the  bartender; I could see him
asking for change. I was sitting more or less directly behind them and about
twenty feet back, so even  if they turned their heads forty-five  degrees to
either side, I still wouldn't be in even their peripheral vision.
     McGear walked  toward the slot machines but continued on past.  It must
be the telephone.
     I got up and  wandered over  to the newsstand, pretending to  check the
spinning rack of newspapers outside.
     He picked up the phone,  put a couple of pound coins in, and dialed. He
got the number from  a piece of paper, so it wasn't one  that was well known
to  him. I looked at my G Shock; it was 4:16 p.m.  The  display was still on
dual time; if there were  any Iraqis  in the lounge needing to know the time
in Baghdad, I was their man.
     I  checked my pockets for coins;  I  had about two  and a half quid;  I
would need  more  for what I was  going to do,  so  I  went in and bought  a
newspaper with a twenty-pound note.
     McGear finished his call and  went back to the bar. Those  boys weren't
going  anywhere; they ordered more  beer,  opened their  papers, lit another
cigarette.
     I gave it a couple of minutes, then strolled over to the  phone  McGear
had been using. I picked up the receiver, threw in a couple of pound  coins,
and looked  for a number on the set.  I  couldn't find one; not to worry, it
would just take a bit longer.
     I dialed  a London number and  a woman's voice said,  "Good  afternoon,
your PIN number, please?"
     "Two-four-two-two." The digits were  etched  into  my memory; they were
the first half of the army number that I'd had since I was sixteen.
     She said, "Do you have a number?"
     "No. This line please."
     "Wait."
     I  heard a click, then nothing.  I  kept my eyes on the players and fed
the phone. Within a minute she was back.
     "What times are you interested in?"
     "I'd like to book it from four-thirteen up till now."
     "That's fine. Do you want me to call you, or will you call back?"
     "I'll call back. Ten minutes?"
     "Fine. Goodbye."
     And that was it. No matter where you are in the world,  you can dial in
and the Firm will run a trace.
     I phoned back  ten  minutes later.  We went through the same PIN number
routine, then she said, "Nothing until four-ten. A Washington, D.C." number.
Washington Flyer Taxis, USA."
     As she recited the number,  I jotted  it down, hung up, and immediately
dialed.
     "Good morning, Washington Flyer Taxis, Gerry speaking.
     How may I be of assistance today?"
     "Yes, I  wonder if a Mr.  Ashdown or a Mr. Lindsay has booked a taxi. I
just want to make sure they're going to get to a meeting on time."
     "Oh yes, sir, we've just had the booking. Collect from Dulles, arriving
on flight number--" I cut in.
     "Are  you going  to  drop them  off  at the hotel  or  are  they coming
straight to me at Tyson's Corner?"
     "Let  me  see, sir  ...  They're booked  for the  Westin on  M  Street,
Northwest."
     "All right, that's fine. Thank you."
     Now all I  had to do was  try to get to the Westin  before them. Things
were  looking  OK..  Either  that, or  the fuckers  had spotted me and  were
playing a deception.
     The flight to London Heathrow was  getting  ready  to  board. I watched
them get up, find their tickets, and walk. I followed.
     On  something like  this you always travel club class  so you're at the
front of  the  aircraft.  You can then  choose  either to sit down and watch
people boarding or let them  through  ahead of you and come in  later on. At
the destination,  you can wait for the  target to come off the aircraft  and
naturally file in  behind--or get out of the  way beforehand  so that you're
ready to make the pickup once you're out of arrivals.
     I thought about a  drink but decided against it;  I might have to start
performing as soon as  we  got to  the other side.  These  guys seemed  very
professional, so chances  were they weren't going to be doing any work after
all the Bud they'd been putting away. But still, no drink for me.
     I settled into my seat and started to think about Kev  and  his family.
I'd been there when he first met Marsha; I was best man at their wedding and
was even  godfather  to Aida, their second child. I took the  job seriously,
though I didn't really know what I was supposed to do on the God front.
     I  knew I'd never  have  any  of  my own kids;  I'd be too busy running
around doing shit jobs  like this one. Kev and Marsha knew that, and  really
tried to make me feel part of their setup.
     I'd grown up with this  fantasy of the perfect  family, and as far as I
was concerned Kev had it. The first marriage fell apart, but this one seemed
absolutely  right. His job with the DEA was now mostly deskbound in D.C.  He
loved it.
     "More time with the kids, mate," he'd say.
     "Yeah, so you can be one!" I'd reply. Lucidly Marsha was the mature and
sensible  one; when it came to  the family,  they  complemented  each  other
really well. Their home at Tyson's Corner was a healthy, loving environment,
but  after three or four  days it would get too  much for me and I'd have to
move on.  They'd make  a  joke  of it; they knew I loved  them  but  somehow
couldn't handle people showing so much affection. I guessed that was why I'd
always felt  more comfortable with Euan.  We were  both  made from  the same
mold.
     As for Slack Pat,  he  was completely  off the  scale. Half  the  world
seemed to be  his best  friend, and he was still working on the others. Even
when he opened the fridge  door  and the light came  on he'd  have to launch
into some  sort  of  chat-up routine.  When he  started the bodyguard job in
Washington, a  real  estate  agent  took him  to  look at  an  apartment  in
Georgetown, by the university. The way he told the story, he saw  a building
with people coming in and out.
     "What's that then?" he asked.
     "One of the best restaurants in Washington," she said.
     "Half of Congress seems to go there."
     "Right, I'll take  it," he said. The moon was  in a new quarter or some
shit like that and I thought for a while he reckoned he'd turned into Donald
Trump. He told  me he used to eat there every day and knew every waitress by
name. He'd even started going out with one of them. Maybe it was her who got
him  into drugs. I hadn't seen it myself, but I'd heard he had a problem. It
made me sad.  We'd  all seen  the  results of addiction  during  our time in
Colombia. Pat had called them losers.
     Now it  seemed he was one  himself.  Hopefully it was  just  one of his
phases. The transfer at Heathrow had been easy. The boys didn't get stopped
at the security checks probably because Special Branch had been informed and
the flight to Dulles had taken off on time.
     I hoped McGear and Kerr were going straight to the hotel.
     I hoped they'd be playing the good tourists and wouldn't blow it by not
checking in.  If I ever  lost a target, I'd look  in all the places where he
might be his place of work,  the pub, where the kids go to school,  where he
lived, or even the bookie's. I needed to know as much as I could about them,
because  once  you're  inside your  target's mind you can second-guess every
movement, even  understand why they do what they  do. Un  fortunately, all I
knew so far about McGear and Kerr was that they liked drinking Budweiser and
must be dying for a smoke. So I had to start with the hotel.
     I  needed to get in front of them. That  shouldn't  be a problem, since
club class had its own shuttle to get us to the terminal ahead of  the herd.
However, since they'd pre booked a transfer, I'd need to grab a cab PDQ if I
was going to beat them to M Street. I could have booked one of my own when I
spoke  to  Washington Flyer,  but  I'd  tried to do that  in Warsaw once  in
similar  circumstances,  only to  come out and find the two drivers fighting
over who to take first, me  or the target. It was the taxi stand for me from
then on.
     I came out of  arrivals through two  large  automatic doors and  into a
horseshoe of waiting relatives held back by steel barriers, and limo drivers
holding up name boards. I  carried  on through  the bustle, turned left, and
walked down a long ramp into heat and brilliant sunshine.
     There were lots of people waiting for taxis. I did a quick calculation;
the  number  of  passengers didn't go  into  the  limited number of  cabs. I
wandered toward the  rear of the rank and waved a twenty-dollar bill  at one
of  the drivers. He smiled conspiratorially  and hustled me inside.  Another
twenty soon had me screaming  along the Dulles  access  road toward Route 66
and  Washington,  D.C.  The  airport and  its  surroundings reminded me of a
high-tech  business park,  with everything green and manicured; there'd even
been a lake as  we exited the terminal. Suburbia started about fifteen miles
from  the  airport,  mainly  ribbon  development  on  either  side   of  the
Beltway--very neat wooden and brick  houses, many  still under construction.
We passed a sign for the Tyson's Corner turnoff  and I strained my  neck  to
see if  I could see Kev's place. I  couldn't.  But, as Euan would have said,
executive housing all looks the same.
     We crossed the Potomac and entered the city of monuments.
     The Westin  on M  Street was a typical upscale  hotel, slick and clean,
totally devoid of character. Walking into the lobby, I got  my bearings and
headed left  and  up a  few  stairs to  a  coffee lounge on  a  landing that
overlooked the reception  area; it  was the only way in and out. I ordered a
double espresso.
     A couple of  refills  later, Kerr and McGear came through the revolving
door. Looking very relaxed, they went straight  to the desk.  I put  down my
coffee, left a five-dollar bill under the saucer, and wandered down.
     It was just a matter of getting  the timing right; there was a bit of a
line at the desk, but the  hotel was as efficient as it was soulless and now
had more people behind the reception desk than were waiting to be served.
     I couldn't  hear what McGear  and Kerr were saying,  but it was obvious
they were checking in. The woman  looking after them  was tapping a keyboard
below desk level. Kerr handed over a  credit card; now was the time  to make
my  approach. It  makes  life  far  easier  if  you  can  get  the  required
information this way rather than trying to follow them, and there was no way
I was going to risk a compromise by  getting in  the elevator  with  them. I
only hoped they were sharing a room.
     To the right of  them  at the  reception desk  was a rack  of postcards
advertising  everything  from restaurants to  bus  tours. I stood  about two
yards away, with my back to them.
     There was no big deal about this; it was a big, busy hotel-they weren't
looking  at me, they were doing their own  stuff.  I  made it obvious  I was
flicking through the postcards and didn't need help.
     The   woman   said,   "There   you  are,  gentlemen,   you're  in  room
four-oh-three. If  you  turn  left just past  the pillars,  you'll  see  the
elevator. Have a nice day!"
     All I had to do now  was listen to their  conversations while they were
in their room, and to make that happen I went to  the  bank of pay phones in
the lobby and dialed the Firm.
     A woman's voice asked me for my PIN number.
     "Two-four two-two."
     "Go ahead."
     "I'd  like  a  room,  please.  The  Westin  on  M  Street,  Washington,
D.C.--four-oh-one or four-oh-five, or three-oh-three or five-oh-three."
     "Have you a contact number?" "No, I'll call back in half an hour."
     They would now  telephone  the hotel using  the name of a front company
and request one of the  rooms I'd specified. It didn't really matter whether
the room was above,  beside, or below the targets', as long as we  could get
in and plant surveillance devices.
     I went  back to the raised lounge  area  and read a few of the leaflets
and postcards I'd picked up, all the time watching the exit onto M Street.
     I ran through a mental checklist of  surveillance equipment to ask for.
I'd  fit the first  wave  of  gear  myself: wall-mounted  listening devices,
phone-line devices, both voice and modem, and cables that fed into the TV in
my room to relay pictures.
     They'd take me  only  about three  hours to rig  up once the  Firm  had
dropped them off.
     The second wave, once  McGear  and Kerr had vacated  their room for the
day, would be fitted by technicians from the Firm. In their  expert hands, a
hotel-room TV could become a camera, and the telephone a microphone.
     Half an  hour later  I called the contact number and again  gave my PIN
number.  There was a  bit of clicking, then the strains of a string quartet.
About five seconds later the woman came back again.
     "You are to lift off and return today. Please acknowledge."
     I thought I'd misheard her. There  was a conference at the hotel  given
by the  Norwegian board of  trade, and all the  dele gates were exiting  for
coffee.
     "Can you repeat, please?"
     "You are to lift off. Please acknowledge."
     "Yes, I understand, I am to lift off and return today."
     The phone went dead.
     I put the phone down.  Strange. There had even been a memo in green ink
from the head of the service about this the fastball job  that  had now come
to  a sudden halt.  It wasn't unusual to get lifted off, but not so quickly.
Maybe Simmonds had decided these people weren't that important after all.
     Then  I thought,  So what, who  gives a fuck? They wanted me to do  the
job; I've done it. I called the travel agency and tried to get a flight out
of Dulles  The  only  one  I  could  get  on  was  the  British  Airways  at
nine-thirty-five, which  was  hours  away. Kev and  Marsha were only an hour
down the road toward the airport, so why not?
     I dialed another number, and Kev answered. His voice was wary, until he
recognized mine.
     "Nick! How's it going?" He sounded really happy to hear me.
     "Not too bad. I'm in Washington."
     "What are you doing? Nah, I don't want to know! You coming to see us?"
     "If you're not busy. I'm leaving tonight, back to the UK.
     It'll be a quick stop and hello, OK?"
     "Any chance of you getting your ass up here right away?
     I've just got the ball rolling on something, but  I'd be interested  to
know what you think. You'll really like this one!"
     "No problem,  mate. I'll  hire a car at the  hotel  and  head  straight
over."
     "Marsha will want to go into cordon bleu overdrive.  I'll tell her when
she gets back  with the kids. Have a meal with us, then you can go on to the
airport.  You won't believe the stuff  I've  got here. Your friends over the
water are busy."
     "I can't wait."
     "Nick, there's one other thing."
     "What's that, mate?"
     "You  owe  your  goddaughter  a  birthday  present--you  forgot  again,
dickhead."
     Driving west along the freeway, I kept wondering what Kev could want to
talk to me about. Friends over the water? Kev had  no  connection with  PIRA
that I  knew  of. He  was in  the DEA,  not the  CIA  or  any  antiterrorist
department. Besides, I knew that  his  job was far  more administrative than
fieldwork   now.  I  guessed  he   probably  just  needed   some  background
information.
     I thought again about Slack Pat and made a mental note to ask Kev if he
had a contact address for the ass less one.
     I got  on the interstate. Tyson's Corner was the  junction I had to get
off at--well, not really; I wanted the one before but I could never remember
it. The  moment  I left  the freeway I  was  in leafy suburbia. Large houses
lined the road, and just about every one seemed to have a seven-seat minivan
in the drive and a basketball hoop fixed over the garage.
     I  followed  my nose  to Kev's subdivision and turned  into their road.
Hunting  Bear  Path. I  continued on for  about a quarter of  a mile until I
reached a  small parade  of shops arranged  in  an  open square with parking
spaces, mainly little delis and  boutiques specializing in candles and soap.
I bought candy for Aida and Kelly that I knew Marsha wouldn't let them have,
and a couple of other presents.
     Facing the shops  was a stretch of vacant  ground  that looked as if it
had been earmarked as the next phase of the development.
     On  and around the churned-up ground were trailers,  big stockpiles  of
girders and other building materials, and two or three bulldozers.
     Far up on  the right-hand side among the  sprawling houses I could just
about make out the rear  of Kev and  Marsha's "deluxe colonial."  As I drove
closer I could see their Ford Windstar, the thing she threw the kids into to
go  screaming  to  school. It had a  big  furry  Garfield stuck to the  rear
window.
     I couldn't see Kev's company car, a  Caprice Classic that bristled with
antennae. They were so ugly only government  agents used them. Kev  normally
kept his in the garage, safely out of sight of predators.
     I was  looking forward  to seeing the Browns  again even though  I knew
that by the end of the day I'd be more exhausted than the kids. I got to the
driveway and turned in.
     There was nobody waiting. The houses were  quite a distance apart, so I
didn't  see  any  neighbors, either,  but I  wasn't surprised D.C."s bedroom
suburbs were quite dead during weekdays.
     I  braced myself;  on past form,  I'd get ambushed  as  soon as the car
pulled up. The kids would  jump out at me, with Marsha and Kev close behind.
I always made it look as if I  didn't like it, but actually I did.  The kids
would know  I had presents. I'd  bought a little  Tweety-Pie watch for Aida,
and  Kelly's  was  the Goosebumps kids' horror books  numbers  thirty-one to
forty I knew  she already had  the first thirty. I wouldn't  say anything to
Aida about forgetting her birthday;
     hopefully she'd have forgotten.
     I got out of the car and walked toward the front door. Still no ambush.
So far, so good.
     The front door was open about two  inches. I thought, Here  we go, what
they  want me to do  is  walk into the hallway like  Inspector Clouseau, and
there's going to be a  Kato-type am  bush. I  pushed the door  wide open and
called out, "Hello?
     Hello? Anyone home?"
     Any minute now the kids would be attacking a leg each.
     But nothing happened.
     Maybe  they had a  new  plan and were all hidden away somewhere  in the
house, waiting, trying to muffle their giggles.
     Inside the front door there was a little corridor that opened up into a
large rectangular hallway with doors leading off to the different downstairs
rooms. In  the  kitchen to my  right  I heard  the  sound  of a female voice
singing a station jingle.
     Still no kids. I started tiptoeing toward  the noise in the kitchen. In
a loud stage  whisper! said, "Well, well, well I'll have to leave ... seeing
as nobody's here ...  What a  shame,  because I've  got two presents for two
little girls..."
     To my left was the door  to the living room, open about a foot or so. I
didn't look in as I walked past, but I saw something in my peripheral vision
that at first didn't register. Or maybe it did; maybe my brain processed the
information and rejected it as too horrible to be true.
     It  took a second for  it  to sink  in, and when it did my  whole  body
stiffened.
     I  turned my head slowly, trying  to make sense of what was in front of
me.
     It  was  Kev. He was  lying on his side on  the floor, and his head had
been battered to shit by a baseball bat. I knew that, because I could see it
on the floor beside him. It was one he'd shown off to me on his  last visit,
a nice light aluminum one.
     He'd shaken his head and laughed when he said the local rednecks called
them Alabama lie detectors.
     I was still rooted to the spot.
     I thought: Fucking hell,  he's dead--or should be, looking at the state
of him.
     What about Marsha and the kids?
     Was the killer still in the house?
     I had to get a weapon.
     There was nothing I  could do  about Kev at the moment.  I didn't  even
think  of him, just that I  needed one of his pistols. I knew where all five
of them were  concealed in the house, always above  child  level, and always
loaded  and ready, a magazine on the weapon and a round in the  chamber. All
Marsha or Kev had to  do was pick up one of the weapons and blast anyone who
was  pissed off at Kev--and there were more than a few of  those in the drug
community. I thought. Fuck, they 'we got him at last.
     Very slowly, I put the  presents  on the floor. I wanted to  listen for
any creaking of floors, any movement at all around the house.
     The living room  was large and  rectangular;  against  one wall  was  a
fireplace. On either  side of it were alcoves with  bookshelves, and  I knew
that on the second shelf up, on the right, was  the world's biggest, fattest
thesaurus, and on top of that, tucked well back out of view, just above head
level but close enough to reach up for, was a big fat gun. It was positioned
so that as you picked it up it would be in the correct position to fire.
     I ran. I didn't even  look to see if there was anyone else in the room.
Without a weapon, it wouldn't have made much difference.
     I  reached the bookcase,  put my hand up, and took hold  of the pistol,
spun around, and went straight  down onto  my  knees in the aim position. It
was a Heckler & Koch USP 9mm, a fantastic weapon. This one even had a  laser
sight under the barrel where the beam hits, so does the round.
     I  took a series of deep breaths. Once I'd calmed myself, I looked down
and "checked chamber." I got the top slide and pulled it back a bit. I could
see the brass casing in position.
     Now what was I going to do? I had my car outside; if that got  reported
and traced, there'd be all kinds of drama. I was still under my alias cover;
if I got discovered, that meant the job got discovered, and then I'd be in a
world of shit.
     I had a quick look at Kevjust in case I could see breathing.
     No chance. His brains were hanging out, his face was pulped.
     He was dead, and whoever had done  it was  so  blase they'd just thrown
the baseball bat down and left it there.
     There was blood all over the glass coffee table and the thick shag pile
carpet. Some was even splattered on the  patio windows. But strangely, apart
from that, there wasn't much  sign of a struggle. I had to make sure Marsha
and the kids weren't still here,  tied up in  another  room  or held down by
some  fucker with a gun to their heads. I was  going to  have to  clear  the
house.
     If only room clearing were as easy as Don Johnson made it look in Miami
Vice: run up to the door, get right up against the  doorframe, jump out into
the middle  of it, pistol poised, and win the day. A doorway naturally draws
fire, so if you stand in  one, you're presenting yourself  as  a  target. If
there's a guy waiting for you there with a shotgun, you're dead.
     The first room I had to clear was the kitchen; it was the nearest, plus
there was sound there.
     I was on the opposite  side of the living room from the kitchen door. I
started to  move along the outside wall of the room. I stepped over Kev, not
bothering to look at him.
     The pistol was out  in front of me; it had to be ready to  fire as soon
as I saw a target. Where your eyes go, the pistol goes.
     I mentally divided the room into sections. The first was from the couch
halfway across the living room, a distance of about twenty feet; I got there
and froze  by  a big TV stereo  setup, which gave me a bit of cover  while I
cleared the door that led back to the hallway. It was still open.
     There was nothing in the hallway. As I moved through, I closed the door
behind  me.  I  approached the  one to the kitchen. The  handle was  on  the
right-hand side; I couldn't  see the hinges,  so it had  to  open inward.  I
moved  across  to the hinged side and listened. Just above the sound  of  my
breath  and that of  my heart thumping, I could hear some  bonehead going on
about  "Injured  at  work?  Fight  for   compensation  through   our  expert
attorneys--and remember, no win, no fee."
     My pistol arm wasn't completely stretched  out but the weapon was still
facing  forward. I leaned  over to the handle, turned  it,  gave the  door a
push, and moved back. Then I opened it a bit more from the hinge side to see
if there was any reaction from inside the kitchen.
     I  could  hear more of  the radio and  also a  washing machine-turning,
stopping, turning. But nothing happened.
     With the door now open just a few more  inches I could see a small part
of the  kitchen. I  moved  forward and pushed the door fully  open. Still no
reaction. Using the doorframe and wall as cover, I edged around slowly.
     As the angle between me and the frame  increased, I  gradually saw more
of the room. I took my time so I could take in the information in stages. If
I had to react, being two yards away from the  doorframe would not affect my
shooting, and  if it did, I  shouldn't be in this business anyway. Using  my
right thumb, I pushed the  laser sight button. A small dot  of brilliant red
light appeared on the kitchen wall.
     I leaned my body over to present as small a target as possible.
     If  anyone was in the kitchen, all they'd see was a very nervous bit of
head,  and that  would  be  what they'd  have to react to,  not the full Don
Johnson.
     The room was  like the Marie Celeste. Food was still on the side in the
middle of  preparation. Kev  had said  Marsha  was going  to  cook something
special.  There were vegetables and opened packs of meat.  I closed the door
behind me. The radio  was now playing some soft rock and the washing machine
was on spin. The table was half-set--and that really upset me.
     Kev  and Marsha were very strict on the kids' chores; the  sight of the
half-set table made me feel sick inside because it heightened the chances of
the kids being either dead or upstairs with some fucker who had  a 9mm stuck
in one of their mouths.
     I moved slowly to  the other end of the room and locked the door to the
garage. I didn't want to clear the bottom of the house only for  the guys to
come in behind me.
     I was starting to sweat big-time. Were Marsha and the kids still in the
house, or  had they made a  run  for it? I couldn't just leave. The  fuckers
who'd done that to  Kev would be capable of anything. I was starting to feel
my stomach churn. What the fuck was I going to find upstairs?
     I went out into the hallway again. As I moved, I had my pistol pointing
up the stairs, which were now opposite me.
     The last room uncleared downstairs was Kev's study. I put my ear to the
door  and listened.  I couldn't hear  anything. I did  the  same  drill  and
entered.
     It  was  a small room, just enough space  for  some  filing cabinets, a
desk, and a chair. Shelves on  the wall  facing the desk were full  of books
and photographs of Kev shooting, Kev running, that sort of stuff. Everything
was  now  on  the floor; the  filing  cabinets  were open and  paper  strewn
everywhere.
     The  only thing  not  ripped  apart was Kev's PC. That was lying on its
side on  the desk, the screen still showing the British army screensaver I'd
sent him for  a laugh. The printer and scanner were on the floor beside  the
desk, but that was where they had always been.
     I  went  back out and looked at  the stairs. They  were going  to be  a
problem. They went up one flight, then turned back on themselves just before
hitting the landing.  That  meant that I'd  have to  be a  bit ofaHoudini to
cover my ass getting up there.
     I wouldn't use the laser now; I didn't want to announce my movements.
     I put my foot on the bottom step and started to move up.
     Fortunately,  Kev's stair carpet was a thick  shag  pile,  which helped
keep the noise down,  but still  it  was like treading on ice, testing  each
step gently for creaks, always  placing my feet to  the  inside edge, slowly
and precisely.
     Once I got level with the landing, I pointed my pistol up above my head
and, using the wall as support, moved up the stairs backward, step by step.
     A couple of steps; wait, listen. A couple more steps; wait, and listen.
     There was only  one of me, and I had only thirteen rounds to play with,
maybe fourteen, if the  round in the chamber was on top of a full magazine.
These guys might have semi 5 automatic weapons for all I knew, or even fully
automatic. If they did and were there, it would not be a good day out.
     The washing machine was on  its  final thundering spin. Still soft rock
on the radio. Nothing else.
     Adrenaline  takes  over. Despite  the air-conditioning, I  was drenched
with sweat. It was starting to get in my eyes; I had to wipe it with my left
hand, one eye at a time.
     The girls' room was facing me. From memory there were bunk beds and the
world's  biggest  shrine to  Pocahontas-T-shirts  and  posters,  sheets  and
bedspreads, and even a doll whose back you  pressed and  she sang  something
about colors.
     I stopped and prepared for the worst.
     I reached for the handle and started to clear the room.
     Nothing. No one.
     For  once the room was even clean  and tidy. There were  piles of teddy
bears and toys  on the beds. The theme was  still Pocahontas, but Toy  Story
was obviously a close second.
     I gradually came out into the  hallway, treating it as if it were a new
room because I didn't know what might have gone on in the  half-minute since
I'd left it.
     I slowly  moved  to  the next bedroom with my  back nearly touching the
wall,  pistol  forward,  eyes  watching  forward  and rear,  thinking:  What
if--what do I do if they appear from that doorway? What if... what if?
     As I got nearer to Kev and Marsha's room, I could see that the door was
slightly ajar.  I couldn't actually  see anything inside yet, but as I moved
nearer  I  started to smell something. A faint, metallic tang,  and  I could
smell shit as well. I felt sick. I knew that I'd have to go in.
     As I inched around the doorframe I got my  first glimpse  of Marsha She
was  kneeling  by the bed,  her top half  spreadeagled  on the mattress. The
bedspread was covered with blood.
     I sank to my knees in the hallway. I  felt myself  going into  shock. I
couldn't believe this was  true.  This was not happening to this family. Why
kill Marsha? It should have been Kev they were after. All I wanted to do was
throw my hand  in and sit down and cry. But I knew the  kids had been in the
house. They might still be here.
     I got a grip of myself  and started to  move. I went in, forcing myself
to ignore Marsha. The room was clear.
     The next job was the master bathroom. I went in, and what I saw made me
lose it,  totally  fucking  lose it. Bang, I went  back against the wall and
slumped onto the floor.
     Blood was everywhere. I got it all over my shirt and hands;
     I sat in a pool of it, soaking the seat of my pants.
     Aida was lying on the floor between the bath and the toilet.
     Her  five-year-old  head had been  nearly severed  from  her shoulders.
There was just  three inches of flesh left intact; I could see the vertebrae
still holding on.
     Turning my head  away  and looking out of the bathroom, I could now see
more  of  Marsha.  I had to  hold back  my  scream.  Her dress  was  hanging
normally, but her tights had been torn,  her panties were  pulled down,  and
she  had soiled herself, probably  at  the point of death. All I saw at this
distance of  about fifteen feet was somebody that  I really  cared for, even
loved maybe, on her knees, her blood splattered all  over the bed. And she'd
had the same done to her as Aida.
     I was  taking  deep  breaths  and wiping my eyes. I  knew  I still  had
another  two rooms  to clear another bathroom and the large  storeroom above
the  garage. I couldn't give up now because I might wind up getting  dropped
myself.
     I cleared the other rooms and half-collapsed, half-sat on  the landing.
I could see my bloody footprints all over the carpet.
     Stop, calm down, and think.
     What next? Kelly. Where the fuck was Kelly?
     Then I remembered the hiding place. Because of the threats to Kev, both
kids knew where they had to go and hide in the event of a crisis.
     The thought brought  me  to  my  senses.  If that  was  where Kelly was
hiding, she  was safe for the time being. Better to  leave her there while I
did the other stuff I had to do.
     I got  up and started to move down the stairs, making  sure  that, as I
moved,  I had my pistol pointed. As I descended I could see the blood  I had
left  on the wall  and  carpet  where I'd  sat.  I  was almost  willing  the
attackers to appear. I wanted to see the fuckers.
     I  got a cloth and a  trash bag from  the  kitchen-and started  to  run
around the house  wiping  door handles  and  any surfaces where I might have
left fingerprints.  Then  I went over  to the patio sliding doors and closed
the curtains. I didn't want any body to discover this mess before I was well
out of it, hope fully on a plane back to London.
     I took a quick look at Kev and knew I was back in control.
     He was now just a dead body.
     I went back upstairs, washed the blood off my hands and face, and got a
clean shirt and a  pair of  jeans  and running  shoes from Kev's closet. His
clothes didn't fit  me,  but  they  would  do  for  now.  I bundled  my  own
bloodstained stuff  into the trash bag that I'd take with me. Kev had shown
me the "hidey-hole," as he called it, built under an open staircase that led
up to a  little makeshift  loft stacked with ladders. The kids knew they had
to hide there if ever Kev or Marsha shouted  the word "Disneyland!" and they
were never ever to come out until Daddy or Mommy came and got them.
     I headed to the garage. Pushing the door slightly, I could see the rear
of the large metal doors  to  the right. The garage could easily  have taken
three extra vehicles besides Kev's company car.
     "Fucking thing," I  remembered Kev saying, "all the luxury and mod cons
of the late nineties, in a car that looks like a nineteen-sixties fridge."
     The kids' bikes were hanging from frames on the wall, together with all
the other clutter  that families accumulate in garages. I could  see the red
laser dot on the far wall.
     I moved in and cleared through. There was no one here.
     I went back to the area of the staircase. Chances were she wasn't going
to come out unless her mom and dad came for her, but as I moved I started to
call out very gently, "Kelly! It's Nick! Hello, Kelly, where are you?"
     All the  time the pistol was pointing  forward,  ready to take  on  any
threat.
     Moving slowly toward the boxes, I said, "Oh well, since you're not here
I'll go. But I think I'll have one  more look, and I bet you might be hiding
underneath  the  staircase  in those  boxes. I'll just  have a look... I bet
you're in there ..."
     There was a pile of large boxes. One had contained a freezer, another a
washing  machine. Kev had made a sort of cave with  them under the staircase
and kept a few toys there.
     I eased the pistol down my waistband. I didn't  want  her to see a gun.
She'd probably seen and heard enough already.
     I put my mouth against a little gap between the boxes.
     "Kelly, it's me. Nick. Don't be  scared, I'm going to crawl toward you.
You'll see my head in a minute, and I want to see a big smile..."
     I got down on my hands and  knees  and kept talking gently  as  I moved
boxes and squeezed through the gap, inching toward  the back wall. I  wanted
to do it nice and slowly. I didn't know how she was going to react.
     "I'm going to put my head around the corner now, Kelly."
     I  took a  deep  breath and moved my head around the back of  the  box,
smiling away but ready for the worst.
     She was there, facing me, eyes wide with terror, sitting curled up in a
fetal  position, rocking her  body backward and forward,  holding her  hands
over her ears.
     "Hello, Kelly," I said very softly.
     She  must  have  recognized  me,  but  didn't reply.  She just  kept on
rocking, staring at me with wide, scared eyes.
     "Mommy and Daddy can't come and get you out at the moment, but  you can
come with me. Daddy told me  it would be OK. Are  you going to come with me,
Kelly?"
     Still no reply. I  crawled  right into the cave until I was  curled  up
beside her. She'd been crying; strands of light brown hair were stuck to her
face.  I tried  to move  them  away from  her mouth. Her eyes  were  red and
swollen.
     "You're in a bit of a mess there," I said.
     "Do you want me to clean you up?  Come on, let's  go and get you sorted
out, shall we?" I got hold of  her rigid hand and gently guided her out into
the garage.
     She was  dressed in  jeans,  a denim shirt,  running  shoes, and a blue
nylon  fleece. Her hair was  straight and  just above her  shoulders,  a bit
shorter than I remembered it; she was quite lanky for a seven-year-old, with
long,  skinny legs.  I picked her  up  in my arms and  held  her tight  as I
carried  her  into  the  kitchen. I  knew the other doors  were  closed; she
wouldn't see her dad.
     I sat her  down on a chair at the table. "Mommy  and Daddy b said they
had to go away for a while  but asked me to look after you  until they  come
back, OK?"
     She was  trembling so much I couldn't tell if her  head was nodding  or
shaking.
     I went to the fridge and opened it, hoping to find some comfort food. I
found the world's largest Easter egg.
     "Mmm, yum do you want some chocolate?"
     I'd had a good  relationship with Kelly. She was a great kid,  and that
wasn't just because she was my pal's daughter. I smiled warmly, but she just
stared at the table.
     I broke off  a few pieces and  put them on one of the side  plates that
she'd probably been setting earlier with Aida. I found the Off switch on the
radio; I'd had enough relaxing soft rock for one day.
     As  I looked at Kelly again I suddenly realized I'd fucked up. What was
I going to do with her? I couldn't just leave her here: her family was lying
dead all  over the house. But  more  important, she knew me. When the police
arrived she'd be able  to say,  "Nick Stone was  here." They'd soon find out
that Nick Stone  was one of Daddy's  friends;  the  house was littered  with
photographs with me  in them. And if they  did arrest  the grinning drunk in
the barbecue shots, they'd find that  for some strange reason he wasn't Nick
Stone at all he was Mrs. Stamford's little boy.
     Kev's jacket  was hanging over one of the  chairs.  I said, "Let's wrap
you  up in your dad's coat; that'll keep you nice and warm." At  least she'd
have something other dad's; with luck it would cheer her up.
     There was just a little bit of whimpering in  reply. She was  almost in
rigor  mortis with shock, though at least she had turned her head to look at
me now. This was where normally I would have let Marsha take over, because a
child's mind was far too complicated for me to work  out. But  I couldn't do
that today.
     I wrapped the coat around her and said, "Here you are; get this  around
you. Look, it's your  dad's! Don't tell him, eh, ha ha ha!" I felt something
solid in one of the pockets and checked.
     "Oh good, look, we can phone him up later."
     I looked out the window no movement. I picked up the trash bag, grabbed
Kelly's hand, then realized that  to reach the front door I'd  have  to come
out of the kitchen and into the hallway.
     "Just sit there a second," I said.  "I've got to do something."
     I had a quick  look to make sure the doors were closed. I thought again
about fingerprints,  but if I'd missed a set, there was nothing  I could  do
about it now. My only thought was to get out of the area and keep Kelly away
from the cops until I'd sorted things out.
     I went back and got her and  checked the front  of  the house again for
movement. She seemed to be finding it hard to walk.
     I  had to grip  Kev's coat by the collar, half-dragging her toward  the
car.
     I put her in the front passenger seat and smiled.
     "There  you go; that's nice and warm. Better look after your dad's coat
for him. Keep it nice for when you see him."
     Then I threw the trash bag in the back,