thing else, I had the fashion police after me.  She went
on, "You can't get  501s in my  size. That's  what  Mommy  says  anyway. She
doesn't wear jeans; she's like Aida--she likes dresses and skirts."
     In my mind's eye I saw Marsha kneeling  by her bed. I turned away for a
moment so she couldn't  see my face.  I sat on the bed  and said, "Kelly, do
you know your dad's code number for  his phone? I don't--I've tried it loads
of  times-I've pressed  one-one-one-one, two-two-two-two, I've pressed  them
all and I still don't know. Have you got any idea?"
     She stared at me for a few moments, then nodded.
     "Right! What are the numbers then?"
     She didn't say anything. She seemed to  be working something out in her
mind. Maybe she wondered if she'd be betraying her daddy by telling me.
     I pulled the  phone from my pocket, turned it on, and said, "Look! What
does it say? PIN number! Do you know what numbers your daddy puts in?"
     She nodded,  and I said, "Come  on, you  show me then." She pressed the
buttons, and I watched her fingers.
     "One-nine-nine-oh?" I said.
     "Nineteen-ninety, the year I was born," she beamed.
     We were in business. I fetched the Yellow Pages from one of the drawers
and sat on the edge of the bed.
     "What are you looking for?" she asked.
     "A restaurant called Good Fellas," I said. I found the address.
     "We're going to go there and look for Pat."
     I  thought  about  phoning the place and asking about him,  but  they'd
probably  just  blow  me off.  In any case,  that  could trigger a series of
events I'd know nothing about until  we were both suddenly lifted.  It would
be better to go there.
     I put my glasses on and she giggled. I got her coat and held it for her
to put on. As she turned around I noticed she still had the  label dangling
off her jeans; I ripped that  off, then checked that nothing else looked out
of place just like any other unfashionable dad  taking his  daughter out for
the day.
     I put my jacket on, checked for  the mags and phone, and said,  "Do you
remember Pat?"
     "No. Who is she?"
     "It's  a him; he's  a man called Patrick.  Maybe you've  seen him  with
Daddy?"
     "Is Pat going to take me home?"
     "You  will be going home soon, Kelly. But only when Daddy is better and
if you're a good girl and do what I say."
     Her face went moody and sullen.
     "Will I be home by Saturday? I'm going to Melissa's party. She's having
a sleepover."
     I carried on.  There was nothing else I could  do.  I  didn't  have the
skills to coax her out other mood.
     "Pat came around to your house. Surely you remember Pat?"
     "And  I  got to buy  her  a present. I've  made  her  some  friend ship
bracelets, but I want to get something else."
     "Well, we're going to try to find Pat today because  he's going to help
us get you home. Maybe we'll have time to do your shopping, OK?"
     "Where is Pat?"
     "I think he might be  in the restaurant.  But  you've got to be  really
quiet  when we get  there,  OK, and  not talk to anyone. If anybody talks to
you, I want you  just to nod your head or  shake  it, OK?  We've  got  to be
really careful, otherwise they won't tell me where Pat is, and then we might
get into trouble."
     I knew she'd be all right on the dumb act. She'd  done what I'd said by
the bins. I felt bad talking about her going home, but I couldn't think of a
better way of controlling her  behavior and anyway, with any luck I wouldn't
be there when she was finally told the truth.
     There were a couple of other jobs to do before we left the room. I took
the bottom left-hand  corner  of the  blanket on my bed  and folded  it in a
neat, diagonal pleat. Then  I took a matchstick  from the book I'd picked up
in  reception  and wedged it between the  wall and  the  long, low chest of
drawers that the TV rested on. I put a pen mark the size of a pinhead on the
wall and covered it with the match head  Finally I placed the paper  clip in
one of the drawers under the TV and turned the volume up a shade.
     I had a quick look around the room to make sure we hadn't left anything
compromising lying  around; I even put the Yellow Pages back in  the drawer.
The pistol was  still  in the toilet  tank, but there were no problems  with
that; there  was no reason for a cleaner to come in, let alone the cops with
a search warrant.
     I picked up a couple  of  apples  and candy  bars and  put  them in the
pocket of my brand-new three-quarter-length blue coat.
     Then I  closed the door,  checked the  do  not disturb sign, and off we
went.
     We  took  a taxi to Georgetown. It  would have conserved funds if  we'd
taken a bus, but  this way meant less  exposure to commuters or pedestrians.
The  driver was Nigerian. The map  of the city  on  the front passenger seat
didn't instill much confidence, and he could  just  about speak  English. He
used what few  words  he  had to ask me where Georgetown  was. It was like a
London  cabbie  not knowing Chelsea. I  patiently pointed on the  map. By my
guess it was about thirty minutes away.
     It was spitting  with rain, not enough to keep the wipers on but enough
to make him give them a flick every minute or so.
     Kelly  munched  on  a candy bar and I kept an eye out for other motels.
We'd have to move again soon.
     We sat  in silence for a few minutes until  it occurred to me that  the
driver would expect to hear us talking.
     "When I was your age I hadn't been in a taxi," I said.
     "I don't think I went in one until I was about fifteen."
     Kelly looked at me, still chewing on the candy.
     "Didn't you like taxis?"
     "No, it's just we didn't have much money. My stepfather couldn't find a
job."
     She looked  puzzled. She looked  at me for a long time, then turned her
head and looked out the window again.
     The traffic  was clogging the exit  for Key Bridge. Georgetown was just
on the other side of the Potomac; it would have been quicker to get out and
walk, but it made sense to stay out of sight. By now Kelly's face would have
been in  the newspapers, maybe even on posters. The  police would be putting
in a lot of time and effort to find her abductor.
     I  leaned  over the  front seat, picked up the  map,  and directed  the
driver to the river end of Wisconsin  Avenue,  the main north-south drag.  I
remembered Georgetown as  almost  self-contained, with a genteel and  quaint
feel to the town houses that had reminded me of San Francisco. The sidewalks
were  redbrick and  uneven, and  every  car seemed to  be  a  BMW, Volvo, or
Mercedes.  Every house  and store had  a  prominent  sign  warning that  the
property was guarded by  a security firm. Try breaking  in  and you'd have a
rapid-response team down on  you before you even  had time  to rip the leads
from the back of the VCR.
     Wisconsin is  a  wide street with shops  and houses on  either side. We
found Good  Fellas about four blocks up the hill on  the right-hand side. As
restaurants go it looked like one  of  the moody, designer-type places:  the
whole  front was black,  even  down to  the smoked-glass windows;  the  only
relief was the gold lettering above the door. It was now nearly lunchtime;
     all the staff would have punched in.
     We entered through two blackened glass swing doors and were hit by  the
frosty blast of air-conditioning. We were at one end of a dimly lit  hallway
that ran the length of the front.
     Halfway down was a young receptionist sitting at her desk, looking very
upscale and friendly. I was impressed with  Pat's taste. The  girl smiled as
we walked toward her, Kelly's hand in mine.
     As  we got closer I realized that the smile was a quizzical one. By now
she was standing up, and I could see she was dressed very smartly in a white
shirt and black pants.
     "Excuse me, sir," she said, "we don't.. ."
     I held up my hand and smiled.
     "That's fine, we haven't come for lunch. I'm trying to find a friend of
mine called  Patrick. He used  to come here a lot, maybe six or seven months
ago. Does that ring a  bell? As far  as I know, he was going out with one of
your staff. He's an Englishman, speaks like me."
     "I don't  know,  I've  only  been  here  since  the  beginning  of  the
semester."
     Semester? Of course,  we were in Georgetown, the university area; every
student was also  a  waiter or waitress.  "Could  you maybe call  somebody,
because  it's really important  that I  make  contact  with  him." I  winked
conspiratorily and said, "I've brought a friend of his--it's a surprise."
     She looked down and smiled warmly.
     "Hi, do you want a mint?" Kelly took a small handful.
     I went on, "Maybe one of the people in the back might know him?"
     While  she  was  thinking  about it, a  couple of guys in suits came in
behind us. Kelly was looking up at them, lumps in her cheeks.
     "Hi, little lady," one of them laughed.
     "You're a bit young for this, aren't you?"
     Kelly shrugged. Not a word.
     The receptionist  said,  "Excuse me  a moment," and  went off to do her
hostess bit, opening the door beyond the desk  for somebody else to meet the
two diners and take them to their table.
     She came back and picked up the phone.
     "I'll call."
     I looked down and winked at Kelly.
     "We've  got somebody  here  with  a  child, and  they're looking for an
Englishman called Patrick?" she said, then listened to the response.
     She put the phone down.
     "Someone'll be here in a minute."
     It rang again almost immediately, and she took a reservation.
     Kelly and I just stood there. A minute or two later a waitress appeared
from the dining room.
     "Hi, follow me."
     Things were looking up. I got hold of Kelly's hand, and we went through
the door to the dining room.
     People here  obviously liked  eating  in semidarkness,  because all the
tables were lit only by candles.  Looking  around, I  noticed that  all  the
waitresses  seemed  to  be wearing snug white  T-shirts  that exposed their
midriffs, with tight shorts and sneakers with little ankle socks.
     On the right-hand  side against  the wall  was  a  bar with  over  head
lighting.  The two suits were  the only two customers. In  the middle of the
room I noticed a small raised stage, with spotlights above.
     I laughed to myself: nice work. Pat!
     Ass or no ass. Slack had always been successful with women. At the time
of  Gibraltar he  was single like me, and rented  the house  next door.  For
about a  year he'd  been having what he called a "relationship," but  we all
knew  better. They'd  met  at a  Medieval  Night fancy dress  party; at four
o'clock the next morning I was woken by the sound of a vehicle screeching up
outside his house, then doors slamming and lots of giggling and laughing. We
lived in a small subdivision, the sort of houses they threw up in about five
minutes  all  through the eighties, so I could hear his front  door crashing
and  thought, here  we  go. Then I  heard a  bit  of music,  and the  toilet
flushing, which is always nice at four in the morning.
     Then lots more laughing and giggling, and  they were at it. At noon the
next day I was in the kitchen washing up when a taxi pulled up, and that was
when Queen Elizabeth I  and one of  her ladies-in-waiting came scuttling out
of Pat's front door, hair all over the place, looking incredibly embarrassed
as they jumped into the cab hoping no one would see them.
     When we grilled  him, it  turned out he was doing  it with a mother and
daughter combo. We hadn't  let him hear  the end of it  ever  since.  Now it
looked as though he'd got his own back.
     One of the girls waved to Kelly.
     "Hi, honey!" Beneath her T-shirt was what looked like a dead heat  in a
zeppelin race.
     Kelly  was loving it. I held  her  hand tight. As we followed the girl,
Kelly looked up at me and said, "What is this place?"
     "It's a kind of bar where people go to relax after work."
     "Like TGI Friday's?"
     "Sort of."
     We came to another set of double doors and went through into a world of
bright  light and  clatter.  The kitchens were on the right,  full  of noisy
chaos; on the left, offices. The  walls were dirty white  plaster with gouge
marks  from  where  they'd  been  knocked by  furniture.   Farther down the
corridor we came to another room. Our  friend led us in and announced, "Here
he is!"
     This  was  obviously  where  all  the  girls  hung  out--in some cases,
literally. If I'd had to  imagine a changing room  in a lap-dancing bar, I'd
have thought of semmaked girls in front of mirrors with big bulbs around the
edges, but this didn't fit the bill at all; it was much more like somebody's
living room. It was clean, with three or four couches, a couple of chairs, a
few  mirrors. There was a no smoking sign that  I  could smell was observed,
and bulletin boards full of university meetings and goings-on.
     Everybody went "Hi, how are you!" to Kelly.
     I looked at a policewoman wearing a  skirt  that was very nonregulation
length.
     "I'm trying to find an Englishman called Pat. He told me he came here a
lot."
     Kelly was getting dragged away by two of the girls.
     "What's your name, honey?" There was nothing I could do to stop it.
     I said, "Her name's Josie."
     They were all in their fantasy outfits. One held out a Native  American
outfit, with fringed buckskin sleeves, feathers, the lot. She said to Kelly,
"Do  you  like this?" and started to dress her.  Kelly's eyes  widened  with
excitement.
     I kept on talking with Washington's finest.
     "It's  just  that  there's been  a  big mess-up  on  the dates. We were
supposed to meet Pat so he and Josie could go on  vacation. It's no problem;
I'll look after her, but she really wants to see him."
     "We haven't seen Pat forever, but Sherry'll know, they used to go  out.
She's  late  but she'll be here any minute. If  you want to hang out, that's
fine. Help yourself to the coffee."
     I  went over and  poured myself  a  cup  and sat down. I  watched Kelly
giggling. For me, this should have been  like dying and going to heaven, but
I was tense about Kelly letting something slip.
     I  could see textbooks lying around. There  was one girl on a couch who
looked as if she'd come out of a Turkish harem;
     she was there with her laptop, tapping away at her thesis.
     Twenty minutes  later the door burst  open and  a girl carrying a black
sports bag ran in like a thing possessed, out of breath, hair everywhere.
     "Sorry I'm late, girls. I wasn't on first, was I?"
     She started to take her shoes off, catching her breath.
     The policewoman  called over, "Sherry, this guy wants to know where Pat
is. Have you seen him lately?"
     I stood up.
     "I've been trying  to find him for ages.  You know what he's like, he's
all over the place."
     "Tell me about it." She started to take her jeans off in front of me as
casually as if we'd been married ten years.
     "He's been away for a while.  I saw him about a month ago  when  he got
back." She shot a glance at Kelly and back at me.
     "You a friend of his?"
     "We go way back."
     "I guess he won't mind. I've got his number here, if I can find it."
     Dressed  now only in her bra and  panties, she rummaged through her bag
as she  talked. She  looked  up  at one of the other girls  and  said, "What
number am I?"
     "Four."
     "Christ! Can somebody go ahead  of me? Can I go number six? I've got no
makeup on yet."
     There was a grunt from behind the laptop. It  seemed the Turkish  harem
girl was going on fourth now.
     Sherry tipped out an Aladdin's cave of a handbag.
     "Here we are."
     She handed me a restaurant card with an address  and  telephone  number
scribbled on the back. I recognized the writing.
     "Is this local?" I asked.
     "Riverwood? About fifteen minutes by car, over the bridge."
     "I'll give him a buzz--thank you!"
     "Remind him I'm alive, will you?" She smiled with weary hope.
     I went over to Kelly and said, "We've got to go now, Josie!"
     She stuck out her lower lip.
     "Aww."  Maybe it  was  being in  the company of other females,  but she
looked more relaxed than at any point since we'd driven away from the house.
     "Do we have to?" she  pleaded with  big round eyes that were covered in
makeup. So were her lips.
     "I'm afraid we must," I said, starting to wipe it off.
     The  Indian maiden said, "Can't we keep her here? We'll look after her.
We'll show her how to dance."
     "I'd like that. Nick!"
     "Sorry,  Josie,  you  have  to be much older  to work here, isn't  that
right, ladies?"
     They helped Kelly get all her feathers off. One of them said, "You work
real hard at school, honey. Then you can work here with us."
     They pointed to  a quicker way out,  through the service  exit  at  the
back.  As  we  were  leaving, Kelly looked up and said,  "What  do  they do,
anyway?"
     "They're dancers."
     "They dance in bikinis? With all those feathers? How come?"
     "I don't know," I said.
     "Some people like watching that sort of thing."
     Just  as we got to the exit I heard Sherry shout, "Pat's  daughter? The
lying bastard!" We walked back down the hill, looking for somewhere  to sit
out of the rain. A place that looked more like a house than a restaurant had
a sign calling itself the Georgetown Diner. We went in.
     We sat in the three-quarters-empty cafe, me with a  coffee, she  with a
Coke, both deep in thought--me  about how to make contact with Pat, she most
probably about growing up and going to college, dressed like Pocahontas. Our
table was by a  rack of greeting cards and local  drawings for sale.  It was
more like an art gallery than a coffee shop.
     "We can't just turn  up  at  Pat's address because we  might compromise
him," I thought aloud to her.
     "And  I can't  phone him  because  they might  have made the connection
between us, and  there  could be a tap on  his  phone and a trigger  on  the
house."
     Kelly  nodded  knowingly,  not  understanding a  word  I was saying but
pleased to be part  of grown-up stuff instead of  being abandoned or dragged
around.
     "It's so annoying because he's only fifteen minutes away," I went on.
     "What can I do?"
     She gave a little shrug, then pointed at the  rack behind me  and said,
"Maybe send him a card?"
     "Good idea, but it would take too long" Then I had a brainstorm.
     "Well done, Kelly!"
     She  grinned from  ear to ear  as I  got up  and bought a birthday card
showing a velvet rabbit holding a rose. I asked for  a  pen and went back to
the table. I wrote: "Pat--I'm in deep  shit. Kev is dead  and Kelly is  with
me. I need help.  IT WAS NOT ME. Call me from a public phone ASAP.  Nick." I
wrote down the number.
     I  sealed  the  envelope  and wrote  down Pat's address, then  asked to
borrow the cafe's Yellow Pages.  I found what I was looking  for; it was  on
the same street, seemingly within walking distance.  We put on our coats and
left. It had stopped raining, but  the sidewalk was still wet. I checked the
street numbers; we had to go downhill toward M Street.
     The courier office was next door to a  weird and wonderful New Age shop
with a windowful of healing crystals that could change your life. I wondered
which one they'd suggest if I went in and described my circumstances.  Kelly
wanted to stay outside  and look in  the  window, but I wanted her with me;
people might look twice at a  child on her own outside a store and something
might register. There was also the risk of  someone  in the shop identifying
her, but it was a  question of balance between exposing her  and making best
use other as cover.
     "Can you get this to my friend after four o'clock today?" I said to the
guy at the desk.
     "We're in real big trouble because we forgot to send his birthday card,
aren't we, Josie?"
     I paid  the fifteen-dollar fee in  cash, and they promised  to  bike it
around just after 4 p.m. I needed the intervening two hours to prepare for a
meeting.
     We went into the Latham Hotel. I'd guessed my accent wouldn't stick out
in  here,  and I  was  right; the  large reception area was  full of foreign
tourists. I sat Kelly in a corner and went to the information desk.
     "I'm looking for a mall that would have a Fun Zone or a Kids Have Fun,"
I said.
     It  turned out there were about half  a dozen of them in and around the
D.C. area; it was just a matter of looking up all the different addresses in
the city guide I'd been given. There was one at the Landside Mall,  not  far
from the Roadies  Inn. I hailed a taxi;  this time the driver knew where  he
was going.
     The idea of  Kids  Have Fun  is that you drop your kids off for  a  few
hours while you go  off  on  your  big  shopping frenzy.  I'd gone once with
Marsha to pick up Kelly and Aida from one.
     The children get a name tag on their wrist that they can't re move, and
the adult  is given an ID card that means they're  the only  person who  can
collect the  child.  The girls  had been acting up the morning I went, and I
remembered that as we approached the center Marsha had grinned at the travel
agent's  across  the  way  and  said,  "I   always  think  that's  brilliant
positioning the  number of  times I've been tempted to drop the kids off and
pop in for a one-way ticket to Rio!"
     The  mall was shaped like  a large cross, with  a  different department
store  Sears, Hecht's, JCPenney, Nordstrom at  the end of  each  spur. There
were  three floors,  with  escalators moving  people  up and  down from  the
central hub. The food court was on the third floor. It was as busy as it was
massive, and the heat  was  nearly tropical probably on purpose, to send you
to the drink counters.
     I spotted Kids Have Fun on the Hecht's spur. I turned to Kelly.
     "Hey, do you want to go in there later? There's videos and all sorts of
stuff."
     "I know. But I want to stay with you."
     "Let's go in and have a look anyway." I didn't want to put her in there
yet because I didn't even know if we  were going  to  get  the phone call or
not, but I'd still have to do the recon.
     I went up to the desk.
     "Do we need to reserve to come in?"
     Apparently not; we just had to turn up and  fill out a form.  I figured
that if I  did get a phone call at four, I'd have only half an  hour at  the
most to  hide her. I had to assume  the worst-case scenario, which  was that
they knew Kev's mobile number and were waiting to intercept it and listen to
me giving Pat directions. I wanted Kelly away from that area and safe. Also,
I couldn't be sure about Pat. He might call the police when he got the card.
Or he could be part  of a trap. I had to be careful,  but at the same time I
was desperate to see him.
     I could see her looking around. It didn't look that bad. We walked out.
     "You can come with me now, but I have to go on my own later, OK?"
     She looked pissed.
     "Whyyy?"
     "Because I have to do stuff, OK? You can help me now, though."
     At last I got a smile.
     "Oh, OK-. You won't be long, will you?"
     "I'll be back before you know it."
     Kelly and I started walking around,  doing recon without her  realizing
it.
     "What are we looking for. Nick?"
     "A store with cameras and telephones."
     We  covered  the whole  mall,  eventually  finding a store on the first
floor. I bought a battery charger for the mobile phone.
     Kelly decided not to buy another present for Melissa after all;
     she'd  just  pick  up  the  friendship bracelets  from  home.  I didn't
comment.
     At five of four  I  took the phone from  my pocket and turned the power
on. The battery and signal strength were fine. I was ready.
     At ten after four it started ringing. I pressed Receive.
     "Hello?"
     "It's me."
     "Where are you?"
     "In a phone booth."
     "At  five  o'clock,  I  want  you  to come  to  the  Landmark  Mall  in
Alexandria. I want you to enter via JCPenney, go to the center hub, take the
escalator to the third floor, and go straight toward Sears. OK so far?"
     There was a pause as it was sinking in.
     "OK."
     "On the left-hand side there's a restaurant called the Roadhouse.
     Go into the Roadhouse and get two coffees. I'll see you there."
     "Seeya."
     I turned the power off.
     Kelly said, "Who was that?"
     "Remember I talked  about Pat? I'm going to see him later--that's good,
isn't it? Anyway, are you ready for Kids Have Fun?"
     She was going whether she liked it or  not. If Pat were setting me  up,
this place would soon be swarming with cops.
     I filled out the form with the  names we were using at the hotel. Kelly
was  studying the obstacle  course with  padding and plastic balls to  break
your  fall. There were video areas where a huge variety  of films were being
shown, a juice dispenser, rest  rooms.  It looked  very  well organized. The
place was packed. I could see hosts who were playing games with the kids and
doing  magic  tricks.  Seeing  as she'd  been  doing  nothing  but  watching
children's  TV for God knows how many  hours, Kelly should be into all that.
The downside was the danger of her talking, but I had  no choice. I paid  my
money, plus a twenty-dollar deposit for the magic key to reclaim my child.
     I asked her, "Do you want me to stay for a while?"
     She was dismissive.
     "You can't stay. This is just for kids."
     She pointed at a warning sign that said: be careful, parents.
     DON'T GO NEAR THE PLAYTHINGS BECAUSE YOU MIGHT TRIP
     OVER THEM AND HURT YOURSELF.
     I squatted, looking into her eyes.
     "Remember, your name's Josie today, not Kelly. It's a big secret,
     OK?"
     "Yeah, OK." She was too busy looking into the play area.
     "I'll be back soon. You know I'll always be back, don't you?"
     "Yeah, whatever." She was dragging herself away. Her face was toward me
but her eyes were looking the other way. A good sign, I thought, as I headed
off.
     I took the escalator to the  third floor.  I got myself tucked  in  the
corner table of a cafe and ordered an espresso and a Danish.
     I knew that if Pat was late, he wouldn't move into the rendezvous.
     The  SOP--standard operating procedure--was that he'd wait an  hour. If
that didn't happen, it would be the same routine tomorrow. That's  the great
thing about working with people you know.
     I looked at my  watch. It  was two minutes to  five. Looking  down  the
escalators,  I could see the  JCPenney spur joining  the hub. On  my floor I
could also see the entrance to Sears and the Roadhouse.
     At about  two  minutes  past  I saw Pat below me,  walking in from  the
direction  of  JCPenney.  He  was  sauntering along, casual  and  unhurried,
wearing a brown leather  bomber jacket, jeans, and running shoes. From this
distance he looked unchanged, just a bit thinner on top. I looked forward to
laying into him for that.
     He'd been at JCPenney right at five; I  also  knew he  would  have been
putting in his  own  anti  surveillance  drills enroute,  driving  into  the
parking lot early to check it out, even sitting in his car to time it right.
Pat might  have  his  head in the clouds, but when he had to perform, he was
shit-hot. At the moment my only worry was not about what was in his head but
what might be up his nose.
     He walked onto the escalator; I looked away. I wasn't interested in him
now;  I was watching  everywhere  else,  checking to see  if  he  was  being
followed. By covering his back I was protecting my own. I had the easy part,
being  the  third  party,  aware.  The  biggest  problem  would be  for  the
surveillance operators who were following him, trying not to  get spotted by
me.
     In an urban environment it's always best to meet people where there's a
lot of  pedestrian  traffic.  It  looks  normal, people meeting  people. The
downside is  that if  there  is any surveillance on you, they can blend in a
lot easier, too. However, it is  chaos for  them because you can walk in and
out of stores,  stop at a counter, move on, then turn  around and go back to
another  counter. So  if  you're going  to  RV  with  somebody to  talk,  go
shopping.
     Pat came  up the last escalator, standing ahead  of a group  of teenage
girls. They got off and turned left into the BaskinRobbins.
     Pat went right. There were only four escalators, two  up,  two down.  I
couldn't see anyone who looked like an operator.
     I watched him go into the  Roadhouse. I  gave it another five  minutes,
checked  again,  made sure the girl  saw  me throw my  three  dollars on the
table, and left. Once  on the Sears spur I got on the right-hand side of the
walkway, which gave me a better view  of the Roadhouse on the left, and that
in turn gave me more time to tune in and look about to see if there were any
men in Victoria's  Secret looking out of place as  they flicked through  the
ladies' lingerie.
     I still couldn't be sure about Pat. But I didn't get nervous about that
sort  of thing;  it  was a drill--I'd  done it  so many times. looked  at it
technically, in terms of "what ifs?" What if they lift me from the direction
of Sears? What if they come out from the stores on each side of me?
     "What ifs" stop you  freezing like a rabbit  in  the middle of the road
when the  lights hit you. They get you out  of  that initial danger. In this
particular case, I'd  draw  my  weapon,  move out of the danger area through
Sears or the escalators, and make a run for it. I entered the Roadhouse and
saw Pat closer up. Age was getting to him.  He was only forty, but he looked
eligible for some kind of pension.
     He was  sitting at  a twin table  on the far left-hand side,  with  two
cappuccinos in  front of him. There were about a dozen other people talking,
eating, and yelling  at their kids. I went over, pulled  out the five-dollar
bill that I had ready  in my pocket,  put it on the table, and  said, with a
big flashy smile, "Follow me, mate."
     If he were intending to turn me in, I was just about to find out.
     I was sponsoring the RV  so he  didn't say anything,  he just came with
me. We went over to the far wall to where the rest room sign was; as we went
through  the door we came into a long corridor, with the  rest rooms at  the
end  on  the left-hand  side. I'd reconned this  already  with Kelly. To the
right was an other door, which led into Sears. These were shared rest rooms,
and that was  why I'd chosen them.  I opened the door, let Pat through,  and
followed him into  the baby  wear department.  We took the escalators  down,
putting in angles and distance.  It might not work all the  time, but it was
the best I could do.
     From the perfume counter  on the first  floor it was straight into  the
parking lot. Then we  started to walk along the side walk toward a string of
smaller stores and snack bars.
     Not a word had been said. No need; Pat knew what was happening.
     We walked into a Sub Zone a very  clinical, spotlessly clean  franchise
selling subs with the world's largest supply of hot fillings. I told  Pat to
order me a drink and a cheese and meat special. The place was full. That was
good; it made life more complicated for anybody looking.
     I said, "Sit over there at that table, mate, facing the rest rooms, and
I'll be back in a minute."
     He stood in line to order.
     I went through the door to the  rest rooms and on to the far end, where
there was  a fire escape. I wanted to be sure it hadn't been obstructed by a
trash  can  or  anything since  I  last checked. The  fire-escape  door  was
alarmed,  so I wasn't going to test it to make sure it would open. I'd  done
my recon, so I knew what was on the other side and where to run.
     Pat  was already sitting down with two  coffees and an order  ticket. I
was getting  caffeine overload.  I was also starting to feel  like shit; the
heat of the  shopping mall and now  this place, and the  energy  expended in
this last  two days,  were taking their toll.  But I had  to keep on  top of
that, because this was an operation.
     I sat  down opposite him in  the booth, looking beyond him at the glass
storefront. I could see  everybody coming in and  out, and had  a pillar and
Pat as cover. I wanted to dominate the area because I needed to see what was
going on.
     I looked at Pat and decided not to josh him about his hair.
     He looked  wrecked and wasted.  His eyes were no longer clear and sharp
but red and clouded. He'd put on weight, and there was an  overhang  pulling
at his T-shirt and flopping over his belt. His face looked  puffy;  I  could
only just make out his Adam's apple.
     I said, "The  reason why we're here is that I've come over on vacation,
to see you, and we're shopping."
     "Fine."
     I still had to test him, in case he was wearing a wire.
     "If there's a drama, I'm going to go through  there." I pointed  toward
the rest rooms. I was waiting for him to say, "Oh,  what, you're going to go
to the bathroom?" for the benefit of anybody who might  be listening in. But
he didn't.
     He just said, "OK." I was as sure as I could be that I was safe.
     There was no more time to mess around.
     I said, "You OK, mate?"
     "So-so.  Put it this  way: a bit fucking  better than you. How did  you
find me?"
     "Sherry, at Good Fellas." I looked at him and he smiled.
     "Yeah, good catch. Pat!"
     His smile got bigger.
     "Anyway, what's the score?"
     "I've got every man and his dog after me."
     "So it seems." His red eyes twinkled.
     I  started explaining and was still in full  flow when the girl brought
over the subs. They were huge, big enough to feed a family.
     "What the fuck did you order?" I said.
     "We're going to be here all day!"
     Pat  was hungry, fighting with the hot cheese as it sagged  between his
mouth and the sub. It made me wonder when he'd last eaten.
     I was too  busy chatting to eat. I said, "Look, mate, to  tell  you the
truth, all I want to do is get the fuck back to the  UK but that's  going to
be a pain in  the  ass.  I need  to know what's going on, I need to know why
this is happening. Do you're member Simmonds?"
     "Yeah. He still in?"
     "Yes.  I've been in  contact with him. I've even said that if the  Firm
doesn't help me, I'll open up my security blanket."
     Pat's eyes widened.
     "Wow, that's  big boys' stuff! You really are in  heavy shit. What  did
Simmonds have to say to that?"
     His shoulders went into a slow roll as he laughed through a mouthful.
     I  went on for  another fifteen minutes. At the end of it Pat said, "Do
you think that PIRA might have dropped Kev?" He had finished his sub and was
now picking at  mine.  He made it clear he wanted a  few  bites. I pushed it
over.
     "Who the fuck knows? I don't know, I really don't know.  I can't see it
myself. Can you make any sense of it?"
     "The buzz around D.C. was that there was  some  American involvement in
Gibraltar in 'eighty-eight." He was picking the pickles  and tomatoes out of
my sub.
     "What sort of involvement?"
     "I don't know.  It's got something to do with the  Irish American vote,
all that sort of shit. And PIRA gearing up funds from Noraid by getting into
the drug market."
     I wondered how Pat  knew. Maybe that was  where he got his  supply? The
thought made me sad.
     My mind ticked over a bit more. Pat just kept on attacking my sub.
     "Maybe that's where the connection with Kev comes in," I said.
     "DEA, drugs what do you think?"
     "Maybe. The Brits have been giving the Americans a hard time for  years
over Noraid giving money to  PIRA, but  the Yanks can't fuck around with all
those millions of Irish American votes."
     I sat back and studied his face.
     "Go on."
     "I've heard that PIRA buys cocaine and gears it up once they get it out
of the US. It's been going the rounds for years there's nothing new in that.
But maybe  it's a starting point for  you. I  mean, fucking hell, you're the
brainy one, not me."
     It  made  sense;  if  you've  got  some  money  and  you're a terrorist
organization,  of course you're going  to buy drugs,  sell them, and  make a
profit.  And there was no  way the Americans were going to attack Noraid; it
would  be political suicide but if Noraid could be shown  to  be linked with
drug trafficking, that was something  else.  Maybe  Kev was working  against
PIRA and got killed by them.
     I said, "Do  you  reckon Kev might have come across some shit? Or maybe
he was even part of it, and got fucked over?"
     "I  haven't got a clue, mate. Stuff like that gives me  a headache." He
paused.
     "So tell me, what do you need?"
     I shrugged.
     "Cash."
     He stopped eating my  sub and got out his wallet. He  handed  me an ATM
card and told me his number.
     "There's about three thousand dollars in there," he said.
     "It's a savings account, so you can draw out as much  as you need. What
about Kev's girl? What's the score?"
     "She's all right, mate. I've got her."
     If Pat was setting me up,  at least I was sending a message that I  was
aware of that possibility and taking precautions.
     I said, "Thanks very much for this, mate for the ATM card, and just for
being  here." With friendships like this you didn't  have to  write a letter
every week. I knew that he would help me out, but I didn't want him to think
I was taking him for granted.
     I said, "Look, I'm  not going to get you in trouble. I won't compromise
you, but there is something else I  need. Is there any chance of you phoning
me  sometime  tonight? I need to sit down  and think about what  I've got to
do."
     "About nine-thirty?"
     I smiled. Then all of a sudden I had my second brainstorm of the day.
     "You don't know any Sinn Fein or PIRA locations in D.C.?"
     "No, but I can find out. What are you thinking?"
     "I need to see if there's a connection between PIRA  and the people who
are trying to zap me and who maybe dropped Kev.  If I can check who comes in
and out of a location, well, it's a start. If it came to anything, maybe I'd
go in and have a look around."
     Pat demolished the last of my sub.
     "Be careful, mate.
     Don't get fucked over."
     "I won't. Right, I'll stay here I'll give you ten minutes and then I'll
leave. The mobile will be switched on from nine twenty-five."
     "No drama; we'll talk. Be lucky."
     As  he got up, he picked  at the  fragments of  cheese and meat  at the
bottom of the basket. I went back into  the mall via Sears,  found an  ATM,
and drew out three hundred dollars.
     It was dark outside, but the shopping mall was packed.
     There was still a possibility that I was  being watched, so I stood off
and waited before picking Kelly up. Nothing looked unusual; the only thing I
had to be aware of was the security cameras. The quicker  I got  in and out,
the better.
     I watched the area for ten minutes, then moved in closer.
     Across from the  play center was  a sporting goods store; I went in and
became an instant basketball fan, studying all the shirts that were part  of
the display near  the window.  Kids Have Fun  was  crammed with  kids, but I
couldn't see Kelly.
     I hung around the store a bit, went back to the rack, had another look,
and caught sight of her. She was sitting on the floor watching a home-cinema
type  TV She was there with about  a dozen other kids,  each  with  a  small
carton of juice. It dawned  on me that the girl  did nothing but eat, drink,
and watch TV It was a wonder she didn't look more like Slack Pat.
     I went in, presented my identification card, and asked for my daughter.
They  went through  their process of  verification, and a few minutes  later
Kelly appeared with an escort.
     I started to put her shoes on.
     "Hi, Josie, how's it going?"
     She sat there  sulking because I'd arrived halfway through a  movie.  I
took that as  a  good sign; it showed there was a slight trace  of normality
coming  back in.  It had been  a relief not  having her with  me for a short
while, but  at the  same  time it felt good to  have her back. I didn't know
quite what to make of that.
     We got a  taxi but had  it  drop us  off about four blocks short of the
hotel and walked in. It was our only secure area.
     I opened the door. The  TV  was still on,  telling us how  great Toyota
cars were. I flicked the light switch, told Kelly to stay where she was, and
looked inside.
     The beds weren't  made and the curtains were closed, so it looked as if
the maid had obeyed the sign on the door. She wouldn't have given a damn; it
was less for her to clean, and she still got the same money.
     More tellingly, the small pleat  was still  in the blanket. If I'd seen
from the doorway that it had been disturbed, I'd have needed to make a very
quick decision on whether to just walk away.
     We  went inside. Using the TV for support, I leaned to  the rear of the
bureau, looking into the gap between it and the wall. The match was still in
place,  covering  the pinhead-sized  pen  mark. Even  if they'd noticed that
they'd dislodged it when checking under the  chest  of  drawers, it was very
unlikely that they'd have put it back in exactly  the same position. Looking
good so far.
     "What are you doing, Nick?"
     "I'm just checking to see if the plug is in properly. It looked like it
was going to fall out."
     She didn't  say  anything, just looked at me as if I'd had  a stupidity
leak.  Still not  looking  at her, I got on  my knees,  ready to look at the
drawer.
     "Do you want some help. Nick?"
     "I'd like to hear what's on the TV" She sat down on the bed and went to
work on a box of Oreos. This kid was really eating healthy.
     There were  three  drawers in the low chest; I'd slipped the paper clip
in the front left side of the middle one. I got the  table lamp and shone it
up  and down, trying to catch  the reflection  of the paper clip. I did; the
drawer hadn't been opened.
     I got Kelly sorted out, coat off, shoes in the  pockets and hung by the
door.  I  cleaned her bed  up  a bit, gathering up  the  food  wrappers  and
brushing away the crumbs.
     "Are you hungry?" I said.
     She looked at the half-empty box of Oreos.
     "I'm sorta stuffed, but I'm sorta still hungry."
     "Without  a doubt.  I'll go and get some food. You  can stay here. I'll
let you stay up late. But don't tell anybody, it's our little secret!"
     She laughed.
     "I won't!"
     I realized that I was hungry, too. Pat hadn't  left me much at Sub Zone
"Same routine, OK?" I went through it all over again.
     "I'll put  up  the do not disturb sign, and you don't open the door for
anyone. Do you understand?"
     "Without a doubt."
     I did a double take.
     "You making fun of me?"
     "Without a doubt."
     It wasn't that busy on the  street, and the rain had eased. I got  more
clothes for us both--jackets and coats,  jeans and  shirts--enough to see us
through the next two appearance changes at least.
     Once done, I walked over to  the burger  joint.  As I  stood  in line I
thought how weird this all was. One minute I'm at Vauxhall being briefed for
a  job,  the next I'm trying to remember what flavor milk shake to buy for a
child. I wondered if she'd approve of the shirts I'd got her.
     On the way back I checked my watch. It was 9:20; I'd been longer than I
expected. Time to  turn on the  phone. I waited in a shop doorway out of the
drizzle.
     It rang right at 9:30. I was excited, but at the same time nervous.
     It might be for Kev. I hit the Receive button.
     "Hello?"
     "Hi, it's me. I've got something for you."
     "Great,  wait..."  I put  my finger in  my other  ear. I didn't want to
mishear this.
     "Go ahead."
     "It's one-twenty-six Ball Street. It's in the old part of Crystal  City
by the river--between the Pentagon and National Airport. Got that?"
     "Yeah." I let  it sink into my  head. I'd been  to the Pentagon before,
and had used the domestic airport a couple of times. I had a rough memory of
the area.
     "Are you going to phone me tomorrow?"
     "Yeah."  "Same time?"
     "Same time. Stay lucky, mate."
     "Cheers."
     And that was  it. I turned off  the power  and repeated the address  to
myself  to keep it  in  my  head. I  wasn't going to write it down. If I got
lifted, I needed to be sterile.
     On the way back to the hotel, I was feeling quite upbeat.
     Up until now I'd been  in the wilderness. I didn't  exactly know what I
was  going to do  with this new information, but it was a start. I felt more
in the driver's seat.
     We  ate  and I watched some television with Kelly,  but she looked more
interested in talking.
     "Hey, Nick, do you watch TV at home?"
     "Some."
     "What's your favorite show?"
     "I  don't know.  The  news, I  suppose. We have different programs from
you. What's your favorite?"
     "Clueless."
     "What's that, a detective show?"
     "You moron! It's about a  girl." She did a  very good  impression of  a
Valley girl.
     "What does she do?"
     "She goes shopping."
     By 10:45 she'd fallen asleep. I got out the city guide I'd forgotten to
give back at the Latham and looked for Ball Street.
     I  followed  the  river south  until I saw National Airport. The target
really was very close to the Pentagon, on the west bank.
     I  had a little laugh to myself. If  it was a PIRA location, they had a
lot of  balls;  they probably  drank at the same bars  as  the boys from the
National Security Council. There was not a lot  I could do  at the  moment.
Kelly was lying on her back,  imitating a starfish. I covered  her  with the
comforter, moved  all the  shit off the other  bed, and  got my head down. A
saying from my infantry  days, a lifetime ago,  roared in my ears: "Whenever
there is a lull in battle, sleep.
     You never know when you are going to get another chance."
     At last I was doing as I'd been told.
     * *  * When I woke  up it seemed  like the same cartoon  was on. I must
have left the TV on all night. I was dying for some coffee.
     I got up, wet my hair, and looked out the window. The rain had gotten a
bit more intense. I  went downstairs and collected enough food and drink for
three people--which was just as well, seeing the amount that Kelly ate.
     "Wakey wa key I said.
     Kelly still wanted  to be marine life but woke up  yawning, stretching,
then curling up into a ball. I  went into  the bathroom and started to run a
bath.
     She appeared in the doorway with a towel. She was starting to catch on.
     While she was splashing around, I sat  on the bed  flicking through the
news channels. There was nothing about us.
     There had been so many other murders in the homicide capital of the USA
that we were old hat.
     She came out, got  dressed, and combed her hair,  all without  a single
reminder from me.  I opened  an eat-from-the-pack carton ofF root Loops  for
her and poured in some milk, then headed for the shower.
     When  I reappeared, all clean  and presentable,  I said,  "We've got to
move from here today because the woman wants the room back."
     Her face lit up.
     "Can we go home now? You said Pat was going to help us go home."
     I took her coat off the hanger and slipped her shoes on.
     "Really soon, yes we will. But Daddy needs more time to rest. Pat  will
find out when it's OK," I said.
     "But  first, we've got to do  some  stuff. It's really difficult for me
to explain to you what's going on just  now, Kelly, but it won't be long. I
promise you will be home soon."
     "Good, because Jenny and Ricky are missing me."
     My heart missed a beat. Had I fucked up? Had there been other people in
the house?
     She must have read my mind.
     "They're my teddy bears," she explained. Her face went serious.
     "I miss them. And I want to go to Melissa's party."
     I started  patting the top of  her head. She looked at me; she knew she
was being patronized. I changed the subject.
     "Look, I'll show you where we're going."
     I got the map out.
     "This is  where we are now, and that's where we're heading--just by the
river. We'll get a taxi, find a nice hotel, and  we'll make sure they've got
cable  so  we can watch movies. If they  haven't, maybe we  could  go to the
movies."
     "Can we see Jungle 2 Jungle?"
     "Sure we can!"
     What  the  fuck  was  that? Never mind;  at least we'd  gotten  off the
subject of family.
     After checking out  and,  to my surprise,  being  offered  a  one-night
rebate, I  went upstairs  to  collect Kelly and the blue nylon sports bag. I
left  the  USP  in  the toilet  tank. It  had  only  one 9mm magazine; I was
carrying three .45s with the Sig.
     Leaving the hotel, we turned left and immediately left again.  I wanted
to get out of sight of the reception desk before somebody thought of asking,
"Where's his wife?"
     We hailed a cab, and I asked for Pentagon City. The driver was an Asian
in his sixties. He had a map on his seat but didn't bother to look at it. We
seemed to be heading in the right direction. Kelly had her hat on; I thought
of teasing her that she looked like Paddington Bear, but it would have taken
too long to explain.
     The driver asked  where exactly  I  wanted to be  dropped. "The  Metro
station, please." I  didn't have a clue  where that  was,  but it sounded as
good a place as any.
     I gave the old boy his cash and off he drove. The whole area looked new
and high rent, both shopping and residential. There was a Ritz Carlton hotel
and, a few minutes away, the Pentagon.
     I got  my bearings and led Kelly toward the mall. I wanted to  visit an
ATM to celebrate the start of a new financial day.
     We exited and walked across the supermarket parking lot, then on toward
the  river. It was  strange,  because for the  first time I  felt like I was
really responsible for Kelly. I still held  her  hand when we were  crossing
roads, but now it seemed natural to keep holding it on the sidewalks, too. I
had  to admit, it felt  good  to have  her with me, but maybe that was  only
because I knew it looked natural and therefore provided ideal cover.
     We walked under the concrete freeway  bridge that led to downtown  D.C.
It was  very busy.  The  traffic sounded like muffled thunder; I told  Kelly
about the scene in  Cabaret  in which Sally Bowles  goes  under the  railway
bridge to  scream when things get  too much for her. I didn't  tell her that
was what I'd been feeling like doing for the last forty-eight hours.
     Past the bridge the landscape changed. It was easy to imagine what this
area must have looked like  maybe  fifty  or sixty years earlier, because it
hadn't been fully developed yet.
     It  was full of derelict  railway-siding buildings, some of  which  had
been taken over as offices, though much of the area was just fenced off into
lots or used as car pounds.
     I looked left and saw the elevated  section of  the  highway  disappear
into the distance  toward  downtown Washington. A concrete wall hid all  the
supports, and a road ran alongside.
     There was no sidewalk, just a thin  strip of hard ground, littered with
soda  cans and  cigarette packs.  It looked  as if people parked  up on  the
shoulders here to  avoid  the parking  charges farther  in. There  were old,
ramshackle buildings everywhere, but the place was  still being used. On the
right  was the  dark  Street Playhouse, a  theater in  what had  once been a
railway warehouse. The tracks were still there, but they were now rusty, and
weeds  were  growing  through. From above  us came  the  continuous roar  of
traffic on the elevated highway.
     We passed a  scrap-metal yard, then a  cement distribution  plant where
the boats used to  come  up the  Potomac and dump  their  loads. I  then saw
something that  was  so totally out of place it was  almost  surreal. A late
1960s hotel, the Calypso, was still standing in defiance of progress. It was
marooned in the middle of an ocean of chrome, smoked glass, and shiny brick,
as if the owners had  decided to give the finger to  the property developers
who were slowly taking over this dying area.
     It was a very basic, four-story building, built in the shape of an open
square; in the middle was a parking lot crammed with cars and pickups. There
were no windows  on the outer walls, just air conditioners sticking  out  of
the cinder block.
     We turned  left; with  the highway thundering  away above us we  walked
past  the hotel on my right  side. We  were  now parallel with Ball  Street,
which lay behind it. Kelly hadn't said a word. I was in work mode anyway; if
it weren't for the fact that I had hold of her  hand, I  would probably have
forgotten she was with me.
     As we got even  with the  Calypso I wiped the drizzle from my  face and
peered up into the gloom. On its  roof was  a massive satellite dish, easily
three yards  across. It  wouldn't have looked  out of  place on top  of  the
Pentagon. We turned right and right again. We were on Ball Street.
     From street numbers on the map I  knew that the target  was going to be
on my left. I kept to the right side for a better perspective.
     It was still incredibly noisy; if it wasn't an aircraft taking off from
the airport just the other side of the tree line, it was the continuous roar
from Highway 1. "Where are we going?"
     Kelly had to shout to be heard above it all.
     "Down there," I nodded.
     "I want to see if we can find a friend's office. And then we can find a
nice new hotel to stay in."
     "Why do we have to move around all the time?"
     I  was stumped on that one. I was still looking at the street  numbers,
not at her.
     "Because I get bored easily, especially if the food's no good. That one
last night was crap, wasn't it?"
     There was a pause, then, "What's crap?"
     "It means that it's not very nice."
     "It was OK to me."
     "It was dirty. Let's go to a decent hotel, that's what I want to do."
     "But we can stay at my house."
     A jet had just left the runway and was banking hard at what appeared to
be  rooftop  level. We watched for a  while,  trans  fixed;  even Kelly  was
impressed.
     As the roar of its engines died down I said, "Come on,  let's find that
office."
     I kept looking forward and left, trying  to judge which building it was
going  to be. There was  a  hodgepodge of styles  old factories  and storage
units, new two-story office buildings rubbed shoulders with parking lots and
truck container dumps. In between the  buildings  I  could just  glimpse the
trees that lined the Potomac maybe three hundred yards beyond.
     We  were  in the  high nineties, so I  knew  the  PIRA office  building
wouldn't be far away. We walked on until we  got to a new-looking, two-story
office,  all  steel  frames and exposed pipe work All the fluorescent lights
were on inside. I tried to read the nameplates but couldn't make them out in
the gloom without squinting hard or going closer, neither of which I  wanted
to do. One said unicorn but I couldn't make out the others.
     It didn't look  much like the  sort of Sinn Fein  or PIRA offices I was
used  to.  Cable Street in  Deny,  for example, was a row  house on a  1920s
residential street;  the  places in west Belfast were much the same. Had Pat
got  this right? In my mind I'd  been expecting  some old tenement.  Chances
were this was just a front--it would be a commercial business;
     people working there would be legit.
     I focused on the target  as we walked past, but  didn't look back.  You
have to take in all the information the first time around.
     "Nick?"
     "What?"
     "My feet are really wet."
     I looked down. Her feet were soaked; I'd been  concentrating so much on
what to do next that I hadn't noticed the puddles we were walking through. I
should have bought her a pair of boots at the mall.
     We got to a T-intersection. Looking left, I could see that the road led
down toward the river. More cars  parked up on the  shoulders, and even more
scrap yards
     I looked right. At the end of  the street was the elevated highway, and
just  before  that, above the rooftops, I could see the dish  on top of  the
Calypso Hotel. I was feeling good.
     A  successful recon and  somewhere to stay, and all before 11 a.m.  We
walked into the hotel parking lot. I  pointed  between a pickup truck and  a
UPS van.
     "Wait under the landing, and keep out of the rain. I'll be back soon."
     "Why can't I come with you. Nick? It's dark under here."
     I started my puppy-training act.
     "No wait ...  there. I won't  be long." I  disappeared before she could
argue.
     The  hotel lobby was just one of  the  first-floor rooms turned into an
office. Checking in was as casual as the layout. The  poor Brit family story
was understood a lot quicker here.
     I Went outside, collected  Kelly, and, as we walked along  the concrete
and  cinder block  toward our  new  room on the  second  floor,  I was  busy
thinking about what I'd have to do next. She suddenly tugged on my hand.
     "Double crap!"
     "What?"
     "You know, like not nice. You said the other one was crap.
     This is double crap."
     I had to agree. I even thought I could smell vomit.
     "No,  no, wait till you  get in.  You see that satellite  dish?  We can
probably get every single program in the world on that. It's not going to be
crap at all."
     There  were two king-size beds  in the  room, a  big TV,  and the usual
dark,  lacquered surfaces and a few bits of furniture  a long sideboard that
had seen better days,  a closet that was just a rail inside an open cupboard
in the corner, and one of those things that you rest your suit case on.
     I checked the bathroom and saw a little bottle of shampoo.
     "See that?" I said.
     "Always the sign of a good hotel. I think we're in the Ritz."
     I plugged in the telephone and recharger,  then it was straight on with
the television,  flicking through the channels for a kids' program.  It was
part of the SOPs now.
     I pulled Kelly's coat off, gave  it a  shake, and hung it up, then went
over to the air conditioner and pressed a few buttons.  I held  my coat out,
testing the air flow; I  wanted the room to get hot. Still waiting for  some
reaction from the machine, I said, "What's on?"
     "Power Rangers."
     "Who are they?"
     I knew very well what  it was all about, but there was no harm in a bit
of  conversation. I  didn't want us to  be  best  buddies,  go on  vacations
together, and share toothbrushes  and all that sort of shit far from it. The
sooner  this was sorted out,  the better. But  for the relationship  to look
normal it  had to be normal,  and  I didn't want to get lifted because  some
busy body thought we didn't belong together.
     I said, "Which one do you like?"
     "I like Katherine. She's the pink one."
     "Why's that, because of the color?"
     "Because she's not a moron.  She's really  cool." Then she told me  all
about Katherine and how she was a Brit.
     "I like that because Daddy comes from England."
     I made her change into a new pair of jeans and a sweatshirt.
     It took a lifetime. I thought. Fuck parenting, it's not for me.
     Every moment  of your time is taken up. What is the  point, if you just
spend all day on butler duty?
     She  was finally dry  and sorted out. Next to the  TV was a coffeemaker
and packets of milk  and sugar, and I got that going. As the machine started
to purr and bubble I went to  the window.  As I looked out past the curtain,
left and right  of  me were the other two  sides of the drab, gray  concrete
square; below was the parking lot, and across the road and higher up was the
highway. I realized that my mood matched the view.
     Rain  was still falling.  I  could see the plumes of  spray be hind the
trucks  as  they  rolled along  the  highway. It  wasn't heavy,  but  it was
continuous, the kind that  seeps into every  thing.  I was suddenly aware of
Kelly standing next to me.
     "I hate this type of weather," I said.  "Always have, ever since I was
a teenager and joined the army. Even now, on a really wet and windy winter's
day, I'll make myself a cup of tea and sit on a chair by the window and just
look out and think of all the  poor soldiers sitting in a hole in the middle
of nowhere, freezing, soaking wet, wondering what they're doing there."
     A  wry  smile came to  my face  as the coffee stopped  dripping, and  I
looked  down  at Kelly. What wouldn't I give to  be back on Salisbury Plain,
just sitting in a soaking-wet trench, my only worry in the world how to stop
being wet, cold, and hungry.
     I went and lay on the bed, working out my  options. Not that there were
that many. Why didn't I just make a run for it?  I could steal passports and
try  my  luck at  an airport, but  the chances of getting away  with it were
slim. There were less conventional routes back. I'd heard that you could get
all the way from Canada to the UK by ferry and land-hopping, a route popular
with students.  Or I could go south, getting  into  Belize or Guatemala; I'd
spent years in the jungle on that border and knew how to get out. I could go
to an island off Belize called San Pedro, a staging post for drug runners on
their way  to the east coast of Florida. From there I could get farther into
the Caribbean, where I'd pick up passage on a boat.
     More  bizarre still, one  of the  guys  in the  Regiment  had  flown  a
single-engined Cessna from Canada  to the UK-. The tiny fixed-wing  aircraft
had no  special  equipment apart  from an  extra  fuel tank in the back. The
radio wasn't the right kind;
     he'd had to work  out the  antenna lengths  with wire hanging from  the
aircraft  on a brick.  He  wore a parachute so that if anything  went wrong,
he'd open the door and leap out. How I'd sort that out I didn't know, but at
least I knew it could be done.
     However, there  was too  much risk involved  in  all these  schemes.  I
didn't want to spend the rest of my days in a state penitentiary, but at the
same  time  I  didn't  want Kelly  and me  to be killed  in the  process  of
escaping. Simmonds had presented me with the  best option. If I turned up in
London with what he wanted, I wouldn't exactly be home and dry, but at least
I'd be home. I had to stay and tough it out.
     It all boiled down to my needing to see who and what was going into and
out of the building on Ball Street.
     "Kelly? You know what I'm going to say, don't you?"
     "Without a doubt," she  smiled. I'd obviously been forgiven for  drying
her hair and putting her into nice dry clothes.
     "Ten minutes, all right?"
     I closed the  door, listened,  heard  her  hook the chain, and hung the
sign on  the door. Farther to my left  was a small open area that housed the
Coke and snack  machines.  I bought a can, then  walked  back  past our room
toward the elevator. To the left was  the  fire escape, a concrete staircase
leading up and down. I  knew the  safety regulations meant that there had to
be an exit onto  the roof;  in the  event  of a fire down below,  the rescue
would be by helicopter.
     I  went as far as I could upstairs.  Double fire doors led to the roof;
push the bar and they'd open. There  was no sign warning that the doors were
alarmed,  but I had to check. I looked around the doorframe but couldn't see
a circuit-break alarm. I pushed the bar and the door opened. No bells.
     The roof was flat, its surface covered  with lumps of gravel two inches
in diameter. I picked up a handful and used it to jam the doors open.
     An aircraft  was  landing at  National; I could  just  see  its  lights
through the drizzle. The satellite dish was  on the far corner  of the roof.
There  was also a green  aluminum shed,  which  I  guessed was the  elevator
housing. A three-foot-high wall  ran around the edge of  the roof, hiding me
from the ground, but not from the highway.
     I walked across the gravel to the side facing the river.
     Looking down at the target  building  from this angle, I could  see the
flat  roof and  its air ducts.  It was rectangular and looked  quite  large.
Behind  it were a vacant lot and  fences that seemed to divide it  into  new
building plots waiting to be sold.
     I could just  make out  the Potomac beyond the tree line and the end of
the runway.
     I walked back,  stepping over  a  series of  thick  electric  cables. I
stopped at  the elevator  housing. What  I wanted  now was a power source. I
could use batteries to power  the surveillance equipment I'd be using, but I
couldn't guarantee their life. I tried the door of the elevator housing, but
it was locked. I had a quick look at the lock: a pin tumbler. I'd be able to
defeat that easily.
     Back in the room, I got out  the Yellow Pages and looked  for addresses
of pawn shops.
     Then  I went into the  bathroom,  sat on the  edge  of  the  bath,  and
unloaded the  .45 ammunition from  the  magazines into my pocket, easing the
springs. It's not something that you have to  do every day, but  it needs to
be done. The majority of weapon stoppages  are magazine  connected. I didn't
know how long it had been left loaded; I might  squeeze off  the first round
and  the  second  one  wouldn't  feed into the  chamber because the magazine
spring had stuck. That's why a revolver is sometimes far  better, especially
if you're going  to  have a pistol  lying  about for ages and don't  want to
service it. A revolver  is just a cylinder  with  six  rounds in it,  so you
could keep it loaded all year and it wouldn't matter--as soon as you pick it
up you  know the thing will work. I  emptied the magazines into my pocket so
that I then had the ammunition, magazines, and pistol all on me.
     I came out of the bathroom and wrote myself a shopping list of supplies
that I was going to need and checked  how much money I had. There was enough
for today. I could always get more out tomorrow.
     I wasn't worried about Kelly. She had loads of food and was half-asleep
anyway. I turned up the heat on the air conditioner.
     She'd soon be drowsy.
     I said,  "I'm going  to go and get you some  coloring books and crayons
and all that sort of stuff. Shall I bring back something from Mickey D's?"
     "Can I have sweet and sour sauce with the fries? Can I come with you?"
     "The weather's terrible. I don't want you catching a cold."
     She got up and walked  to the door,  ready to drop the latch without me
having to ask.
     I went  downstairs  and walked to  the Metro station.  The  Washington
Metro is fast and quiet, clean and efficient, everything a subway should be.
The tunnels are vast and  dimly  lit,  somehow soothing, which  is maybe why
passengers  seem  more relaxed than  in  London  or New York  and  some even
exchange eye contact. It's also about the only part of the capital where you
won't be asked by a  seventeen or seventy-seven-year-old Vietnam  vet if you
can spare some change.
     I got out after  seven or eight stops and one transfer. The place I was
looking for was just  a few blocks away, but  it was in a neighborhood I bet
didn't feature in anybody's vacation brochure. I  was used to the Washington
where  those who had really had.  This was the part of town where  those who
didn't have had absolutely nothing.
     The single-story  building was set back from the road  and looked  more
like a supermarket than a  pawn shop, with a  front that was at  least fifty
yards  long. The  whole facade was glass, with  bars running vertically. The
window displays were piled high with everything from drum kits to surfboards
and  bedding.  Fluorescent-yellow  posters  promised  everything  from  zero
percent interest to the best gold price in town.
     Three armed guards controlled the doors and watched me enter.
     Looking  along  one  of the  aisles  to the  rear,  I saw a long  glass
showcase that also formed  the  counter.  Behind it were  more  than a dozen
assistants, all wearing similar red polo shirts. It seemed to be the busiest
department in the shop.
     Then I  saw all the  handguns  and rifles  behind  the  glass.  A  sign
announced that customers were welcome  to  test fire any weapon on the range
out back.
     I went to the  camera department. In an ideal world, what I was looking
for would be something like a security camera,  with a long cable connecting
the camera itself to a separate control box that also housed the  videotape.
I could  put the camera in position on the roof, leave it where it was,  and
hide the control box elsewhere, maybe inside the elevator housing.
     That  way it would be easier  for  me to get to  it to  change the tape
and--if I couldn't tap into the power lines--the batteries, and all  without
having to disturb the camera.
     Unfortunately  I couldn't  find  anything like  that.  But  I did  find
something that was almost as good: a Hi-8 VHS camera, the type favored by  a
lot of freelance TV journalists. Certainly I'd be able to change the lens to
give me more distance.
     I remembered working  in Bosnia  and  seeing  guys  running around with
Hi-8s glued to their eyes. They all thought they were destined to strike it
rich by selling the networks "bang-bang" footage.
     I caught the eye of one of the assistants.
     "How much for the Hi-8?" I said in my usual bad American accent.
     "It's nearly new, hardly out of the packaging. Five hundred dollars."
     I smirked.
     "So make me an offer," he said.
     "Has  it got a spare battery  and  all  the  attachments  for  external
power?"
     "Of course. It's got it all. It's even got its own bag."
     "Can I see it working?"
     "Of course, of course."
     "All right--four hundred, cash."
     He did  what every plumber and builder throughout  the world does  when
discussing prices: started sucking air through his teeth.
     "I'll tell you what: four-fifty."
     "Done. I also want a playback machine, but it can't be a
     VCR."
     "I have exactly what you want. Follow me."
     The machine he  retrieved from the back of a shelf had a hundred-dollar
price tag. It looked about a hundred years old, complete with dust. He said,
"I'll tell you what--save the trouble: ninety dollars and it's yours."
     I nodded.
     "I also want some lenses."
     "What kind are you after?"
     "At least  a  two-hundred-millimeter zoom  to  go on  this,  preferably
Nikon." I worked on the basis of one  millimeter of lens for every  yard of
distance to target. For years I had been stuck in people's roof spaces after
breaking into their house and  removing  one of the tiles  so  I  could take
pictures of a target, and I'd learned the hard way that it's a wasted effort
unless the result is good ID-able images.
     He showed me a 250mm lens.
     "How much?"
     "One-fifty." He was waiting for me to say it was too much.
     "All right,  one hundred  fifty  dollars.  Done--if  you throw  in  two
four-hour tapes and an extension cord."
     He seemed almost upset at the lack of a fight.
     "What length?"
     More haggling. He was dying for it.
     "The longest one you've got."
     "Twenty-foot?"
     "Done." He was happy now. No doubt he had a forty-foot.
     I  came across a  Wal-Mart a couple  of blocks short  of  the  Metro. I
ducked inside and wandered around, looking for the items  I'd need to set up
the camera.
     As  I  moved down the  aisles, I found myself doing something I  always
did, no matter where in the world I was:
     looking at cooking ingredients and cans of domestic cleaner and working
out which would go with what to make chaos.
     Mix this stuff and that stuff, then boil  it  up  and stir in  a bit of
this, and  I'd have  an incendiary device.  Or boil all that down and scrape
off  the scum from around the edge of the pot, then  add some  of this stuff
from  the  bakery counter  and boil that  up some  more  until I got just  a
sediment  at the  bottom,  and I'd have  low  explosive. Twenty  minutes  in
Safeway  would  be  enough to  buy all the  ingredients  for a bomb powerful
enough to blow a car in half, and you'd still have change from a ten-spot.
     I didn't  need any  of  that today, however.  All  I was  after  was  a
two-liter plastic bottle of Coke; a pair of scissors;  a roll of trash bags;
a mini  Maglite flashlight with  a range of filters;  a roll of gaffer tape;
and a  tool kit with screwdrivers, wrenches, and  pliers--twenty-one pieces
for five  dollars, and an absolute rip-off;  they'd last about five minutes,
but  that  was all  I'd  need. That done, I  grabbed  some  coloring  books,
crayons, and other bits and pieces to entertain Kelly. I also put a few more
dollars in Mr. Oreo's pocket.
     I  entered the  Metro  and  found a bench. Lights  at the edge  of  the
platform  flash when  a  train's  approaching;  until  then  most locals sit
chatting  or  reading.  There  was  nothing  else  to  do  so  I  started  a
connect-the-dots  picture in one of the coloring books  and  waited for  the
lights.
     The rain had stopped at Pentagon City, though it was still overcast and
the ground was wet.  I decided to do a quick check of  the  target  while  I
didn't have Kelly.
     Cutting across the supermarket  parking lot, I headed for  the  highway
tunnel and Ball Street.
     I was  soon on the same side of the road and even with the building.  A
small concrete staircase  surrounded by dense shrubbery led up to the  glass
doors at the front. They opened into a reception area, and  then another set
of doors that probably led into the office complex itself. A security camera
was trained on the front doors, looking down from the right-hand corner. The
windows were sealed, double-glazed units.
     Inside,  the  building on both floors seemed  full  of PCs and bulletin
boards, the normal office environment.
     I couldn't see any external  alarm signs, nor any signs saying that the
property was guarded.  Maybe  the alarm  was at the rear.  If not,  whatever
detectors there were, were  probably connected to a telephone line connected
directly to the police or a security firm.
     I  got  to  the end of the road, turned right, and  headed back to  the
hotel.
     The  room was like a  sauna. Kelly's hair was sticking up all over  the
place; she  had sleep in her eyes. Her face was creased and  had some crumbs
stuck on it. By  the look  of  it  she'd been halfway through  a cookie  and
fallen asleep.
     As I  dumped all  the supplies  on the side she  said, "Where have  you
been?"
     "I've  bought  tons of  stuff."  I started  diving  into the  bags  and
dragging things out.
     "I've got you some books, some coloring books, some crayons..."
     I laid  them on  the bed and  stepped  back, waiting for  some form  of
appreciation. Instead, she looked at me as if I were crazy.
     "I've done those."
     I thought a  coloring book was a coloring book. I'd quite enjoyed doing
my connect-the-dots.
     "Never mind, I've got you some sandwiches and Coke, and you're to drink
as much as you can because I need the bottle for something."
     "Aren't we going out to get something to eat?"
     "There's some cookies in there ..." I pointed at the bag.
     "I don't want any more. I hate it in here all the time."
     "We've got to stay in the hotel today. Remember,  we've  got people who
are looking for us at the moment, and I don't want them to find us. It won't
be for long."
     I suddenly thought. Shit what if she  knows her home  number and starts
using the phone? While she was pouring out some  Coke with both hands around
the bottle that seemed as big as she was, I stretched around the back of the
small cupboard between the two beds and pulled out the tele phone jack.
     I looked at my watch.  It was 4:30; the  best  part of five hours to go
until Pat made contact again.
     I  wanted  to get the camera sorted out. I wanted  it  working at first
light; I might even be able  to get in an hour of  filming before last light
today.
     Kelly got up and looked out the window, a bored, caged-up kid.
     I  poured  myself some Coke and asked, "Do  you want  some more of this
before I dump it out?"
     She shook her head. I  went into the bathroom and  poured the remainder
down  the  sink. I ripped the wrapper  off and  with  the scissors  I'd just
bought I started to make a cut at  the top where the bottle started to curve
into the neck. I also cut at the base so I was left with a cylinder. I cut a
straight  line up it and pushed the resulting rectangle of plastic down flat
to get  rid of the curve. I cut a circle,  first by trimming off the corners
of the rectangle, then developing the shape. That was me, ready to burgle.
     I came back into the  room and checked the  cords  and  made the camera
ready for use, by battery or power lines.
     "What are you doing, Nick?"
     I'd been hoping she wasn't going to ask, but I should have known better
by now. I had a lie all prepared.
     "I'm going  to make a film  so  you can say hello to Mommy, Daddy,  and
Aida because you said you were bored. Here, say hello."
     I put the camera to my eye.
     "Hello, Mommy, Daddy, and Aida," she said into the camera.
     "We're in a hotel room, waiting to come home. I hope you get well soon.
Daddy."
     "Tell them about your new clothes," I cut in.
     "Oh yes." She walked over to the wall.
     "This is my  new blue coat. Nick  got  me a pink  one, too.  He knew my
favorite colors are pink and blue."
     "I'm running out of tape, Kelly. Say goodbye."
     She waved.
     "Bye, Mommy; bye, Daddy; bye, Aida. I love you."
     She came skipping over to me.
     "Can I see it now?"
     Another lie.
     "I haven't got the cords to plug in to the TV But I'm seeing  Pat soon,
so maybe he'll get some for me."
     She went back to her glass of Coke a very happy bunny.
     She  picked up a crayon  and  opened the coloring  book,  and was  soon
engrossed. Good; it meant  I was able to put a tape into the  camera without
her seeing.
     I picked up two plastic coffee cups, got the rest of the kit  together,
put it all in the video bag, and said, "Sorry about this, but..."
     She looked at me and shrugged.
     I made my  way up to  the roof. The rain was holding  off--the aircraft
and traffic noise wasn't.
     The first thing I wanted  to do  was get  into the  elevator housing; I
needed to know whether I could get direct power.
     I got out my circle  of plastic  and put it  in the crease of the green
door. I pushed and turned it,  making it work its way through the twists and
turns  of the doorframe until  it hit against the  lock itself. The door was
there to keep  people out for  safety  reasons, not to protect  something of
value, so it was a simple lock to defeat.
     Once inside I turned on  my mini Maglite, and the first thing I saw was
a bank of four power sockets.
     I looked up at the ceiling. The shed was made of panels of quarter-inch
mild  steel bolted onto a frame. I got the wrench and undid two of the bolts
enough to lift up a bit of the roof.
     Then  I got the power cord from  the camera, pushed it through the gap,
and ran it down against the wall. It didn't look out of place among all  the
other shit.  The small gap I'd created  wouldn't let  in much rain, so there
wouldn't be a flood that somebody had to come up and investigate.  I plugged
the  cord into one  of the  sockets and hoped I'd  remember there  was juice
coming out the other end when I started to mess around with the camera.
     I kept the door open to give me some light while I prepared the camera.
I  got two  trash  bags and  put one  inside  the other, then put the camera
inside, pushing it  against the plastic at  the bottom  until  the lens just
burst through. I then took the two plastic coffee cups, split them both down
the sides, cut  the  bottoms off both, put  them into one another, and  then
fitted them over the lens as a hood. That was going to keep off the rain but
at the same time  let enough light into  the lens so the thing could work. I
used gaffer tape to keep everything in position.
     I got on the roof  with the  camera and plugged it in. I  lay flat  and
looked through the  viewfinder, waiting  for it to spark up and show me what
the lens could see. I wanted a reasonable close-up of  the staircase leading
up to the main door.
     Once it had jumped into life I  used  the zoom, got it right on target,
and pressed Play. I tested  Stop  and Rewind, then  Play again. It worked. I
tucked in  the  plastic,  making sure not  to  dislodge the  camera, pressed
Record, and walked  away. I went and bought a  cartwheel-sized pizza, which
we sat down and ate  in front of the television, with the cell phone plugged
in, charging.
     Then it was  just a matter of hanging  around with  indigestion waiting
for  Pat to call and the  four-hour tape to finish.  It  was dark now, but I
wanted it to run the full four  hours: one, to check that the system worked,
and two, to see what the quality was like at night.
     For the first time, both of  us were bored. Kelly had had death  by TV,
death by pizza, death by Mountain Dew and Coke. She wearily picked up one of
her new books and said, "Would you read to me?"
     I thought, All right, it 'sjtist a collection of stories, it won't take
that long  to  read a  couple.  I  soon  discovered  it  was one  continuous
adventure, with optional endings to each chapter.
     I was reading to her about three kids in a museum. One had gone missing
no one knew where when the story  just stopped. At the bottom of the page it
said, "Do you want to go to  p. 16  and follow him through the magic tunnel,
or do you want to  go and see Madame Edie on p. 56, who might tell you where
he is? It's your choice."
     "Where do you want to go?" I said.
     "Through the tunnel."
     Off we went. After  about  forty-five minutes and changing  tack  about
eight times, I thought we must be getting  to  the end soon. It  took nearly
two hours to get through it. At least she had fun.
     The  room was warm and I still had all my stuff on, ready to go. I kept
dozing off,  waking up every half hour or so to the sound of The Simpsons or
Looney Tunes. One time I woke up and looked down  at  my jacket. It had come
undone, and  my pistol was exposed. I looked across at Kelly, but she didn't
even give it a second glance; maybe she was used to her dad wearing one.
     I opened up  a can of Mountain Dew and looked at my watch.  It was only
8:15; I'd go and get  the first video  in about fifteen minutes, put  a  new
tape in, and then wait for Pat's call.
     When the time  came  I  said, "I'm just popping out for five minutes to
get something to drink--do you want anything?"
     She looked quizzical and said, "We've got loads here."
     "Yeah, but it's all warm. I'll bring some cold ones."
     I went up to the roof. It was damp  and drizzling now. I opened up  the
back of  the plastic  bag, pressed  the Eject button,  and quickly exchanged
tapes. I was ready for the morning.
     I came downstairs, passed  our room,  and got another  couple of sodas.
Coca-Cola shares had probably skyrocketed over the last few days.
     Clueless came on, the TV  series she'd  told me she loved. I was amazed
as I listened to her imitating all the catch-phrases. She had them down pat:
"Loser ... double loser,  moron.. . whatever!"  Now I knew where a lot other
sayings came from.
     At last it was just three minutes to go before Pat was due to check in.
There was no way I'd tell Pat where we  were or that Kelly was actually with
me.  All I would tell him was what he needed to know, as protection for  him
as well as for us. I went into  the bathroom, closed the  door, and listened
for Clueless.
     Nothing.
     Right on time the phone rang.
     "Hello?"
     "All right, mate? Thanks for the sub!"
     We both had a quiet laugh.
     "Do you know what floor they're occupying?"
     There was a short pause, then, "Second floor."
     "OK. Any chance of more money? I need a big wad, mate.
     You know I'll square it away when I get back."
     "I  could  get you about ten grand. But  you're going to have to wait a
day--I won't  be  able to get it until tomorrow, or possibly the  day after.
You're welcome  to it until you're sorted-and I  take  it you've  got  a way
out?"
     "Yeah," I lied. It was for the  best. If he  got lifted, he  could give
only  false information,  and  they'd  start  combing the airports and docks
instead of looking around Washington.
     Then I said, "I need more contact in case I manage to find anything out
about the building  and things start  changing  rapidly. What  about  twelve
hundred hours, eighteen hundred, and twenty-three hundred--is that OK?"
     "All right, mate. Is there anything else?"
     "No, mate. Be careful."
     "And you. See ya!"
     I turned the telephone off, went back into the bedroom, and put it back
on the charger. I didn't know if Kelly had heard anything, but she was quiet
and seemed uneasy.
     I got the playback machine set up, pushed the tape in, and tuned in the
television.
     Kelly was watching intently.
     "We're going to play a game," I said.
     "Do you fancy playing? If not, I'll just do it on my own."
     "OK." It beat counting cars on the highway.
     "I thought you didn't have any cords."
     She'd got me on that one.
     "I bought some when I went out."
     "So why can't we see the video we made?"
     I had to think quickly.
     "Because I've already mailed it.
     Sorry" She looked at me, a little confused.
     "We're going to watch this tape of a building," I went on.
     "It's got people going in and out of it. Now,  there's going to be some
famous people going in there, there's going to be people that you know, like
friends of Daddy's and Mommy's, and people that I know. So what we've got to
do is see how many people we  can each  recognize.  Whoever sees the most is
the winner. You want to play?"
     "Yeah!"
     "You've got to be  really quick, because  I'm going to fast-forward it.
Every time  you see somebody moving, you've got to tell  me, then I'll stop,
rewind, and we'll have a look at it."
     I took some of the hotel stationery and a pencil and off we went. I had
to  use  the button  on  the  machine to  fast-forward because  there was no
remote.  I  sat  on the  floor  under the  player by  the  TV  and  hit  the
fast-forward button.  Kelly's  eyes  didn't  leave the screen. I  was  quite
pleased with the result.
     The quality wasn't  bad  at all; you could tell  the difference between
this and a  home video,  and I'd managed to  get full-length pictures of the
people covering about two-thirds of the screen.
     "Stop, stop, stop!" she shrieked.
     I rewound and  had a look. Kelly had correctly  spotted  some movement.
There were a few people entering.  I didn't recognize any of them. Kelly was
sure that man number three was from a pop group called Backstreet Boys.
     She got into the game  more and more.  Everyone seemed to be  famous. I
logged them all, using the counter.
     Two men, one with a long light coat, one with a blue coat.
     People think that being a baby spy is all  James Bond, sports cars, and
casinos. I'd always wished the  fuck it was. The reality is sheer hard work,
getting information,  then  sitting down and working  out  what it is you've
gathered--and then interpreting  it. Two people walking up a  set of  stairs
means shit.  It's interpreting what's going  on that's important-identifying
them,  their body language, what happened before, what you think is going to
happen later on. So you log everything, in case at a  later date it might be
important. Give me a sports car any day.
     The screen  was slowly  getting darker. The ambient  street  light  was
helping, but it was  quite hard to see faces  and  we  were  losing color; I
could tell the difference between a man and a woman and their ages, but just
barely.
     It came  to the end of  the working day and everything  began to  close
down; people  going home were throwing switches and  the light dwindled.  In
the end there were lights only in the reception area and corridors.
     I left the tape  running at normal speed. What I now wanted to know was
whether there was a night watchman around, but I couldn't see anyone.
     Kelly was loving  it. She'd seen  four actors, two  of the Spice Girls,
and a teacher from her school. Not bad at all. But what if she did recognize
somebody? I'd have to take it with a grain of salt; after all, she  was only
seven. But I'd have nothing to lose in believing her.
     "Do you want to do this again tomorrow?"
     "Sure. I have more points than you."
     "So you do. I tell you what, after all that  winning I think you should
lie down on the bed and take a nap."
     If Kelly  or I  identified anybody on  the tape tomorrow, it would be a
bonus for me to take to  Simmonds and prove a link.  It would also mean that
I'd definitely have to CTR close target reconnaissance the building and find
out why they were  there. I  decided  to go  and  have a closer look  at the
outside, and then I could plan how to make entry.
     By  11  p.m. Kelly was  sound  asleep, still  fully clothed. I put  the
bedspread over her, picked up the key card, and left.
     To avoid the office I came out of the hotel via the emergency stairs. I
got on the road by the highway,  turned right, and walked past the playhouse
toward the target. The traffic  was quieter now, just peaks of noise instead
of a constant roar.
     I turned  right, then right again.  I  was  on Ball Street. It was the
back I really needed to take  a look at, but first  I wanted  to  recon  the
front again. I wanted to see  if there was a night watchman in there and get
a mental picture of what it looked like inside.
     I  moved into a doorway across the way. If I was spotted, I'd pretend I
was  drunk and  taking a piss. I  was in deep shadow as I looked over at the
target. I could  see through the two  sets of doors into the reception area;
the lights were still on, giving a sheen to the wet  concrete steps  and the
leaves of the bushes. I  looked upstairs and saw  light  shining through the
windows  directly  above the main entrance. That  meant the  corridor lights
were on upstairs as well.
     I  waited around for fifteen  minutes, watching for signs  of movement.
Was security sitting downstairs watching the TV?
     Was he upstairs, doing his rounds? I didn't see anything.
     Time to look at the rear.
     I went back the  way I'd come but  instead of turning  left went  right
toward the river. It was  just a one-lane road with muddy mush on  the sides
and potholes  filled with  oily water that glistened in  the  ambient light.
Using  the shadows,  I  passed  the  scrap-metal  yard and  crossed over the
railway tracks  that  led to the old cement  depot. My footsteps  made  more
noise than  the highway now. Fences divided all the plots, secured  with old
chains and padlocks.  I  followed  the road farther,  looking for a point to
turn and get behind the target.
     The highway lights weren't  strong enough  to have  any effect  at this
distance, but I could make out the mist coming from the river. I'd reached a
dead end.  A fence blocked  the old road, and a large, muddy  turning circle
had  been  made by  cars looking for a parking space and  discovering what I
just had. I  could also see  lights from the airport,  beyond the woods that
sloped down to the Potomac.
     There  was no alternative but  to walk  back to  the  abandoned railway
tracks, which years ago would  have been a branch of the main line. I looked
left, following the tracks;
     they  ran about two  hundred yards to  the  rear of the target,  and to
their left were some old, rusted corrugated-iron buildings.
     I started climbing over the wire gates where the trains would have gone
through to the depot. The padlocked chains rattled  under  the strain. I got
into some shadow and waited.
     There were no dogs barking,  and the airport was  probably  closed down
this late at night because it was so close to the city; all I could hear was
a distant  siren.  I carried on along  the tracks, and soon the only noises
were of my feet and breath.
     To my right was the scrap yard enclosed by a fence, with old cars piled
on top of each  other seven or eight  high.  After about a hundred yards the
ground started  to  open up and I could see buildings. Fences made it  clear
what  belonged to whom.  The area had been  cleared and flattened, ready for
developers. One of those buildings  beyond it was the rear of  my target; on
the other side I could see street lights on Ball Street and the highway. The
drizzle gave them a misty, faded appearance.
     I slowed  down, had a quick  look  at the  target, then started to walk
across  the 150 yards of newly leveled ground  to a fence that was about  50
yards short of the target building.
     Near the fence I  found  some bushes,  stopped, and  squatted down. The
things  that  always  give you  away are  shape, shine, shadow,  silhouette,
spacing, and movement. Forget about them and they'll get you killed.
     Still on my haunches, I  did nothing but sit and watch for the next few
minutes.  You  have  to  give your  senses  a  chance  to  adjust  to a  new
environment. After a while my eyes began  to adapt  to the light and I could
start to make things out. I could see that there were no windows in the back
of the building, just a solid brick wall.  There was, however, a four-flight
steel staircase leading to the ground.  This was  the  fire escape route for
both the  first and  second  floors. To the right of it at ground level were
the meter boxes for the building's utilities.
     I  looked  at  the fire exits. If I had to  make entry at some stage to
find out  what PIRA  was  up to, that was  probably  the way I'd  go  in. It
depended whether they had external locks, and there was only one way to find
out.
     I scanned along the line  of the six-foot chain-link fence, looking for
a break.  I couldn't see one.  Grabbing the top edge  of the wire, I  pulled
myself up, got a foot  on the top, and clambered over. I crouched down again
and stayed still, watching and listening for any reaction.
     There was no  need to rush; slow  movement  meant that  not only did  I
reduce  noise  and  the  risk of being  detected,  I could also  control  my
breathing and  hear  more  around  me.  I used  the  shadows  created by the
building  and trees, moving from  one pool of darkness to the  next, all the
time keeping eyes on the target and the surrounding area.
     Once  I got close enough, I stopped at  the base of two trees and stood
against one of the  trunks. Looking at the rear  wall, I  noticed  a  motion
detector  that had been fixed at a height and angle  to cover people walking
up  the fire escape. I had no  way of knowing  what the  detector triggered,
whether an alarm, a light, or  a camera, or maybe all  three. I couldn't see
any cameras.
     But  I could see lights,  two of them, one  above each fire  exit. They
weren't on. Were they what the motion detector would trigger?  Probably, but
why wasn't there also a camera covering the rear so that security  could see
what had triggered the light? It didn't matter; I'd treat the detector as if
it triggered everything.
     I noted three wooden pallets to the right of the building by the fence.
I could use those.
     I  looked  at the doors. They had sheet  steel covering them,  together
with  an  extra  strip that  went  over the frame  to  prevent  anyone  from
tampering  with  the  gap. Close up,  I could  see that  the locks were  the
pin-tumbler type. Piece of cake; I could defeat them.
     A  quick  check of the  utilities  boxes  and dials showed me that gas,
electricity, water, and telephone  were all there,  all exposed and ready to
be played with. I was feeling better about this all the time.
     I was still worried about the possibility of a night watch man. In some
circumstances, it  can actually be a  bonus. You can try to  get him to come
and open the door and hey presto, you've got an unalarmed entry. However, if
I had to go in, it would be covertly.
     The parking lot was empty, which could be another indication that there
was no one inside. I  had to confirm it one way or another. I  decided to be
slightly drunk, walk  up to the main  entrance, and take a leak; while I was
doing that, I could get  a better look inside. If there was  anybody  in the
foyer,  he  might come out and  give me grief, or I  might see  him watching
television in the back somewhere.
     I followed the same route all the way  back  and reached Ball Street. I
was quite damp  now; the drizzle and wet rusty fences had done their work on
my clothes.
     I walked on the opposite side of the road toward the target.
     As I got nearer, I started to cross at an  angle that gave me more time
to see the target. Head down, conscious of  the  camera covering the door, I
started  to stumble up the steps, and about three-quarters of the way up, as
soon as  I  was able  to see into the right-hand window, I turned, opened my
fly, and started pissing down onto the bushes.
     Almost instantly, a man's voice roared, "Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!"
and there was an explosion of movement in the shrubbery. I nearly jumped out
of my skin.
     I took my hand straight  off my cock and onto the  Sig. I tried to stop
pissing but I was in full flow. My jeans took the brunt.
     I went for the pistol, then realized  that maybe I didn't need to  pull
it out yet. He might be security. Maybe I could talk my way out of this.
     "Fuck you! Who do you think you are? You mothermcker!"
     I could hear him  but still  couldn't see anything.  There was rustling
and  all sorts  of shit going on, then more "Fuck  you! Fuck you!" and I saw
him appearing through the bushes.
     "Fucking asshole, piss on me, you fuck. I'll show you!
     Look at me! You've pissed on me!"
     He was in his  mid-twenties, wearing old  army boots without laces  and
dirty, greasy  black jeans.  He had a hooded, parka-type jacket that  was in
shit shape, grimed with muck  and  with  the elbows hanging out. When he was
about ten  yards away I could also see he had a straggly excuse for a beard,
a big earring in one ear, and long greasy dreadlocks.
     He was soaked.
     The  moment he saw me,  his face lit up.  To  him  I was the accidental
tourist, lost at the wrong end of town. I could almost see the cogs turning;
he thought he'd  cracked it here, he was going to get some easy money out of
this greenhorn.
     "Fuck you, asshole, you owe me a new sleeping  bag! Look at  my clothes
you've pissed all over me, you fucking animal! Give me some money, man!"
     He was certainly going for an Oscar.
     "Do you know who I am? Fucking piss on me, man, I'll fucking  kick your
ass!"
     I needed to take advantage of this. I went up to the window and started
banging hard. If there was security, he  should come  investigate. I'd  just
play the innocent needing protection from this madman.
     I  banged so hard I thought the glass would break, making sure  all the
time that I had my  back to the camera. It sparked  up the homeless guy even
more because he thought I was panicking.
     He  started  to  come  up  the stairs.  I  kept  on  looking inside the
building. There were no used ashtrays in  sight, no magazines lying open  on
chairs,  no  TV  on; the  furniture was  well  arranged,  the chair  by  the
reception area was  neatly under  the desk.  There was nothing to show  that
anyone was around.
     Nearly on top of me now, I heard, "Fucking asshole!"
     I turned, opened my jacket, and put my hand on the pistol.
     He saw it and stopped in his tracks.
     "Ah, for fuck's sake!
     Fucking hell!" He backed  off, started  to retreat down the stairs, his
eyes fixed on the pistol.
     "Fucking cops," he muttered.
     I had to try hard not to laugh.
     "Fucking cops, piss on me every fucking which way!"
     I waited for him to disappear. The guy thought he had problems this was
the second time in two days that I'd had piss all over me. I felt  sorry for
him, though; I thought about the amount of time he'd probably spent  finding
himself  a  snug  little retreat,  well  concealed from predators and nicely
warmed   by  the  air-conditioning   outlets  and   other  machinery  tucked
underneath.  Then some dickhead comes and empties  his bladder all over  the
house.
     It took me  fifteen minutes to get back to the hotel. I opened the door
nice and quiet. Kelly was in kid  heaven, not having had  to take  a bath or
clean up her mess, just falling asleep surrounded by candy and cookies.
     I got undressed,  took a  shower  and  shaved, then stuffed the clothes
into the hotel laundry  bag. The  duffel  was getting pretty  full now  with
dirty  and bloodstained clothes. I was down to my last change. I got dressed
again, tucked the pistol into  my waistband,  put my  coat on,  and set  the
alarm  for 5:30.  I was half-awake anyway when the  alarm  went.  I'd  been
tossing and turning all night, and now I couldn't really be bothered  to get
up. People must feel like this when they go to a job they really hate.
     I finally  got myself to my feet,  went over to the window,  and opened
the curtains.  We were just  below eye level with the  highway and almost in
its shadow. Headlights lumbered silently toward me from out of the gloom; in
the  other  lanes,  taillights  disappeared  back  into  the  darkness  like
slow-moving tracers. It wasn't time yet.
     I let the curtain fall and turned down the heat, got the coffee machin