e
gurgling, and went into the bathroom.
     As I  took a leak I  looked at  myself  in the mirror. I  looked like a
scarecrow with creases on  my face where I'd been lying on some  crayons.  I
took my jacket off, turned the collar in on my  polo  shirt, and splashed my
face in the sink.
     I  went back to the bedroom. The brew  wasn't  ready  yet, and my mouth
felt as if a gorilla had dumped in it. He'd certainly been in the room while
we were both asleep, throwing soda cans and food everywhere. I picked  up an
already opened can of Mountain Dew and took a couple of flat, warm sips.
     Until first light, there wasn't that much to do. I was used to this; so
much  of my life had been hurry  up and  wait. I put the chair by the window
and opened the  curtains again. Looking at the highway, I couldn't make  out
whether  it  was  still  raining or  if it  was just  vehicle spray  in  the
headlights that made it look that way.
     By the end of a quarter hour I could begin to make out the shape of the
cars as well as their headlights. It was time.
     There was no need to wake Kelly; the more she slept, the easier my life
would be. I checked that I had the key card and moved up to the roof.
     Rain danced on the metal roof  of the elevator housing. I pulled myself
up and lay there getting soaked  front and back as I pressed the Play button
on the camera and tested the flashing light. I checked to see that  I  still
had the  correct site picture and that  the lens hadn't misted up. It had. I
cursed at  myself because I should have put  on another  plastic bag to keep
the moisture from getting in overnight. I started to  wipe the  moisture off
with my  cuff and suddenly  felt as if  I were between two worlds. Behind me
roared the early morning traffic, yet to my front, toward the river, I could
just about hear birds giving their early morning song. I was almost enjoying
it.  The moment was soon shattered when the first  air craft of the day took
off  and  disappeared  into  low  cloud.  Lens dry, I  rechecked the camera
position, made sure it was recording, and closed the trash bags.
     It was now nearly 6 a.m.  I went back to the room  and my chair by  the
window, coffee in hand. I smiled as  I watched a couple come out of the room
next door, hand in hand. Some thing about them didn't quite match up. I made
a bet with my self that they'd leave in separate cars.
     For  the hundredth time, my mind drifted to the telephone call  I'd had
with Kev. Pat had said that if it was PIRA, there could be a connection with
drugs,  Gibraltar,  and  the  Americans. My hard drive went into  free wheel
because something about the Gibraltar job had always puzzled me.
     The year  1987  had  been PIRA's  annus  horribilis, and  as Detachment
operators  in Northern Ireland, Euan and I  had  done our fair share to fuck
them  over.  At the  beginning of  the  year they'd promised their  faithful
"tangible  success in  the war of national liberation,"  but it hadn't taken
long for  that to turn to  rat shit. In  February, PIRA fielded twenty-seven
Sinn  Fein candidates in  the Irish general election,  but they  man aged to
scrape only about a thousand votes each. Few people in the South gave a damn
about reunification with Northern Ireland; they were far more concerned with
other  issues  like  unemployment and  the crippling level  of taxation.  It
showed how out of touch PIRA was,  and how successful the Anglo Irish accord
was proving. Ordinary people really did believe that London and Dublin could
work together to bring about a long-term solution to the Troubles.
     PIRA couldn't take that lying down  and must have decided they needed a
morale booster. Their knee-jerk  reaction was the murder, on Saturday, April
25, of  Lord  Justice  Maurice  Gibson,  one  of the province's most  senior
judges. Euan and I saw  firsthand the celebrations in some of PIRA's illegal
drinking  dens that  weekend.  We even had a few drinks ourselves as we hung
around. The players loved what had happened.
     Not only  had they  gotten  rid of  one  of  their  worst  enemies, but
recriminations  were  flying  left,  right,  and center between  London  and
Dublin. The Anglo-Irish accord, which had done so  much  to undermine PIRA's
power base, was itself now in question.
     However,  barely  had the  hangovers  gone away than PIRA  had  another
disaster.  Two  weeks  later, at  Loughall in County  Armagh, guys from  the
Regiment ambushed PIRA's East Tyrone Brigade while they  were  attempting to
bomb  a  police  station.  From a force of 1,000 hard-core players  in 1980,
PIRA's  strength had  dwindled  to  fewer  than  250, of which maybe 50 were
members  of active service units. Our successes had further cut  this to 40,
which meant that the operation at Loughall had wiped out one-fifth of PIRA's
hard liners at a stroke. It was their biggest loss in a  single action since
1921. If this continued, all of PIRA would soon be riding around in the same
taxi.  The massive defeat  at  Loughall was followed soon  afterward  by  a
disastrous showing by  Gerry Adams  in  the  British general election.  Sinn
Fein's  vote  plummeted,  with  the Catholic vote switching  to the moderate
SDLP. Then, on  October 31, during Sinn  Fein's annual conference in Dublin,
French  Customs seized a small freighter called the Eksund off the coast  of
Brittany.  On  board was  an early  Christmas present  to PIRA from  Colonel
Gaddafi--hundreds ofAK47s, tons  of Semtex, several  ground-to-air missiles,
and so much ammunition it was a miracle that the ship stayed afloat.
     The  humiliation was  complete. No wonder  Gerry Adams and PIRA  wanted
revenge and some sort of publicity  coup  to  show  people like  Gaddafi and
those  Irish Americans who contributed to Noraid that they hadn't completely
lost their grip.
     On November 8, Remembrance Day, they planted a thirty-pound bomb with a
timer at the  town  memorial in Enniskillen  in  County Fermanagh,  Northern
Ireland. Eleven civilians were killed in  the explosion, and more than sixty
were seriously injured. Outrage at the atrocity was instant and worldwide.
     In Dublin, thousands lined up to sign  a book of condolence. In Moscow,
not a  place well known for  its compassion, the TASS news  agency denounced
what it called "barbaric murders." But worst of all for PIRA, even the Irish
Americans appeared to have had enough.  PIRA had fucked up  big-time. It had
thought the bombing would be hailed  as a victory in its struggle against an
occupying power, but all it  had done was show it up for what it really was.
It might be one  thing to kill  "legitimate" targets like judges, policemen,
and  members of the security forces, but murdering innocent  civilians while
they were honoring their dead at a Remembrance Day service?
     That  was why Gibraltar had been  such a puzzle to  me. I could see why
Adams and  company would be  desperate  to show  their  diminishing group of
sympathizers that they were still in  business, but why risk a repeat of the
international  backlash they'd suffered  after Enniskillen?  If they  bombed
Gibraltar, it wouldn't be only British civilians who might end up killed. At
that time of the year, hundreds of  foreign  tourists  pack  the squares and
streets  of the colony, many from  the cruise liners that  regularly dock in
the harbor.
     And many  of those, PIRA would have known full well, were American. I'd
never been able to see a method to their madness.
     It  suddenly hit me that  maybe I'd  been looking down the wrong end of
the  telescope. PIRA were terrorists, but their presence  here in Washington
proved that they were  also businessmen.  There was no sectarian divide when
it came to money, just normal competition and greed. They got  together with
Protestant  para  militaries on a regular basis  to talk  about their drug,
prostitution, and extortion rackets, even to  discuss demarcation lines  for
different  taxi firms and  sites for slot machines  back home.  They had the
infrastructure,  the knowledge,  and  the weapons to be major players in the
world   of  crime.  With  cooperation  from  other  terrorist  organizations
throughout the world,  the possibilities were  endless. If so, this was some
serious shit.
     Down  in  the  parking  lot  the couple was having  a  long,  lingering
embrace. What  was going on there was some serious shit, too. Then one final
kiss and, yep, separate cars.
     I  wasn't  expecting a phone call from  Pat until  noon and there  were
still about three hours to wait for  the tape to finish recording, so  there
wasn't much to do apart from watch invaders from Mars  and talking shoes who
lived in wastebaskets.
     I felt uneasy. I needed to do something.
     I shook Kelly.
     "Kelly, Kelly, wake up."
     She  moaned, pulling the  covers  back over her. I spoke  gently in her
ear.
     "I'm going downstairs to buy some stuff, OK?"
     I got a very weak yes. She couldn't have cared less. I was beginning to
realize she wasn't a morning person.
     I used  the emergency stairs again and crossed under the highway to the
7-Eleven. Inside, it looked like Fort Knox.
     There was a grating in the wall with a cubbyhole behind it and an Asian
face glowering out and then turning back to watch a portable TV.  The  store
was too  hot and  stank  of cigarettes and over brewed coffee. Every inch of
wall  space  was plastered with signs  informing  the  local  villains  cash
register
     HOLDS ONLY $50----EVERYTHING ELSE DEPOSITED.
     I didn't really need to  buy anything; we had  more  stuff in  the room
than  we  could eat in  a year, but I wanted some time to myself,  away from
Kelly. I  found it tiring just being around her. There was  always something
that needed doing, checking, or washing, and in any time  that was left over
I seemed to be nagging her to hurry up and get dressed.
     At the magazine rack another friendly sign said, no spitting or reading
the  merchandise. I picked up a Washington Post and a handful of magazines,
some for me  and some for Kelly--I  didn't  even bother looking at what they
were--and went and put my money through the  small  hole in  the grille. The
man looked disappointed I hadn't forced him to use the machete I was sure he
had under the till.
     I  strolled into the lobby to get breakfast. There were seven  or eight
people sitting around, eating, and watching a TV mounted  on a wall  bracket
above the table with the food and drink. As I started to load up three paper
plates on a tray, above  me I  could hear  an anchorman talking about George
Mitchell and his part in the Irish peace process. I listened to a couple  of
sound bites from Sinn Fein and the British government, both pouring scorn on
the other side's statements, both claiming that they were the ones who truly
wanted peace.
     A woman's  voice interrupted my thoughts.  She was anchoring the  local
news, and as I  poured  some  orange juice for  Kelly  I  could feel my skin
tingle all over. She was talking about the Browns.
     I didn't dare turn around. One of the barbecue pictures could appear on
screen at any moment.
     The woman told viewers that police had not come up with any  new leads,
but the kidnapping of seven-year-old Kelly had moved forward with a computer
image of the man seen leaving with  her. She gave my height, build, and hair
color.
     There wasn't room to pour any more  coffee or  juice, and the  tray was
overflowing with food. But I didn't  dare move. It felt as if every pair  of
eyes in the room was fixed on me. I put a bagel into the toaster and waited,
drinking coffee, not looking up or  around. I  felt I  was in  a  cocoon  of
silence, apart from the voice of the newscaster. I prayed for her to turn to
a  new subject.  The bagel popped up. Shit. I put some spread  on it. I knew
people were looking at me; they had to be.
     I'd  run out of things  to do. I took a deep breath, picked up my tray,
and turned around. The noise of the room came back.
     No one was looking. They were too busy eating, talking, and reading the
papers.
     Kelly was still asleep. Good. I put her food on the side and started to
munch on  my Cheerios.  I switched the TV on, muted it, and  flicked through
the channels,  looking  for  local news. There  was nothing  more about  the
situation on Hunting Bear Path.
     I attacked the newspaper. We were famous well, sort of.
     A  small piece  on  page  five.  No  pictures. A police  spokesman  was
reported as saying that they  were reluctant  to  come up with any theories
until they  had  more concrete evidence,  but  yes, the  murders  were being
treated as drug-related. Luther and his bunch  would be pleased  about that.
Otherwise, there were no new leads. I wasn't the only one in the dark.
     I had to  try to  cut  all the conjecture from my mind because  it  was
getting far too confusing. As the policeman said, without information it was
pointless spending time and effort trying to think of different scenarios. I
determined  to focus  all my effort  into: one, protecting Kelly and myself;
two,  keeping the  video on  target  to discover if there  was  a connection
between PIRA and Kev's death;  three, getting some money from Pat so I could
arrange my return  to the  UK;  and four, getting  hold ofEuan  for  help in
dealing with Simmonds, or,  if I had nothing for him,  to help me  negotiate
with him.
     I looked over at Kelly. She was on her back with her arms out in a star
shape, dreaming she was  Katherine, the pink ranger.  I  felt sorry for her.
She hadn't a  clue  what had happened  to her family. Some  poor bastard was
going to have to tell her one day, and after that someone would have to look
after her.  I  just  hoped  it was  someone nice; maybe  her grand  parents,
wherever they might be.
     At least she was alive. Those boys must be sweating now.
     They'd have to assume that  Kelly had given me  their descriptions  and
that  she'd overheard  what  all  the  shouting  was about. They had  to  be
desperate to get their hands on us.
     I started to  wonder how  I  could get more information out of  her but
gave up on that  one. I was no psychologist; if any thing, I was a candidate
for seeing one.
     I picked up a  bike magazine and by  the end had changed loyalties from
Ducati to  BMW. Then  I read in  a fishing magazinc how wonderful Lake Tahoe
was for  men with waders. I was lost in a whole new  world of hook sizes and
rod materials when all of a sudden there was a knock on the door.
     No time  to  think. I pulled  the Sig, checked chamber, and  looked  at
Kelly. I thought: We both might be dead soon.
     I put my hand over her mouth  and gave her a shake. She woke up scared.
I  put my fingers to my  mouth. It wasn't in  a nice  manner it  was saying:
"Shut the fuck up. Don't say a fucking thing."
     I called out, "One minute, one minute!" I  went through and turned  the
shower on, came back out, then went up to the door, sounding disorganized.
     "Hello, who is it?"  A pause.
     "Housekeeping."
     I looked through the peephole and saw a  woman, black, mid-fifties; she
had a cleaning uniform on and a cart be hind her.
     I couldn't  see  anything  else,  but then,  if  she had the  police or
Luther's boys on either side of her, they weren't going to be  showing their
faces.
     I looked at her and tried to interpret what was going on from her eyes.
They  would soon tell  me  if  there were ten  policemen around  the  corner
bristling with body armor and firepower.
     I said, "It's OK, not today, thank you, we're sleeping."
     I saw  her look down and heard, "Sorry, sir, you didn't have your  sign
out."
     "Oh, OK."
     "Would you like some towels?"
     "Hang on, I'm just coming out of the shower. I'll get some clothes on."
     It would be natural to be wanting towels.
     I  put the  weapon in my left hand, undid the lock, and opened the door
just a fraction. The weapon was pointing through the  door on the left side;
if any fucker pushed her to get in, it would be the last thing he did.
     I opened  the door a  little more, held it with my leg, and put my head
in the gap. I smiled, "Ah, hiya," the gun pointing at her behind the door. I
didn't put my hand out to get the towels; I didn't want someone grabbing it.
I said, "I just need  two big towels, that'll be fine and have  you got some
more shampoo?"
     She gave me what I wanted. I said, "Thank you,"  and she smiled back. I
closed the door.
     Kelly was lying on the bed openmouthed, watching my every move.
     I shrugged.
     "Don't you just hate it when people do that?" She started laughing. So
did I. "They nearly had us that time!" I said.
     Her expression changed, and she slowly shook her head.
     "I
     know you won't ever let them get me."
     It was 10:30: another twenty minutes to go before I went up and changed
the tapes. I picked up the one we'd been  watching the night before, slapped
it back into the player, and rewound it for the next session.
     This time I only had to smile at her and  she jumped up and went to the
door, ready to drop the latch.
     "While I'm out I want you to take a shower. Will you do that?"
     She shrugged.
     "Whatever. I get all the good jobs."
     I went upstairs to the roof.
     The weather was still shitty.
     There  was  still  an  hour to  go before the  noon  call. We  sat down
together to watch the latest footage.
     I said, "It's really important; we  might see somebody we know. Then we
can give the tape to  Daddy  and he can  find out  who was shouting  at him.
Anybody you  think you  might know, like Melissa's  dad  or the man  at  the
grocery  store, or even  the men who came to  see Daddy,  tell me and we can
have a closer look, OK?"
     I started  to  fast-forward,  stopping  the  tape  whenever  there  was
traffic. I logged what they looked like: male, female,  black, white, Asian;
and what they were wearing: black on blue, red on blue.
     The game wasn't as much fun for Kelly the second time around.
     "What about him?" I enthused.
     "No."
     "That lady?"
     "No."
     "You sure you've never seen this man?"  "Never!"
     At last she spotted somebody she knew. I rewound the tape.
     "Who is he?"
     "Mr. Mooner on Fox Kids."
     "OK, I'll write that down."
     Another guy  started to walk up  the  stairs.  I stopped the  tape  and
rewound. I said, "Do you know him?"
     She shook her head.
     I said, "Well, I know somebody who looks exactly like him. A man I used
to work with who  could never remember where  he left things, and one day we
hid  his  false teeth and he had  to  eat soup  all week!"  She had a little
laugh; it kept her going a bit longer.
     At 11:45 we were still going through the tape and logging.
     I stopped at two men who were going in together.
     "Do you know either of them? Because I don't.  I can't think of anybody
who  even  looks like  them." I  was racking my brains  trying to  think  of
another story to keep her interested.
     "No, I've never seen them before."
     "Oh,  all  right then. Just  a  couple  more,  then we'll do some thing
else." I started  to fast-forward, saw  a figure coming out of the building,
rewound, and played it.
     She moved to the edge of the bed.
     "I know that man," she said.
     I  pressed  Freeze-frame.  We  were  looking  at a  black  guy  in  his
mid-thirties.
     "Who is he?"
     "He came to see Daddy with the other men."
     I tried to sound calm.
     "What's his name? Do you know any of  their names?" "Can I go home and
see Mommy now? You said I could go home tomorrow and now it's tomorrow."
     "We have to sort  this out  first,  Kelly.  Daddy  needs to know  their
names. He can't remember."
     I was trying to do the psychology bit but I knew more about fly-fishing
now than I did about child psychology.
     She shook her head.
     "Daddy knew them though, didn't he?"
     "Yeah. They came to see Daddy."
     "Can you remember anything else about them? Were they smoking?"
     "I don't remember. I don't think so."
     "Did any of them have glasses?"
     "I think this guy had glasses."
     I looked closer at the screen. He wore thin wire frames.
     "OK." were they wearing rings or anything?"
     "I don't know, I didn't see."
     I tried the color  of the  car, their shoes, their coats. Did they talk
to each other using different names? Were they American?
     She was starting to get upset, but I had to know.
     I said, "Kelly, are you sure this man came to see Daddy the day I found
you?"
     Her eyes were welling up. I'd gone too far.
     "Don't cry." I put my arm around her.
     "It's OK. This man came with the other men, yes?"
     I felt her nod.
     "That's very good,  because I can give this information to Daddy when I
see him and that will help catch them. You see, you've helped him!"
     She looked up at me. There was a slight  smile under the tears. If she
was right, what we had was one of the people who killed Kev coming out of an
office that was fronting for PIRA.
     There was still more tape to run. I tried to sound upbeat.
     "OK then, let's have a look and see  if we can see the other  men. They
were black, too, weren't they?"
     "No, they were white."
     "Oh yes, of course."
     We went on through the  tape. I came out with a  possible  ID of Nelson
Mandela, and she saw Michael Jackson. Apart from that, jack shit.
     "Can we go home now and show  this to Daddy? Maybe he's better now. You
said we could, if we saw anyone."
     I was digging myself deeper.
     "No, not yet. I have to make sure that this is the  man who came to see
Daddy. But not long now, not long."
     I lay on the bed, pretending to read the fishing magazine.
     She knew who they were. My heart was beating loud and slow.
     I was trying  to keep to my  game plan of  concentrating  only  on  the
matter at hand, but I couldn't. Why  would Kev be killed by people who  knew
him? Had it been Luther and company?
     It must have been. What did  Kev know,  or what was he involved in? Why
would  he tell  me  about his  problem  if  he  were  corrupt?  Was  the DEA
investigating PIRA and drug dealing?
     Maybe Kev was, and  the murders  were carried out  by PIRA or  the drug
dealers because  of something  he had  done or was about to do?  But why did
they know him?
     Conjecture would  get  me  nowhere. It was  just  a  waste of time  and
effort. Kelly was stretched out beside me, looking at the magazine. It was a
strange  feeling having her head on my chest.  I  moved my arm around her to
look at my watch. She thought I was going to cuddle her.
     It was nearly time for Pat to call. I got up and switched on the mobile
phone, then  stood by the window, pulling  a gap in  the curtain, looking at
the highway through the rain,  deciding on my next move. I tried to think of
a good RV It wouldn't be secure to meet again  at the shopping mall.  Right
on time the phone rang.
     "Hello?"
     "Hello, mate." I could hear the traffic going past a phone booth.
     "Things are happening," I said.
     "I need an RV" "In two hours, is that OK?"
     "Two hours. Union Station all right for you?"
     "Er... Union yep, no problem." He sounded spaced out.
     I'd traveled through it a few times and could remember the layout.
     "Come in through the main entrance," I said.
     "Go up to the top floor, to the coffee bar facing the stairs. Buy a cup
of coffee, sit down, and wait. I'll pick you up there, OK?"
     There was a long, worrying pause.
     "Is that OK, Pat?"
     "I'll be there. See ya." The line went dead.
     Union Station is so grand and elegant that it should be  in Paris,  not
here in the home of  cinder block and dark wood veneer At most major railway
stations in the world you expect to find the seedier side  of life,  but not
at Union. The ticketing, check-in, and baggage-handling areas look like part
of a  modern airport.  There's even a first-class lounge. You don't see  the
trains  because  they're behind screens, and in any case  you'd be much  too
distracted  by the shopping mall, the  food court, the  coffee shops, even a
multiplex cinema. More  important  for me,  however, I'd remembered  it as a
big, busy lo  cation, and because of the Easter holiday I knew  there'd be a
big transient population of people from out of  town  who would know nothing
of the events on Hunting Bear Path.
     A  cab got  us to  the station early.  There was  just under an hour to
fill, so  I made the most of  it shopping for items  I'd  be needing for the
reconnaissance of the PIRA office,  besides the  stuff I'd already bought at
Wal-Mart. Now that Kelly had  recognized the  black guy, the only option was
to get in there and have a look around.
     I bought a Polaroid camera and six packs of film;  a  pair of cheap and
nasty  polyester coveralls,  more rolls of gaffer's  tape and  Scotch tape;
heavy-duty scissors that promised I could cut through a shiny new penny with
them;  a Leatherman, a  tool that's a bit like  a Swiss  Army knife; running
shoes; rubber  gloves;  batteries;  Saran Wrap;  a plastic bottle  of orange
juice with a large spout; a  box of  push pins; a dozen  eggs;  and a quartz
kitchen clock, nine inches in diameter. Kelly looked at it all and raised an
eyebrow, but didn't ask.
     By  1:40 I  had a couple of  shopping bags full of gear, as well as the
books and time-wasters I'd had to put in her basket to keep her involved.
     I  remembered the beautiful tiled  floor in the entrance hall, but  I'd
forgotten  the  cathedral  ceilings. In  the middle was  a  rotunda  with  a
newsstand and groups of tables outside.
     Above  it,  reached by a flight  of  stairs,  was  a restaurant. It was
absolutely perfect for what I needed.
     We were greeted at the top by a waitress.
     I smiled.
     "Table for two, please."
     I pointed to a table right at the back.
     "Can we have that one?"
     We sat down,  and I  put the bags under  the table. I  couldn't see the
main entrance,  but I'd be able to see  Pat heading  toward the  coffee shop
because that was farther into the main part of the station and up a level.
     The  waitress  came to take our drink order. I asked for two Cokes  and
said, "I'm ready to order now, if that's all right?
     We'll take a nine-inch pizza."
     Kelly looked up.
     "Can we have extra mushrooms?"
     I nodded at the waitress and she left.
     Kelly smiled.
     "Mommy and me both like extra mushrooms. Daddy says we're like  forest
pixies!" She smiled again, wanting a reaction.
     "That's nice," I  said. This was  a conversation that needed nipping in
the bud.
     Kelly got stuck into her Coke, enjoying being able to watch real people
for a change.
     Pat was early, wearing the same clothes  as a VDM visual distinguishing
mark. Either that or the fucker simply hadn't changed. As he walked past and
below me, something about him didn't seem  right.  There  was a  very slight
stagger in his  stride, and I knew it hadn't come  from  drinking  too  much
beer. I feared the worst.
     I continued my checks, covering his back to protect my own.
     I gave  it about five minutes, got up, and said to Kelly, "I have to go
to the men's  room. I won't be long." On the way out I asked the waitress to
keep an eye on Kelly and our bags.
     Another set  of doors  took me into the main ticketing and train  area.
The place was heaving; half  of the USA must have been on the move. Even the
air-conditioning  was  finding it  too  much:  the  combination  of heat and
humidity from the people made it feel like a greenhouse. I joined the packed
crowds slowly shuffling up to the top floor.
     He was in line at the coffee shop, about three or four  people ahead of
him. Very hale and hearty, I went over and slapped him on the back.
     "Pat! What are you doing here?"
     Reciprocating my big  smile,  he said, "I'm here to meet somebody." His
pupils were as big as saucers.
     "Me, too. You got time for a Mickey D's?"
     "Yeah, yeah, why not?"
     We started to walk beyond the coffee shop, following exit signs through
automatic  doors, and  took  the  escalator up  to the multi  story  parking
garage.
     Pat was a step or two above. He looked down at me, puzzled.
     "What the fuck's a Mickey D's?"
     "McDonald's," I  said, as if  he should  have known. But then he didn't
have a seven-year-old on his case day and night.
     "Come on, Pat, get with the program!"
     He started to do a Michael Jackson moon dance
     By now we were  nearly  at the bus station level. I said, "If there's a
drama, I'm going to the bus station area, turning right and out an exit."
     "Fine. No problem!" He sounded OK but looked like shit.
     The cars were  on the two  levels above. We walked up the bare concrete
stairs, stopped at the first level, and got into a position that looked back
the way we had come.
     I didn't have time to fuck around.
     "Two things, mate. I've got a list here I  didn't fancy reading  to you
over the phone." I passed it over.
     "I need  all that stuff. And the other thing  what's  the score on  the
money?"
     He was already looking at the small notebook I'd  handed him. Either he
was amazed at the contents or he couldn't focus. Without looking up he said,
"I got some  money for you today. But fucking hell, most of it's going to be
used up on this stuff. I'll be able to get you some more, probably to morrow
or the day after. Fuck me." He shook his head.
     "When do  you want all this by?" He then started to  giggle as  if he'd
just cracked a joke in his head and wasn't going to share it with me.
     "Actually, tonight, mate. You think you can do it, or what?"
     I moved my head to get eye-to-eye with him.
     The giggle became a  laugh until  he saw me looking serious. He cleared
his throat and tried to switch on.
     "I'll do my best, mate. I'll see what I can get on this list."
     "I'd really fucking appreciate it," I said.
     "Don't let me down. Pat. I really need your  help." I hoped the urgency
was going to register with him. I was still checking down the stairs.
     "Also at the back  there" I opened the page for him to make sure he saw
it "I've put a casual pickup I need that to happen at 2300 tonight."
     Pat  was looking at the  RV notes.  I bent my knees to lower myself and
moved his face over so I could get eye-to-eye again.
     "Eleven o'clock tonight, mate, eleven o'clock, OK?"
     I  knew Pat well enough to tell he  knew it was serious. He knew he was
fucked up and was trying hard to understand everything I said.
     I was  glad now  that  I'd put the  details  down on paper  for him. He
looked as if he needed all the help he could get.
     "What do you drive?" I asked.
     "A red Mustang." He pushed his face closer to mine.
     "Redder  than Satan's balls!" He enjoyed  the joke so much he  couldn't
help laughing.
     "Leave via H Street." I pointed away from the rear of the station.
     "See you tonight then." He smiled, moving off. From behind  I could see
a slight veer to the left as he walked.
     I waited and checked he  wasn't being  followed, then went on up toward
the parking  level, making it look as  if I were off to my car. From there I
took the elevator back down to the coffee shop.
     I went back toward the restaurant, stood off, and watched.
     Kelly was still struggling with the pizza.
     "What took you so long?" she said through a mouthful of mushrooms.
     "They ran out of toilet paper." I laughed as I rejoined her.
     She thought about it a moment and did the same. As soon as we got back
to the  hotel I put the TV on for Kelly and  dumped out the shopping bags on
my bed. She asked me what I was doing.
     "I'm just helping Pat. You can watch the TV if you want.
     You hungry?"
     "No." She  was right; after  a pizza the size of a  tank mine, it was a
stupid question.
     I  picked up the big red-and-white-framed  quartz kitchen clock and sat
in the chair by the window. I broke off the frame until I was left with just
the hands and clock face with the quartz mechanics behind  it. By bending it
very  gently, I now started  to break  off the  plastic face. When there was
just  about an inch  of  jagged remains around  the center  of the hands,  I
finally snapped off  the  hour and second  hands. Only  the minute hand  was
left. I put in a new battery.
     Kelly was watching.
     "Now what are you doing. Nick?"
     "It's a trick. Once I've finished I'll show you, OK?"
     "OK." She turned back to the TV, but with one eye on me.
     I  took the egg  carton  over  to  the wastebasket and  tipped  out its
contents. I  ripped off the top and half of  the bottom  so that there  were
just  six compartments left. With  Scotch tape I fashioned  a  small  sleeve
running  all  the  way  up  the  side  of  the carton,  just big  enough  to
accommodate the  minute hand.  I called over to  Kelly,  who was humming the
theme to a soap.
     "Do you want to see what this does?"
     She looked intrigued as I slotted the carton onto the minute hand.
     The  nightstand was  about  four  inches  below the level  of  the TV's
controls. I positioned the clock on it so it was directly below the infrared
sensor on the set and secured it in place with gaffer tape.
     Kelly was taking even more interest.
     "What are you doing?"
     "See the remote? Use it to turn the sound up."
     She  did.  "Now  turn it  down.  OK." I bet you that in about  fifteen
minutes you can't turn the sound up." I joined her on the bed.
     "Both of us must sit here and not move, OK?"
     "OK." She thought I was going to do something  to the remote and smiled
as she hid it under the pillow.
     It was quite nice really, watching  TV during some downtime, apart from
every minute hearing, "Is it fifteen minutes yet?"
     "No, only seven." By now the egg  carton, attached to the  minute hand,
was working its way up toward the base of the TV.
     When the egg carton was  upright  and obscuring the sensor, I said, "Go
on then, try to turn the sound up."
     She did, and nothing happened.
     "Maybe it's the battery?" I teased.
     We put  a fresh  battery into  the remote. Still nothing. She  couldn't
figure it out, and I wasn't going to explain my trick.
     "Magic!" I grinned.
     I extracted the rest  of the  gear, drank  some of the orange juice and
rinsed out the container, made sure that all  the  electrical equipment  had
fresh batteries, and prepared everything to be packed.
     It was about 10:20, and  Kelly  was asleep. I'd have to wake her up and
tell her I was going because I didn't want her to get up and start worrying.
At times  I  thought  she was  just a pain in  the neck, but  I did  want to
protect her.  She  looked so innocent playing  starfish  again.  What  would
happen to her after all this, I wondered--presuming she survived.
     I  tested  everything  again,  unplugged  the mobile and put it  in  my
pocket, and  finally  checked  my weapon and made sure I  had  some  cash. I
picked up a half-empty pack of cookies to eat on the way.
     Close to her ear, I whispered, "Kelly!"
     I got no response. I shook her a bit. She stirred and I said, "I've put
the  TV on low so you  can watch it  if  you want--I've got to go out  for a
couple of minutes."
     "Yeah."
     I  didn't know if  she understood or not. I preferred  telling her this
when she was half-asleep.
     "Don't put  the lock on this time because I'll  take  the key. I  don't
want to wake you when I come in, OK?"
     I left, and went down in the elevator  and  onto the road.  The highway
traffic rumbled above me. At last, no rain, just air that smelled damp.
     I turned left and walked in the opposite direction from the usual, just
for  one last check.  I munched on the cookies as  I walked past the target.
All the same lights were on; nothing had changed. I wondered if the homeless
bloke was underneath, waiting  with a chain saw for somebody else to piss on
him.  I quickened my pace to  meet  Pat on  time.  I got to the  highway and
turned right, following the road, with the roar of traffic above me.
     The road swung right, and I started  to leave the highway  behind. Soon
there was a  vacant lot on both sides,  and  the sound of traffic receded. I
could hear my footsteps again.  To  my right were more car pounds. How could
Washington  be in such  a  financial  mess when  the  city must be  making a
fortune  on  towed vehicles? To  my  left  there were  the  new, jerry built
office-cum-workshops. I got to  the first one,  moved off the road into  its
shadow, and waited.
     It was bizarre to be  only  a  few  hundred yards from the Pentagon and
possibly right  under the nose  of the people who'd like to see me  dead. It
was also quite a  thrill. It always had been.  Pat  had a term  for  it;  he
called it "the juice."
     I heard an engine  coming toward me. I looked around the corner  of the
building. Just one vehicle. It must be him. I pulled my pistol.
     The red Mustang drew up. I  was in a semi crouch fire  position, aiming
at  the  driver  with my  Sig until it  stopped. It was Pat. I could see his
Roman nose silhouetted in the ambient light from the airport.
     Pistol still in  hand, I walked over to the passenger door  and  opened
it; the interior light didn't come on. I got in and closed the  door gently,
onto its first click only.
     Pat had his hand on the hand brake and slowly released  it to move off.
From a distance it's very difficult to tell whether a car is stopping if you
can't see brake lights. That was why Pat was using the  hand brake  with  no
interior  light coming  on and  no noise of a  car door shutting, the pickup
would have been very hard to clock.
     Checking  the  road  behind  us,  I  said,  "Turn  right  at  the  next
intersection."
     There was no time to fuck around; he knew it and I knew it.
     Pat said, "Everything's  in the back,  in that duffel." He'd come  down
from whatever high he'd been on and sounded quite embarrassed.
     I leaned  over  and lifted out the laptop. I said, "Is the sound turned
off?" When Windows 95 came up, I didn't want the Microsoft sound playing.
     He  made  a face that  let me know I was a dickhead for even asking. We
both laughed; it broke the ice.
     We came up to the concrete  wall. As we passed the hotel I  was careful
not to turn my head. We turned right under the highway and pulled up at stop
lights on the other side.
     I said, "Go straight and turn right on Kent."
     "No problem."
     The area was  urban and  well lit.  He  kept checking in  his  rearview
mirror to see  if  we were being followed. My  eyes were fixed  on  the side
mirror. I didn't turn and look now; neither of us wanted to appear aware.
     There  were  a  few  cars  behind  us, but they  had  come  from  other
directions. That wasn't to say they weren't following us.
     I  looked at Pat. His 9mm semi was  snug under his  right thigh, and in
the foot well under his legs he  had  a 9mm MP5K, an excellent in-car weapon
because of its compact size  and  rate  of  fire.  He'd  clipped  on  double
thirty-round magazines.
     "What the fuck did you bring that thing along for?"
     "I  didn't like the sound  of your new best mate, Luther. I didn't want
him and his buddies dragging me in for a little chat."
     We approached another set of lights.
     "Do  a  right to  left  switch  here, mate. Let's see  if  we  have any
groupies."
     There  were  one  or two  cars behind  us.  The shape  of  a  vehicle's
headlights, once it is up  close, helps a lot to ID it. If the same shape is
up your  ass on three  turns in the same direction, it's time to get out the
worry beads.
     Pat signaled  and  started to move to the  right.  All the  other  cars
seemed to want straight ahead or to turn right with us;
     nobody was in the left-turn lane. At the  last moment Pat signaled left
and moved over--nothing that was aggressive  or would provoke a bout of road
rage, just a change of mind.
     We were all held up at the light. I looked at each car in turn.
     Just couples or kids cruising--or so it appeared.  I'd  soon know  if I
saw them again.
     We turned on the green, and nothing followed. It was now time to talk.
     Pat started it off.
     "Your  instructions were  shit.  You said  three buildings; there  were
four. It's a good thing I know what I'm doing." He was waiting for praise.
     "The fact  is, I couldn't remember  how many.  The taxi was driving too
fast. I can't count anyway."
     We were now just cruising. Pat said, "I've been thinking.
     Do you want me to go in as your number two?"
     That would  be  good. It  would get the job done quicker and would mean
better security and  firepower if we were in trouble. But I  decided against
it;  Pat was  my only link with  the outside world,  and  I  didn't  want to
compromise that. I told him my reasons and he nodded his acceptance.
     "Take us back to the Pentagon City Metro station, will you, mate?"
     I started to prepare for the drop-off and  got into acting  mode again.
He  put  his signals  on,  everything  correct, nothing untoward, nice  slow
approach and into the curb outside the Metro. I got out, put my head back in
through the open window.
     "Thanks a lot, mate, see  you later." I retrieved  the black  nylon bag
from the backseat. My mind-set was that  I'd been playing baseball with  him
all  night and now I was going home; he'd just dropped me off after a drink.
I closed the door and tapped the roof a couple of times, and off he drove. I
suddenly felt very alone. Had I made the right decision about Pat not coming
with me? I made distance and  angles before doing  a  circuit  back  to  the
hotel, arriving at about 11:50.
     I  quickly sorted out and  double-checked all  the  stuff that  Pat had
given me and packed what I  needed into the  bag.  I  emptied  my pockets of
change and anything else that  might rattle or fall out. Then I cut off most
of  the top  end of a trash bag, put in my passport and  wallet, wrapped  it
into a small bundle, and put it into my coat pocket.
     Once I'd done that, I jumped up  and down one more time  to  check  for
noise, picking up the bag and shaking that as well.
     "Guess what, Kelly? I'm going to go  out again in a minute, but I'll be
back very soon. Will you be OK?"
     But she was out  of  it. I left the hotel and walked toward the target.
The  bag  had two handles and a  long  shoulder strap. I walked toward  the
river  with it  slung  over my  shoulder, following  the same  route as  the
previous night. Nothing had changed except that  the lights from the highway
were a bit brighter tonight without the mist.
     At  the fenced gate I  used the handles of  the duffel  to put it on my
back like a rucksack and climbed over. I'd keep it on my  back now; if I was
confronted, I could run and still keep the kit,  or, as  a last resort, draw
down on them with the Sig.
     I got level with  the target building, with the vacant lot and fence in
between. There was  no sound apart from the hum of the highway. I started to
pick  my  way through  the clutter. It was muddy  not  deep  squelching mud,
because the ground was quite hard, but I still needed to take my time to get
through;  I  didn't want to  slip and  make noise,  because  my pal  in  the
shrubbery might not be the only homeless person around here.
     I got to the fence  near the PIRA building. Using the  bush as cover, I
eased the bag off my shoulder and sat on it. The first leg was completed; it
was time to stop, look, listen, and take everything in. I needed to be extra
careful because I was on my own.  Really this was  a job for two people, one
watching,  one doing.  I spent a few minutes more just tuning in. Visibility
was a bit better tonight because of the stars.
     Looking left,  the  parking  lot was  still  empty;  to the  right, the
pallets were still where I'd seen them.
     From  my  coat pocket  I pulled out  the  trash bag protecting my docs.
Right at the base of a bush  I dug a shallow  hole in the mud with my hands,
threw in  the  bundle, and covered it over. This was my  emergency cache, my
hidey-hole, as Kelly would say. If I got lifted, I would be  sterile, and if
I got  away, there would always be the chance  of coming back and retrieving
it.
     I  wiped the mud off my hands onto a small tuft of grass and started to
get  myself ready  for the job. I  gently unzipped the duffel. I got out the
pair  of navy blue coveralls, probably just  like the ones Kev's friends had
worn.
     The  problem with climbing over  a high fence with a forty-pound bag is
that  you can spend more time getting stuck and  making noise than  actually
crossing it.
     I pulled the draw  string from the center of my coat and put it between
my teeth.  Moving  as near to the  steel stake  support  as  I could without
breaking  cover, I  then lifted the  bag up  to  shoulder  height. Using  my
shoulders  to support its  weight, I tied the handles as near  to the top of
the fence  as I could with a quick-release  knot, throwing the free end  of
the string over the top.
     Checking  that  my weapon was  secure, I  reached up,  put  my  fingers
through the chain  links, and started  to  climb.  Once on the other  side I
again stopped, looked,  and listened; only then did I climb back up and haul
the bag  over  the fence. I climbed down once more and then got  hold of the
free end of the  string and pulled. The bag came free from  the fence, and I
took its weight. Then, squatting, I watched and listened again.
     Working  alone on  a job takes a lot of concentration because you can't
look and work  at the same time, yet both have to  be done. So you do one or
the other; you either get on with the job or you get on with looking. Try to
do both and you'll fuck up.
     I stood  up, put the bag on  my left shoulder, and gently  pulled apart
the Velcro of the coveralls so that, if necessary, I could get to my weapon.
Taking my time, I moved to the left side of the building.
     Before  I  did anything, I had to defeat  the motion detector. I was to
the left of  it, with my back  against the wall. Putting the bag in my  left
hand, I kept my eyes on the detector high above me and started slowly edging
toward it. When  I got more or  less as far as  I estimated I  could without
getting spotted, I bent down and placed the bag by my feet. Everything I did
from now on would happen on the near side of the bag.
     Security lights  that respond  to movement  make  life  much harder for
people like me, but only if they cover the whole of the building. I found it
strange  that  there  was  only  one  detector,  rather  than two  or  three
overlapping  each other to  eliminate  dead  spots. I was expecting,  at any
moment, to be  nailed by one I hadn't noticed. But whoever had installed the
security system had obviously worked on the premise that only the lower fire
escape door had to be covered and not the approach routes to it.
     It was nearly 1  a.m." which left me just over five  hours before first
light. Time was against me, but I  wasn't going to rush. I went the long way
around to collect one of the pallets.
     I got both hands in between the slats of  wood, heaved it up against my
chest, and started to walk slowly. The ground still had a top layer  of mud,
and  my shoes  squelched as  they  made contact. I finally reached the wall,
placed the pallet against the brickwork on my side of the bag, and went back
for the second one.
     I wedged the two pallets together, the bottom of the second jammed into
the gap about three rungs down from the top of the first to make a ladder. I
stopped,  looked, and listened. The pallets had been heavy; I  heard nothing
apart from the sound of my lungs gagging for air through my dry throat.
     I climbed  up on the first pallet, and that was fine. I got up onto the
second pallet and it,  too, seemed  stable enough.  I  started to climb. I'd
moved  just  two rungs when the whole structure buckled and collapsed. I hit
the ground  like a bag of shit,  and the two  pallets slammed down onto each
other with a resounding thud and clatter. Shit. Shit. Shit.
     I was lying on my back, with one of the pallets across my legs. No  one
came running to  investigate, no dogs started barking,  no  lights  came on.
Nothing  but the  noise of  the traffic and  me swallowing  hard,  trying to
moisten my mouth.
     Luckily  everything had happened on my  side  of the bag. I  lifted the
pallet and crawled from under it, quietly cursing.
     This  was crap. But what else could I have  done bought a ladder at the
mall and  carried it to the  target? I moved  to the corner of the building,
got down  on the tips of  my toes and fingers,  as if I  were  going to do a
push-up, and stuck my head around toward Ball Street.
     I was still annoyed with  myself. I  could spend all night  improvising
before I even got  into a position to  attack  this motion detector. Maybe a
ladder wasn't such a stupid idea; I should have gotten one and somehow tried
to drop it off earlier, then pick it up enroute. But it was too late now.
     I stood against the wall  and reevaluated. I  decided  to "react as the
situation dictated," which was the Firm's favorite get-out clause. It simply
meant they didn't know what to do. A bit like me really.
     Fuck  it, I was going  to get  Kelly. All  she'd  have  to do  was lean
against the pallets; she had to be there only  for about fifteen minutes and
I'd  be done. After that she could stay with me or I  could drop her back at
the hotel. I'd cross that bridge when I came to it.
     I picked up the bag, retraced the route to the high fence, and, staying
on the target side, dumped the bag and coveralls.
     Then  I followed the fence along, looking for an opening to get to Ball
Street. There wasn't time to  do the  job properly and go back  all  the way
around. I  finally found a service alley between two buildings that belonged
in some film about the mafia in 1950s New York. It took me down to the road.
I  turned left  and walked briskly to the hotel, no  more  than  two minutes
away. It was  only then I  realized that I didn't have the room  key because
I'd left it in the trash bag. I'd have to wake Kelly.
     I knocked gently at first, then a bit harder. Just when I  was starting
to sweat, I heard "Hi, Nick." A moment or two later, the door opened.
     I gave her a look of concern.
     "How did you know it was me? You should have waited  until I answered."
Then I saw the chair and the drag marks on the carpet. I smiled and gave her
a pat on the head.
     "You looked through the peephole, didn't you, clever girl? Hey, because
you're so clever, I've got a job  for you. I really, really need  your help.
Would you like to help me?"
     She looked sleepy.
     "What do you want me to do?"
     "I'll show you when we get there. Will you come with me?"
     "I guess so."
     I had a brainstorm.
     "Do you want  to do what your dad does? Because this is what Daddy does
for the good guys.
     You can tell him all about it soon."
     Her face brightened. She was a happy bunny again.
     She had to more or less run to keep up with me. We got to the alley and
headed down toward the vacant lot. It was dark; she was less than eager. She
started dragging her feet.
     "Where are we going, Nick?"
     "You want to play spies, don't you?" I said in an excited whisper.
     "Imagine you are a Power Ranger and you're going on a secret mission."
     We reached the empty lot and took the  same route toward the chain-link
fence. I held her hand, and she kept pace; I hoped she was getting into it.
     We got to the bag. I picked up the coveralls and said, "I've got to put
these on because  they're special  spy coveralls." Her face changed when she
saw them. I suddenly realized she must have made the connection with the men
who'd come to see Kev.
     "Your Daddy wears them, too. You'd better be a spy  as well;  undo your
coat."  I turned it inside out  and told her to  put  it back on. She  liked
that.
     I picked up the bag and put it over my shoulder. I pointed.
     "Now we'll walk really slowly over there."
     When we  reached the pallets, I put the  bag down in the  same place as
before.
     "OK.?" I asked, giving her a thumbs-up.
     "OK. "Thumbs-up.
     "See  that  thing up  there? If  that  sees  you, it'll go  waawaa  and
there'll  be lights and all sorts, and then we've lost. So you must never go
to the other side of that bag, OK?" I pointed.
     "OK." We gave each other another thumbs-up.
     I  repositioned the pallets  and showed  her what I wanted her to do. I
could hear her making little  grunts. She had started  leaning as  I'd shown
her and probably thought she had to make noises, doing manual work and all.
     I unzipped the bag, pulled out  the clock and  egg  carton, and slipped
the minute hand into its Scotch tape sleeve. I gently squeezed the tape onto
it; it held nice and firm.
     Kelly was still pushing, and I told her  to rest. At least she was into
it. She  was watching me as I put the clock and egg carton on the ground and
placed two elastic bands around my wrist.
     "It's magic, watch me!"
     She  nodded,  probably still  trying  to work  out how I'd  stopped the
remote from operating the TV "You ready, Kelly?"
     "Ready."
     "Let's go!"
     I  climbed up slowly, trying hard to give the least possible weight and
movement for Kelly to handle.
     Once up, and about an arm's length from one side of the detector, I got
my wrist resting on my chest so that I had a good firm support. I turned the
egg  carton so that its long edge was horizontal to the ground. Then gently,
gently, I moved it about six inches below the motion detector, but not going
any  farther than its front. Once there, I rested  my back against  the wall
and my  wrists  on my  chest. I'd  have to stay  like that for about fifteen
minutes.
     I  was waiting for the egg carton to move  up  against the face of  the
motion  detector,  the  movement  so imperceptible  that the detector simply
wouldn't  register it otherwise, it would have triggered every time a spider
walked across its face. I just hoped Kelly  wouldn't give up.  I'd  find out
soon.
     Now and again I looked down and winked at her.
     "Good, this, isn't it?" She looked back at me with  a big smile or so I
assumed, because all I could see was an inside-out coat, a hood, and a cloud
of breath.
     As  we both waited  for  the minute hand to  become vertical,  all of a
sudden there was a single waa! of a dying police siren.
     Shit! Shit!
     It was on the road on the other side of the building. It  couldn't have
anything to do with us. Otherwise why just one unit, and why  use  the siren
anyway?
     I couldn't move. If I  did, it  would  trip the  device and what for? I
hadn't even seen a flashlight yet.
     "Nick, Nick, did you hear that?"
     "It's OK, Kelly. Just keep on pushing. It's OK, I can hear them."
     What could I do? I told myself to stay calm and think.
     A shout echoed around the parking lot. It  had come  from Ball  Street,
but a bit of a distance away. Other voices joined in. An argument had broken
out. I couldn't make out what was being said, but there were car doors being
slammed and words exchanged,  then  the sound  of a  car starting up. All  I
could think of was that someone  had parked while I fetched Kelly.  Possibly
one  of the couples  I'd seen from  Pat's car-they'd  been busy  getting the
windows steamed up and had got caught by the police. It sounded plausible; I
just made myself believe it.
     The egg carton was close to vertical. I held my  breath.  This wasn't a
science; we had a fifty-fifty chance of  success, no more. If it spotted us,
we'd have to get the fuck out of there PDQ and take our chances.
     At last the box obscured the detector. No lights came on.
     With my  teeth, I pulled the two thin elastic bands off my wrist; I got
the first one over the top of the egg carton and around the motion detector,
then pulled the back of it tight, twisted it, and wound around another  loop
of the band. I put the other band around to make it even tighter. The motion
detector was defeated.
     I slipped the  clock off the box and put it in one of the deep  pockets
at the front of my coveralls. I clambered down and rubbed Kelly's shoulders.
     "Good work!"
     She gave me a huge smile, still not too sure what it was all about--but
hey, this was what  Daddy did.  The  next  thing to  attack was the alarms,
which would mean neutralizing the telephone lines. One of Pat's presents was
a disruption device--a  black  box of computer technology about eight inches
by six;  coming out of it  were six different-colored cables with  crocodile
grips at the  end, a combination  of which I'd attach to the telephone line.
When the intruder alarm inside the building was tripped, a signal should, in
theory, be  sent to the monitor station or the police;  however, it wouldn't
get there because the disruption device would have engaged all the lines.
     I got close to Kelly's ear and said, "You can help me even more now." I
put the clock  back into the bag, and walked past the fire exit doors to the
bank of utility boxes.
     From the  bag  I pulled  out another item  from  Pat's shopping list, a
six-foot square of thick blackout material, the sort photographers use.
     I winked at Kelly.
     "More magic," I said, "and I'll need you to tell me if it works." I was
talking  in  a very low tone; at night, whispering can sometimes be heard as
far away as normal speech. I came right up to her ear again and said, "We've
got to  be really quiet, OK? If you want to talk to me, just tap  me on  the
shoulder, and then  I'll  look at you, and you  can  talk in my  ear. Do you
understand?"
     She spoke into my ear.
     "Yes."
     "That's great,  because that's  what spies  do."  I put  on  my  rubber
gloves.
     She  stood  there with an  earnest expression  on her face  but looking
quite stupid with her coat inside out and the hood up.
     I said, "I also want you to  tap  me on the shoulder if you see  any of
the light coming out, OK?"
     "Yeah."
     "Even if  there's only a little bit of light coming from  me, tap me on
the shoulder. OK?"
     "Yeah."
     I  went  over  to  the  bank of  utilities,  put  the  material over my
shoulders, turned on  the Maglite with a  red filter,  and got to work. I'd
used  disruption devices  many  times. I worked  with  the  flashlight in my
mouth, and was soon dribbling. I attached the clips to the telephone line in
a variety of combinations; as they bit in, a row of lights came on. The  aim
was to  get all  six  red  lights up;  when  that  happened, the lines  were
engaged.
     Ten minutes was all it took.
     I rested the box in between the  electric  and gas meters. I only hoped
there  wasn't an audio alarm  as well  as a telephone  warning. I doubted it
somehow, seeing as the budget had stretched to only one external detector.
     I took off the blanket, wrapped it in a bundle, and handed it to Kelly.
     "You've got to hold that for me because I'm going to need it again in a
minute. It's fun, this, isn't it?"
     "Yes. But I'm cold."
     "We'll be inside in a minute and it'll be  all nice and warm. Don't you
worry about that."
     I stopped, looked, listened, then moved over to the door.
     The next thing was gaining entry.
     The Americans are into pin tumbler locks in a big way.
     There are  three main  ways to defeat them. The  first, and easiest, is
just to get a  duplicate  key. The second  is called  hard keying. You get a
titanium key the size of the  lock,  and the  key  has  a bolt head that you
whack with a hammer; the titanium key pushes in and gouges out all the  soft
steel. You then fit a special bar onto the bolt head pull down, and  it rips
out the  whole  of  the cylinder.  Hard  keying was no  good for me  tonight
because I wanted to go in and come out without any body knowing. I'd have to
use the third option.
     A lock-pick  gun is a metal lock-picking device that looks like a small
pistol.  It  has  both  straight  and  offset pick  options  to  accommodate
different locks  and key ways The "trigger" of the gun is spring-loaded; you
squeeze it rapidly, and this trigger movement causes the pick to snap upward
within  the lock and transfers the striking force to  the pins that work the
lock  mechanism.  When the  pins are properly aligned,  you use  a  separate
tension  wrench  to turn  the  lock cylinder. Bad news for  people with  pin
tumblers, but a lock-pick gun can open most of them in less than a minute.
     With  the blanket  over me I turned on  the Maglite and put  it  in  my
mouth. I inserted the tension wrench into the bottom of the keyway opposite
the  pins and  applied light pressure  counterclockwise, in  the direction I
expected the lock to turn.
     I then inserted the pick that  protruded from the front of me lock-pick
gun. Once the gun and  tension wrench were in place, I started squeezing the
trigger  rapidly.  I  gave  it five shots  but  the lock didn't open,  so  I
increased the tension adjustment  and tried again. I could hear it go clink,
clink, clink as I squeezed; again I  turned the tension  adjustment  so that
the needle would strike the  pins with just enough force. One by one I heard
the pins drop, and eventually the  tumbler  turned. I held the small tension
wrench in the lock and  pulled  the door  to take the pressure off  the lock
itself, because I didn't want to have too much torque on the wrench and bust
it,  leaving the telltale bit of metal  stuck inside.  I pulled the door and
felt it give.
     I opened it a fraction, half-expecting the sound  of an alarm. Nothing.
I grinned at Kelly, who was right up against the wall with me, very excited.
I closed the door again to keep the light in.
     "When we get in,  you  mustn't touch anything un  less I tell you, OK?"
She nodded.
     There's a world outside that  is full  of mud and  shit, and there's  a
world inside  that is clean, and if you don't  want  to be  compromised, you
don't combine the two. I took off the coveralls, turned them inside out, and
deposited them in the bag.
     I then took off  my shoes and stuck them  into the bag. I put on a pair
of running  shoes,  which meant  that  not only  could  I  move  quickly and
silently inside but also I wouldn't be leaving a trail of mud everywhere.
     I took off Kelly's coat, put it on the  right way,  and got her to take
off her shoes and shove them in the bag.
     I had  one last  check around  the  area to  make  sure  I hadn't  left
anything.
     "We're  going to  go inside  now, Kelly.  This is going to be the first
time a little girl has done spying like this ever ever ever. But you must do
what I say, OK?"
     She accepted the mission.
     I  picked up the bag, and we moved  over to  the left-hand side of  the
door.
     "When I  open this, just walk in a couple of steps  and  give me enough
room to come in behind you, OK?"
     "OK."
     I didn't want to tell her what to do if  anything went wrong, because I
didn't want  to get  her frightened. I just wanted  to  make it  sound as if
everything I did was going to work.
     "After three  one, two, three." I opened the door halfway, and she went
right in. I followed, closed  the door,  and put  the lock back on. Done: we
were inside.
     We followed the corridor, looking now for  the  staircase to the second
floor. I had the bag on my left shoulder. Through glass doors at the  end of
the  corridor I  could  see  the  front  of  the  building. It  was a large,
open-office  area  with  everything I'd have expected to see:  desks, filing
cabinets, and  rubber  plants with  name tags. To the left  and right of  us
there were other offices and a copying room. The air-conditioning  was still
on.
     I  found the  stairs  behind  unlocked swing  doors  on the left of the
corridor. Gently so that it didn't squeak, I pulled one of them open and let
Kelly  through.  There  was no light in  the  stairwell. I switched  on  the
Maglite and shined the beam on the stairs. We climbed slowly.
     Quiet as we were, the  stairwell was an echo chamber, and to  Kelly the
red light must have made everything look scary.
     She said, "Nick, I don't like this!"
     "Shhh! It's OK. Don't worry about it your dad and I used to do this all
the time." I grabbed her hand, and we carried on.
     We got to the door. It would open toward us because it was a fire exit.
I put down  the bag, put my lips up to Kelly's ear, and went, "Shhh," trying
to make it all exciting.
     I slowly eased the door open an inch and looked into the corridor. Same
as downstairs,  the  lights were  on  and  every  thing  seemed deserted.  I
listened, opened the door more to let  Kelly through,  and  pointed  where I
wanted her to go and stand. She was a lot happier to be in the light.
     I put the bag down next to her.
     "Wait there a  minute." I turned right, past the rest rooms and an area
that housed  the  Coke, water, and coffee machines.  Next was another  photo
copy room. I went to the fire-escape door,  pulled  it toward me, undid  the
latch, and checked that it would open.  I already  knew there was nothing on
the other side to obstruct it because I'd just been fucking around below it.
If there was a drama, we had an escape route.
     I picked up the  bag again,  and  we started to walk along the corridor
toward the front of the building. We came to the same sort of glass doors as
on the floor below, which opened up into  the open area. I could see all the
workstations,   and  around  the   edge  there  were  other   offices,   all
glass-fronted.
     Obviously the managers liked to keep an eye on everyone.
     The windows  that  fronted the office block were maybe fifty feet away.
Light from the street and the corridor gave the whole area an eerie glow. To
the right was another glass door that led into another corridor.
     I knew what I was looking for, but I didn't know where I'd find it; all
I knew was that it certainly wouldn't be in this part of the building.
     I looked down and smiled at Kelly. She was as happy as a  clam, just as
her dad would have been.  Keeping  well away from  the windows, we walked to
the other side of the open area toward the glass door.
     There was all the normal office stuff: a bulletin board with targets to
be  reached, pictures of the salesman of the year, and a thank-you card from
somebody who'd just had a baby. Most desks had a  small frame with  pictures
of the family, and everywhere I looked there were motivational posters, shit
like: WINNERS NEVER QUIT, QUITTERS NEVER WIN, Or YOU
     CANNOT DISCOVER NEW OCEANS UNTIL YOU HAVE THE
     courage to lose sight of the shore. I  had to stop  and read  them. The
only  one I'd seen before was of  a big pen of sheep all closed up together,
and it said, either lead, follow, or get out of the way. It was  on the wall
of the HQ of  the SAS, and had been there for years.  It seemed to  me to be
the only one you needed.
     We went through the glass doors. The  corridor was about ten feet wide,
with plain white walls and not  a  poster or potted plant  in  sight--just a
large fire extinguisher near the door. The sudden brightness of the lighting
made me  close my eyes until they  adjusted. There  were no  more doors, but
about thirty feet farther down was a T-intersection. I could see offices. We
walked down to them; I put down the bag and motioned Kelly to stay with it.
     "Remember, don't touch a thing."
     The handle  on  the door of  each office was a large metal knob  with a
pin-tumbler lock in the middle. I tested each one, pulling the handle toward
me so  as  not to make  any noise, then gently trying to turn it. There were
seven  offices  in  this corridor area; all of them  were  locked. That  was
nothing special in itself; it just meant that I'd have  to use the lock-pick
gun on each one in turn.
     I went  back to  the bag. Kelly was standing beside it, desperate for a
job.  I said, "Kelly, you've really got to help me now. I want you to  stand
where  I tell you, and you've got to  tell me if anyone's coming, all right?
I've got to do exactly what I did outside and I still need your help, OK?"
     I was getting nod after nod. I kept going: "It's really important;
     it's  the  most important job tonight. And we've both got to be really,
really quiet, OK?"
     Another nod. I moved her into position.
     "I want you to stand on the corner here. Your job is also to look after
that  bag,  because  there's  a  lot of  important stuff in it.  If you  see
anything, just tap me on the shoulder like before."
     She nodded, and I got out the lock-pick gun.
     I got to  the first door and  started to squeeze. I  opened it with the
tension wrench and popped my head in, made sure I couldn't see  any windows,
and turned on the  light. It  was  basically just  one office,  quite large,
about twenty feet  by  fifteen,  a  couple  of telephones, a picture  of the
worker's wife, a couple of  filing cabinets, very basic  furniture.  Nothing
resembling  what I was looking for. I didn't check the  filing cabinets--the
first look is nothing more than a once-over;
     you don't want to spend ages in one location only to find out that what
you want is sitting on a desk in the room next door.
     I didn't relock the door because I might have to go back in.
     I looked at  Kelly, still at her  post; I  stuck  my thumb  up and  she
grinned. She had a big job to do.
     I went into office  number two.  Exactly the  same, normal office shit:
the  year  planner with different-colored bits of tape on it, signs  stating
that there was  a strict no-smoking policy, and  individual mugs  of coffee.
People's offices are  a reflection of themselves; that's  why on  a job like
this it's so important that nothing be left out of place. They would  notice
immediately.
     I continued down the corridor and went to number three.
     The same. Four: the same. I was starting to feel I was on a  wild-goose
chase.
     Now for the other  three offices; I crossed over the T, and as I passed
Kelly she tried to look even more hard at work. I gave her another thumbs-up
and went to number five.
     It  was  a much bigger office. There were two couches facing each other
with a coffee table in between and a neat arrangement of magazines; a wooden
liquor cabinet, smart wooden filing cabinets, framed  diplomas and all sorts
of things on the wall. But nothing that looked like what I was looking for.
     However, behind a large desk and leather swing chair, there was another
door.  I got the lock-pick gun working.  Inside, I  found filing cabinets, a
fantastically expensive-looking leather-topped  desk, and a swivel chair. On
the desk  was a  PC. It  wasn't connected to another  computer,  nor was  it
connected to a phone line. There wasn't even a telephone in the room.
     This could be where the key point was.
     It could be a fiber-optic cable that's controlling fixed Scud launching
sites  in  northern Iraq, or it could  be just one  small component  in  the
control  room  of  a  nuclear  power station,  but  a key  point  has  to be
protected. If it's damaged, everything else is inoperable. It might not take
a hundred pounds of explosives to destroy  a target; if you can identify the
key point, then  sometimes  one  blow from  a two-pound hammer  will  do the
trick. I quickly checked the remaining  two offices and  confirmed that this
was the one I should be concentrating on.
     I went back to the bag and got out the Polaroid camera.
     Kelly was still working on her gold star for best spy. I smiled:
     "I think I've found it, Kelly!"
     She smiled back. She didn't have a clue what I was talking about.
     I took pictures of the outer office, of what the desktop looked like, a
couple of panoramic shots of the area, the coffee table in detail, including
the  way the magazines  were  lying; the way  that  the stuff was set on the
table, a picture of all the drawers. In all I took eight shots of the inside
of the  first  office.  I now knew  exactly what it had looked  like when  I
entered, so when we left I could make sure it looked exactly the same.
     I laid the  Polaroids in a  row on  the  floor  against the wall by the
door, just inside the office.  The trash from  the prints went straight into
my pockets.
     Waiting  for the photographs to develop, I put my head  around the door
to check on Kelly.
     I picked up the bag and brought Kelly with me into the bigger office. I
said, "I  want you to  tell me  when  those pictures are all developed. Make
sure you don't touch a  thing, but it's really  important I know when  those
pictures are ready.
     Your daddy used to do this job."
     "Really?"
     I closed the door behind us and jammed two wedges in place.
     I remembered a  job I'd  once done with Kev. We'd been sent to plan the
insertion  of  a visual  and audio  device  into  an  arms dealer's house in
Vancouver.  This guy was selling nuclear detonators on the  black market and
we were assigned to recon  the house, come back to the  UK, and  plan how to
put the devices in so that a listening station set up in a nearby hotel room
could find out what was happening.
     Once  we  got  into the  house we took photographs of all the bits  and
pieces that were needed  to plan and prepare  our technical attack. After a
while  we  were just bored;  it wasn't  that  hard a job.  We  went into the
bedroom, wedged  the door, and started going through his wife's closets. She
was very young, and Danish;  looking at the two of them in their pictures in
the  living room, I'd been sure  she loved  her fifty-eight-year-old grossly
overweight husband: there was no way it was his  millions of dollars she was
interested  in.  It was then that Kev opened a drawer and  discovered untold
amounts of kinky underwear.
     The rest of the night was spent taking pictures of each  other with her
panties  over our  heads.  In  fact,  more  time and  effort,  planning  and
preparation  went  into getting her underwear out than into most of the rest
of the job.  It was while  we were  tittering  in the  darkroom  back at the
embassy that Kev  had suddenly broken out in  a cold  sweat, convinced  he'd
left a pair of panties on the bed. If  he had, there was nothing we could do
about  it--except  imagine  the overweight  arms  dealer finding  a pair  of
frillies on his pillow and thinking all his Christmases had come at once.
     I  told Kelly to stay where she was, moved into the  second office, and
started taking  more pictures. The cleaning service hadn't been in here. The
other  offices had  empty wastebaskets,  but these two  offices  hadn't been
touched; they obviously did  these themselves, but not every day.  Even more
indication that this was a secure area. As I moved around  this small room I
saw  a shredder beside the filing cabinet, and  that confirmed  it. What was
being  kept  secret, however,  I didn't yet  know. I put the pictures of the
second room on the floor and went back into the main office.
     Looking over Kelly's shoulder, I asked, "How's it going?"
     "One's nearly ready, look!"
     "Great. What Daddy does also is collect the other pictures."
     I pointed to the ones next door on the carpet.
     "But one at a  time, and  put them in  a  nice  long line just here." I
showed her that I wanted them against the wall.
     "Can you manage that?"
     "Yeah, sure." She walked off.
     I  went back next door  and had a quick look at  the PC. It was on  but
asleep. Kelly was walking in and out, carrying one picture at  a time  as if
it were a bomb.
     I  pressed the Return key on the keyboard; I didn't  want to  touch the
mouse because maybe it was positioned as a telltale.  The screen came  alive
with  Windows 95 and the Microsoft sound which pleased me,  because I'd have
been struggling with any other system.
     I  went back  to  Kelly, who was still  staring at the  pictures in the
other office.
     "Look," she said, "some more are ready!"
     I nodded  as  I  delved  into  the  bag for the  disk with  the sniffer
program. I  was not as good with computers as the sixteen-year-olds who hack
into the USAF computer defense system,  but I knew  how to use one of these.
All  you have  to  do  is  insert a floppy and  off  it  goes,  rooting into
passwords, infiltrating programs. There is nothing that they can't get into.
     I got up and turned toward the back office.
     "Won't be long," I said.
     "Come and tell me when they're ready to look at."
     Eyes glued to  the pictures, she just nodded. As I  walked  back in,  I
looked at the tracks our feet had brushed in the carpet. I'd have  to smooth
it out again once we had finished.
     I  put the  disk in  and  started  it.  The  wonderful thing about this
particular program was that  you had to answer just two questions. There was
a wup! sound and the first one came up.
     Do you want to proceed with XI 222? (Y)es or (N)o.
     I pressed the Y key. Off it went again, whirring and clicking.
     A  progress  bar came  up as the machine  clicked  away. The next stage
would take a few minutes.
     I looked at the filing  cabinet; it was going to  be a piece of cake to
get into. I went to the  bag and retrieved  what  Pat would have  called the
"surreptitious  entry kit" but  which  to  me  was just  the pick  and rakes
wallet.  It  was  a small,  black  leather case  that  contained  a  general
assortment of  tools designed for the efficient opening of most pin-tumbler,
wafer, lever, and double-sided  locks.  Among  the  sixty  pieces were full,
half, and  three-quarter rakes; diamond-tip picks and  single,  double,  and
half-double ball picks; light, medium, and  heavyweight  tension wrenches of
various  lengths  and  styles;  hook-and  saw-type  broken-key  extractors,
probes, feeler  pick,  needle pick, and  double-ball rake. Don't  leave home
without it.
     The progress bar was showing it  was just halfway through a process, so
I started on the filing cabinets with a feeler pick.
     It was a standard lock and opened easily. The contents meant nothing to
me.  They seemed to be spreadsheets and  documents  with  itemized bills and
invoices.
     I looked at the screen. It was nearly at the end of the progress bar.
     The  guy  who'd  produced  the  sniffer program  was  a  wild-partying,
Ecstasy-taking eighteen-year-old whiz kid who  was  so into body piercing he
had half of British Steel hanging out of his face. He had a shaved head--but
that was  only after we'd  been  taking the  piss out  of  his close-cropped
effort with a  star dyed  onto  the  top. The  government  had been spending
hundreds of thousands of pounds trying to develop ways  to get into computer
programs only  to  discover, after he  had  got arrested  on  some unrelated
charge, that  this  eighteen-year-old  had come up with the greatest sniffer
program ever written. His weekly unemployment suddenly started  looking like
a check from the National Lottery.
     Wup! The  progress bar was complete. Up came  a  little box that  said:
Password: SoOSshltime! Full marks  to them for  originality; normally it was
something  like a spouse's nickname, a family  member's date  of birth, or a
license plate.
     Then up came Do you wish to proceed? (Y)es or (N)o.
     Fucking right I did. I hit the Y key and was into the machine.
     I went to the bag and  I got out the  portable backup drive  and cables
and a handful of high-capacity backup disks.
     I  went  around to the  back of  the  machine and  had  a  good look. I
connected  the drive cable and plugged it into the socket.  I  was going  to
copy everything: operating system, applications, data files, the lot.
     I  now had to move the mouse. I took  a  Polaroid but still studied  it
before moving it.
     I selected Full  System Backup, and  the  computer whirred into action,
loading  information  onto the  backup disks.  I  went  back  to  the filing
cabinets and had another mooch around, not really knowing what I was looking
at, just trying to see if there was anything I recognized.
     Wup! The prompt came up, telling me the sniffer software needed another
instruction. It  had had to  work out  another password  and wanted  to know
whether to proceed.
     I hit they key.
     The machines whirred again. I looked at  Kelly. She was  sitting by the
photos but playing a game with an imaginary  companion. Just  like her  dad;
give her a job to do and she'd forget it.
     "Kelly,  I want you to come with me. If that machine asks me a question
again, I might not see it--will you look out for it?"
     "OK." It wasn't as exciting a job as she'd been hoping for.
     As she sat on the floor with her  back  against the wall, she looked up
at me and said, "I have to go to the bathroom."
     "Yeah, in  a  minute,  we'll be  finished soon."  It was exactly  as  I
remembered,  as a kid, sitting in  the car, adults not taking me  seriously:
"We'll be there soon. Nick, just around the corner."
     She'd be all right. I said, "I'll take you in a minute."
     Wup! I pressed the Fkey.
     Kelly said again, "I really, really have to go."
     I couldn't think of the right words  for a seven-year-old. In the end I
said, "Do you want to go big toilet or little toilet?"
     She looked  at me blankly.  What could I do? Using the rest  room  in a
place  like this is always a big no-no because of the compromise factor from
noise and visible remains. What you enter with must come out with you, which
was why I'd brought an orange  juice bottle to piss into and  Saran Wrap for
anything else.  I couldn't imagine getting Kelly to piss in the bottle while
I  held the film under her bum. That was one thing her dad could do that she
couldn't.
     She said, "I wanna go, I wanna go," and started crossing and uncrossing
her legs. Then she stood up and was bouncing up  and down on the balls other
feet.
     I said, "OK, we'll go. Come on, come with me."
     I didn't need this, but I had to do it.  I couldn't  have her  shitting
all over the carpet.
     I  took hold  of her hand. I  retrieved the  door stops from the  outer
office door, gently opened it, and checked the corridor.
     We  moved across the open office, through the glass door, and  into the
fire-escape  corridor. We  went into the rest room and  turned the light on.
Poor  girl, she  was  pulling down  her trousers  in  such a  hurry  she was
fumbling with her buttons. I helped her, but  even so, she nearly missed the
pot altogether in her rush.
     I was wasting time. I had to return to  the  machine, and  she might be
there for five minutes or more. Backing away, I said, "Don't move, and don't
flush the toilet afterward; I'll do all that for you. I just have to go back
one minute and  get the computer working. I'll be right back. Remember shhh,
be quiet!"
     At that particular moment she didn't really care where I went or what I
did. She was in her own heaven.
     Wup!  I  left her and quietly ran  toward the office. Once I'd got  the
disk copying again, I'd come  back to Kelly, fish the shit out with my hand,
and put  it in the Saran Wrap.  Then  I'd keep pushing the toilet brush down
the bowl to lower the level of  the water  by pushing it through  the U bend
and get some fresh water from  the drinking fountain to bring the level back
up again.
     I got back  to the office and pressed the Vkey. Then I went to the  bag
to fetch the Saran Wrap.
     And it was then that I heard her scream.
     Fuck!
     Instinctively, I pulled  out my  pistol and  stood against  the wall. I
checked chamber and took the safety catch off with my thumb.
     I could feel my  heart beating faster as the familiar sensation of cold
sweat broke out over my body. My body was getting ready for fight or flight.
The screaming  was from the  area of the  fire escape, my  only way  out. It
looked as  if  I would have  to fight. My heart was pumping so  hard it was
nearly in my mouth. I'd learned long  ago that fear is a  good thing. If you
aren't scared,  you're lying or you're mentally unstable. Everyone has fear,
but as  a professional you use training,  experience, and knowledge to block
out the emotion and help you overcome the problem.
     I was still  thinking it out when I heard a longer, more pitiful scream
of "Nick! Help me!" The sound went  through  me like a knife. Images flashed
through my  mind of her curled up in a fetal position in the  hidey-hole, of
brushing her hair and playing that stupid video-watching game.
     I was by the office door leading out into the corridor.
     I  heard  a man's voice  shout:  "I've got her!  I'll fucking kill her!
Think about it. Don't make me do it!"
     It was not  an  American voice.  Or Hispanic. Or anything else I  might
have expected. But I knew it right off: West Belfast.
     It sounded as if  they were now in the main office. He started to shout
more threats at me above Kelly's screams.  I couldn't  make out  every word,
and I didn't have to. I got the message.
     "OK, OK! I'm going to come into your view in a minute."
     My voice echoed in the semidarkness.
     "Fuck you! Throw your weapon into the corridor. Do it!"
     Then I could hear him shouting at Kelly, "Shut the fuck up!
     Shut up!"
     I came  out  of the  office  and  stopped  just  short of  the corridor
intersection. I slid my pistol out into the main corridor.
     "Put your hands on your head, walk  out  to the middle of the corridor.
If you do anything else, I'll fucking kill her--do you understand?"
     The voice was controlled; he didn't sound like a madman.
     "Yes, I'm coming out, my hands are on my head," I said.
     "Tell me when to move."
     "Now, you fucker!"
     Kelly's screams were deafening, even through the glass door. I started
to walk and, in four paces, came to the intersection.
     I knew that if I looked left I'd be able  to see them through the door,
but that  wasn't the  game  just  now.  I  didn't want eye-to-eye;  he might
overreact.
     "Stop where you are, you fucker!"
     I stopped. I could still  hear the whimpering.  I didn't say  a word or
turn my head.
     In the movies  you  always hear the good  guy give encouragement to the
hostage. In real life it doesn't work like that;
     you just shut up and do what you're told.
     He said, "Turn left."
     I could  now see them both in the shadows. Kelly  had her back to me as
he dragged her toward me with a weapon stuck in her shoulder area. He pushed
the  glass door  open  with his foot  and  came out into  the light  of  the
corridor.
     As I  saw him my heart dropped  from beating in quick  time  to  a slow
thud. I felt as if a ten-ton weight had just been dropped on my head. It was
Morgan McGear.
     He was dressed  very smartly in a dark-blue two-piece suit and a crisp,
clean white shirt; even his  shoes looked expensive. It was a  far cry  from
the Falls  Road  uniform  of  jeans,  bomber jacket, and  running  shoes.  I
couldn't see what sort of weapon  he was carrying;  it looked like some sort
of semiautomatic.
     He was watching me, checking me out. What was I doing here with a small
child? He knew he had control, knew there wasn't shit I  was going to do. He
now had his left hand wrapped around her hair--what a pity I hadn't cut more
off in the motel room--and he had  the weapon stuck  into her neck. This was
not a meaningless gesture; he was capable of killing her.
     She looked hysterical, poor kid; she was panicking big-time.
     He called out, "Walk toward me slowly. Walk now.
     C'mon, don't fuck with me, you shite."
     Every noise in the corridor  seemed to be amplified  ten  fold;  McGear
shouting with spit flying  out of his mouth,  Kelly screaming. It  seemed to
reverberate around the whole building. I did as he said. As I got  nearer I
looked  at her and  tried to get eye-to-eye; I wanted to comfort her, but it
didn't work.
     Her eyes were swollen with tears, her face was soaking wet and red. Her
jeans weren't even zipped up yet.
     He had me within about ten feet of him, and  now I looked into his eyes
and I could see that he knew he was  in a position  of power, but sweating a
bit. His  voice might have sounded confident, but his eyes gave it away.  If
his job was to kill us, now was his moment. With my eyes I said to him. Just
get it over and done with. There are times when after using plans  A, B, and
C you must accept you're in deep shit or shite, as this boy would say.
     He snapped, "Stop!" and the echo seemed to reinforce the threat.
     I looked at Kelly, still trying to get that eye-to-eye contact to  say:
Everything's all right, everything's OK, you  asked  me to help  you and I'm
here.
     McGear told me to turn around. Now I knew it was really time to sweat.
     He said, "On your knees, you fucker."
     Facing away from him, I went down so I was sitting back on my heels; if
I had the  chance  to  react,  at  least  from  here  I  had  some  sort  of
springboard.
     "Up!" he shouted.
     "Get up, get your ass up!" He knew what I was doing; this boy was good.
     "Kneel  upright. More, more. Stay  there, fuck you, think  you're  some
fucking hard guy.. " He moved behind  me,  dragging Kelly with him. I  could
still hear her cries,  but there  was another noise now. Some thing else was
moving; it wasn't just Kelly's moans. I didn't know what it was. I just knew
that  something unhealthy was going to happen.  All I could  do was close my
eyes, grit my teeth, and wait for it.
     He took a couple of labored steps toward me. I could hear Kelly getting
nearer, obviously still in tow.
     "Keep looking straight ahead," he said,  "or I will be hurting the  wee
one. Do  what I say or  " Either  he didn't finish his sentence or I  didn't
hear  it. The bang on the top of my shoulders and head sent me straight down
like a bag of shit.
     I  went into a  semiconscious  state. I  was  awake, but  I knew  I was
fucked,  like a boxer who goes down  and is  trying to get  up to show  the
referee that he's all right, but he's not, he's all over the place.
     I felt nailed to the floor; I looked up, but couldn't see what had done
the damage. It hadn't  been a pistol. It  takes  a decent weight to  knock a
person over. Whatever it was, it took me down but good.
     The strange thing about the next bit was that I knew what was happening
but couldn't do anything about it. I was aware ofMcGear pulling me over onto
my back and jumping astride me,  and I felt cold metal  being pushed into my
face and finally into my mouth.  Slowly, slowly, it dawned on me that it was
the pistol,  and the jumble of words he  was screaming be  came  clearer and
clearer: "Don't  fuck with me!  Don't  fuck with me! Don't fuck with me!" He
sounded out of control.
     I could smell  the nicker. He'd been drinking; there was alcohol on his
breath. He reeked of aftershave and cigarettes.
     He was sitting astride me with his knees on my shoulders and the pistol
stuck in  my mouth. He still had  his left hand around  Kelly's hair and had
pulled her onto the  floor; he was tugging her from side to  side like a rag
doll, either for the sheer  hell of it or perhaps just to keep her screaming
and make me more compliant.
     All I  could hear  was scream, scream, scream;  "Don't fuck  with me!";
scream, scream, scream; "Don't fuck with me!
     Don't  fuck with  me!  Think you're a fucking  hard guy, do you,  think
you're a fucking tough guy, huh?"
     Not  good. I knew what they  did  to "hard  guys."  McGear  once got an
informer into a room for questioning; his kneecaps were drilled with a Black
& Decker; he was burned by an electric fire and electrocuted in the bath. He
managed to jump out a window naked but broke his back. They then dragged him
into the elevator and shot him.
     I felt as if I were drunk. I was aware of what was happening but it was
taking too long for the message to reach my brain.
     Then the software started to kick in. I tried to see if the  hammer was
back on the  pistol, but all I could still see were bubbles of  red light in
front  of  my eyes, and star bursts of white. All I could make  out  was all
this screaming and ranting from him.
     "You bastard! I'm gonna fuck you up!
     Who are you?" and the screaming from Kelly. It was total confusion.
     I tried again to focus my eyes, and this time it worked I could see the
position of the hammer.  The hammer  was back. It was a 9mm. But what about
the safety catch? It was off.
     There was nothing I could do. He'd got his finger on the trigger; if  I
struggled, I was dead, whether he intended it or not.
     He said, "You think you're fucking hard? Do you? Do you?
     We'll soon  see who is the hard man." Then he jumped  his weight up and
down to crush my chest, forcing the pistol harder into my mouth.
     To add  to the confusion,  Kelly  was still  screaming with terror  and
pain. I didn't have a clue what was expected of me;
     all I knew was that I had a  pistol stuck  in my mouth and this guy was
in charge.
     He started to regain his composure. The pistol was  still  shoved  hard
into my mouth, but he was  beginning to ease himself to his  feet. He did it
by putting weight on the pistol  and  then against my  face;  as  the pistol
turned  in  my mouth, it twisted painfully  up  against my cheek  and teeth,
scraping them with  the sight. And all  the  time he kept  a grip on Kelly's
hair, pulling her around all over the place.
     He moved back, the pistol now aimed at my chest.
     "Get back up on your knees!"
     "All right, mate, OK. You got me, OK."
     As I moved  I saw  what had  taken me down. The fire  extinguisher  had
split open  the  skin  at  the back of my head. There was  blood oozing  out
everywhere and matting down my hair.
     There was nothing I could do; you just can't stop capillary bleeding.
     I got back on my knees, my ass  up in the air again so I wasn't resting
on the heels  of  my feet, and  I was looking at  him, trying to sort myself
out.  He started  to  walk  backward toward the  office, keeping the  weapon
pointed at me.
     "Come on, hard man, on your knees."
     I got the hint, he wanted me to follow him.
     By  now Kelly was a  mess.  There  was a small trail of my  blood being
wiped along  the  floor. Kelly must have been kneeling in it before  she was
moved. She  had her hands on  his wrist, trying to support herself. She kept
on tripping up, walking on her knees, trying to pick herself up,  as if  she
were getting dragged behind a  horse. All he  was  interested  in was moving
backward with the weapon pointing at me.
     He said, "Stay where the fuck you are!" and then shuffled backward past
the door to the large office.
     I  was trying to  compose myself;  I knew  I  didn't have long  to live
unless I took some action.
     "In there!"
     I started to shuffle in.
     "Walk!"
     I got up and walked into the  room, my back still toward  him. I walked
slowly toward the coffee  table. I was just about to move off to the side to
go around it when he said, "Stop!
     Turn around!"
     I did as I was told.  It was an  unusual command  because  normally you
want  the  person  you're holding facing away  from you  so they  don't know
what's going on. If you can't see, it's difficult to react.
     As I turned, I saw Kelly sitting on the leather  swivel  chair that now
had been dragged to the left of the desk. McGear was standing behind her. He
still  had his  left hand wrapped around her hair  and was pulling her  back
onto the seat and pointing the 9mm at me.
     The top half  of a semiautomatic,  the part of the weapon  on which the
fore and rear  sights  are mounted, is  called the top-slide. It  moves back
when you've fired  to eject the empty  case,  then picks up  a round on  its
return. If it's moved back by as little  as an eighth of an inch, the weapon
can't fire--so if you're quick enough, you can shove your hand hard onto the
front of the muzzle, push the top slide  back, and the trigger won't work as
long  as  you  can keep  it  there.  It's  got to  be  really  quick, really
aggressive, but I had nothing to lose.
     There was a lull--was he trying to make a decision about what to do? It
was less than twenty seconds, but it seemed like forever.
     Kelly kept crying  and whimpering; there must have been  friction burns
on her knees where she had been dragged earlier.
     With  his left hand McGear yanked her upright and said, "Shut  the fuck
up!" And just as he did that, we stopped  having eye-to-eye contact; I  knew
that it was time.
     I leaped forward, shouting at the top of my voice to disorient him, got
my right hand  and pushed it as  hard as I could against the muzzle, pushing
down on the top slide so I moved it back maybe half an inch.
     He shouted a loud, drawn-out "Fuck!" half in anger, half in pain.
     I got  hold of his wrist, pulled it toward me, and  pushed away with my
right hand against the top slide He tried, but  it was too late for  him; it
didn't fire. I needed to  grip my hand around the muzzle now to keep the top
slide back.
     As this was happening, I  was  pushing toward the wall-just push, push,
push;  he  still  had  hold of  Kelly, and  she was  being  dragged  around,
screaming  at the top of her  voice.  I shut her out of my mind,  keeping my
eyes on  the pistol, my body bent down, pushing and pushing. I felt the  air
leave  his body  as he  hit the wall. Kelly was getting in  the  way; I  was
stepping on her, he was stepping on her, and she was screaming out  in pain.
He must have decided  he needed two  hands to sort me out  because, the next
thing I knew, Kelly was running.
     I started to head-butt in  earnest. I was hitting  him with my head,  I
was hitting him  with my nose, with the side of my face. My nose was hurting
and bleeding as  much as  his  must have been, but  I just kept on  butting,
butting, and butting,
     trying to do as much damage to him as  possible, and, at the same time,
keeping him against the wall.
     He was screaming, "You fucker! You fucker! You fucker!
     You're dead!"
     And I was doing exactly the same back, screaming, "Fuck you! Fuck  you!
Fuck! Fuck!"
     I still had him  pushed right  against  the  wall. As I butted him, his
teeth cut into my face,  opening up my forehead and just  below my eye.  You
don't notice the  pain  when  the adrenaline is pumping. I  head-butted  him
again and again; it wasn't going to do him much lasting damage, but that was
all I could do at the moment. My hands were on the weapon and I was shouting
all sorts of  shit at the top of  my voice to scare him  and, even  more, to
keep me psyched.
     As his  head  came  down, I bit the first thing that came into range. I
felt  my  teeth  on the  taut skin  of  his  cheek. There  was that  initial
resistance, and then my teeth broke into what felt like warm squid and I was
ripping  his  face  open.  He  screamed  out even louder,  but I was focused
totally  on what  I was  doing; all other thoughts went out the window and I
bit, gouged, did whatever damage I could.
     My teeth sank in and in. He squealed  like a pig. I had  a mouthful  of
his cheek and was ripping and tearing. I saw terror in his eyes.
     By now there was blood  all over  the two of us; I could taste the iron
tang of it, and my whole face was drenched from the cuts on my face and his,
all getting mixed in with our sweat.
     Trying  to clear my mouth, I choked some of  it up into the back  of my
nose.
     All the time, I was twisting the weapon away from me and trying to keep
the top  slide back. He  was still pretty  switched on and was squeezing the
trigger,  but nothing was happening--for now. His other hand was pulling  at
my fingers, trying to  pry them  off the weapon. As  long  as I kept my hand
gripped  around that top  slide I'd  be all  right.  I  kept on pushing  and
pushing, keeping him up against  something firm so I could lean against him,
because all I wanted to do was move that pistol around.
     I was still biting and gnawing. I'd gone through the first  part of his
cheek and  kept on  going. By now I was biting the  top of his eyelid, I was
biting his nose, everywhere I was ripping through  the skin onto the bone of
his jaw and skull.
     I was running out of breath because  the adrenaline  was draining away,
and pushing him against the wall had taken a lot of physical strength out of
me. Then I started to choke,  and I realized I had some of his  skin at  the
back of my throat.
     I  could hear air being  sucked into the hole in  his cheek  as he  was
breathing; I could hear  my own throat rattling,  blocked  by chunks  of his
skin.
     I  was fighting him by  feel, not sight. Our blood was burning  into my
eyes. Everything was  blurred. I  didn't know  where Kelly was  and  at this
stage I didn't care. I couldn't help her until I'd helped myself.
     I was still trying to get the pistol into  him somewhere. I didn't give
a  fuck where it went it could go  into his leg, into his stomach, I  didn't
give a fuck, as long as I could start shooting him.
     His screams increased as my finger wrapped around his on the trigger.
     I turned it around, let go of the top slide and squeezed.
     The first two shots  missed, but I kept  on shooting. I moved it around
again and got him in the hip and then the thigh. He went down.
     Everything stopped. The lack of noise was absolu