Crisis Four

As we moved toward the barriers, I checked the signs and pointed her to her platform.

"See you at two." The peak of her cap nodded and headed down the escalators.

The rules of the Washington Metro are simple: the answer to everything is No. No smoking, no eating, no Walkmans, litter or pets. If you're good boys and girls you can read the newspaper. The station was as stark and clean as the set of asci-fi film, with its streamlined, dark-gray concrete and moody lighting.

The lights set into the platform flooring started to flash, warning that a train was about to arrive. Moments later, a string of sleek silver carriages whispered alongside and the doors opened silently.

I was heading north on the Blue Line. It would take me past the Pentagon, which has its own Metro station, and the Arlington National Cemetery, then eastward under the Potomac to Foggy Bottom, the nearest stop for Georgetown and the M and 23rd Street junction. I came out of the Metro and onto the busy street feeling cleaner than when I'd gone in.

Checking the map on the wall at the station entrance, I saw that I had just over a ten-minute walk to the RV As I headed north, I noticed the improvement in the weather. Only 50 percent cloud cover and no rain. Compared with the downpours of the last couple of days, it was heaven.

Bread and Chocolate on 23rd was teeming with office workers enjoying a lunchtime sandwich and coffee. I had just crossed M, and was on the opposite side of the road, walking toward Sarah's apartment. Metal Mickey seemed a bit of an airhead and I didn't want to get fucked over and lifted while tucking into a sticky bun and cappuccino. I didn't expect the RV to go wrong, but these things have to be done right; complacency is a tried and-tested shortcut to a disability pension, or worse. Anyone could have been listening to his calls, or he might simply have got cold feet and decided to seek advice. They would then use him to get to me, the K who should have been in North Carolina dealing with Sarah.

I bumbled on, not looking directly through the window, but checking things out all the same. If a trigger was on the shop and a weirdo walked past staring at the place, it would be a good bet that he was the target.

Things were looking fine; I couldn't see anyone sitting in cars or hanging about, but that wasn't necessarily significant. Whether or not I was getting set up by Metal Mickey, they could just as easily have put a trigger on him. And if he'd said anything to the Firm, I'd know as soon as I met him;

I didn't have him down as the sort of man who could tell lies with his body language.

I walked past the 7-Eleven-type store on my right and noticed it had a small coffee and Danish area, busily taking its share of the office workers' dollars. There wasn't much going on in there, either, just people filling their faces and catching up on gossip.

I got to the junction and turned left on N. Walking about another thirty meters, I was more or less level with the entrance to Sarah's block. The water system was working overtime again on the flower garden. If I'd been triggered as I did my walk-past they would now be behind me, thinking that I was heading for the apartment.

Two attractive black women were approaching from the opposite direction, coffee and pretzels in their hands. I would have no more than three seconds in which to check. They passed, laughing and talking loudly.

Now was the time. I turned to give them an admiring glance in that way that men think they do so unobtrusively. The two women gave me a You-should-be-so-lucky-white-boy look and got back to their laughing.

There were three candidates beyond them. A middle-aged couple dressed for the office turned the corner, coming from the same direction as me, but they looked more preoccupied in staring into each other's eyes for as long as possible before it was time to go home to their wife or husband.

Then again, good operators would always make it look that way. The other possible was coming from straight ahead, on N Street, on the same side as Sarah's apartment. He was wearing blue jeans and a short-sleeved, dark-green shirt with the tail hanging out, the way I would if I wanted to cover my weapon and radio.

I faced back the way I was walking. You can only do so much checking.

If these were operators, the couple would now be overtly cooing to each other; but instead of sweet nothings they'd be reporting on what I was getting up to, on a radio net, telling control and the other operators where I was, what I was wearing, the color of my bag and which shoulder it was being carried on. And if they were good, they would also report that I could be aware, because of the look back.

I carried on the last twenty meters to the end of the block and turned left. I was now on 24th Street and paralleling 23rd. This was the second corner I had turned; if there was a technical device or trigger on our RV there could be people stood off around the other side of the block, waiting for the word to move. Nothing seemed to look that way, just lots of traffic and people lining up to buy lunch at the pretzel stalls.

The couple were still with me. Maybe they wanted pretzels, or maybe they'd told Green Shirt that they could take the target around the corner, toward M Street. Stopping at the last of the three stalls, I bought a Coke and watched the area I'd just come from. The lovers were now at the middle stall, doing the same. I moved off, got to M and turned left, back toward 23rd and the RV Three corners had now been turned in a circular route; an unnatural thing to do. I moved into an office doorway and opened my Coke. If the lovers came past, I would bin the RV, but then again, any good operator wouldn't turn the third corner. I hated clearing an area, especially if it was me going into the RV It was so hard to be sure.

Nothing happened during the five minutes it took me to finish the can, so now seemed the ideal time to get my weapon out of the bag; apart from anything else, fishing around like a tourist looking for a map gave me an excuse to be standing there now that I'd finished drinking. I sneaked together the Chinese thing and its mag, which I'd split for the flight, and tucked it into my jeans, ensuring that the jacket covered it and the catch was off, so it could be used in the semiauto mode. Moving off again, I eventually turned back onto 23rd and into the 7Eleven.

I bought a Danish, a newspaper and the biggest available cup of coffee, and sat at a table that gave me a good trigger on the RV There were twenty-five minutes to go.

I watched as people walked past from both directions, on both sides of the street. Were they doing walk-pasts to see if we were in there? This wasn't paranoia, it was attention to detail; it doesn't work like it does in the movies, with fat policemen sitting in their car right outside the target, engine running, moaning about their wives and eating doughnuts.

No one went in and came straight out again; no one walked around muttering into their collar. All of which meant either they weren't there, or they were very good indeed.

Cars, trucks and taxis trundled past from right to left on the one-way system. As the traffic stopped for a red at the junction with M, I pinged Metal Mickey sitting in the back of a cab, well down in his seat with his head resting on the back. I couldn't see his eyes, but I hoped that he was also taking the trouble to clear his route. Maybe he wasn't as much of a numb nut as I'd thought. The traffic moved on and he went with it.

If there was one thing I hated more than clearing an area before a meet, it was the meet itself. It's at simple events like this that people get killed, in the way that a traffic cop stopping a car for jumping a red light might land up getting shot by the driver.

I sat, watched and waited. It wouldn't look abnormal to the staffer anyone else for me to be spending that amount of time there. The place was packed and the size of the coffee signaled that I wasn't a man in a hurry. I checked around me again, just to be sure that I wasn't sitting next to a trigger.

It had happened to me once, outside Deny; it was late at night, and I was waiting in a car waiting to lift a player, only to discover, as a JCB tried to crush the car and me with its bucket, that I was parked in front of his brother's house. Maybe they'd always done that with any dickhead they spotted picking his nose outside.

Mickey appeared right on time, but not from the direction I was expecting him to. He came from the right, the same direction from which he'd approached in the cab. He was dressed in the same loud suit and neon shirt as before. Perhaps he thought I'd have problems IDing him. He was carrying a laptop bag, with the strap over his right shoulder. Was what he wanted me to see on hard disk, and the dickhead had actually brought it with him? Maybe he wasn't so switched on.

I knew from our last meet that he was right-handed, and noted that his jacket was done up; chances were, he wasn't carrying. Not that it meant that much at this stage, but these things needed to be thought about in case things went tits up.

Having cleared his route, he showed no hesitation about going into the cafe. Good man. He did understand about sponsoring the meet. He knew I'd be watching him, and covering his ass as well as mine.

I watched for another five minutes past the RV time; if I didn't walk over to meet him he would wait another twenty-five minutes before leaving, then try again tomorrow at the same time. Nothing that I could see told me the RV was compromised. I got off my stool and binned the rest of the coffee and Danish, checking that my weapon wasn't about to clatter onto the floor. I hated not having an internal holster; I'd already lost my weapon twice because of it. I walked outside and checked once more as I crossed the road. Nothing. Fuck it, there's only so much checking you can do.

As I pulled the door toward me I saw his back in line at the counter. The place was still packed. I walked past him and did my surprised, "Hi! What are you doing here?" He turned and smiled that happy I-haven'tseen-you for-a-while look, and we shook hands.

"Great to see you, it's been ... ages." He beamed.

"Join me for a coffee and something sinful?"

I took a look around. All the seats were taken.

"Tell you what," I said, "the place across the street isn't so full, let's go there." His smile got even bigger as he agreed. When we got out onto the street he slapped me on the shoulder.

"I'm sooo glad you said that. It's like that every lunchtime, you know. I don't know why I bother going there."

To my surprise, he didn't make as if to cross the street, starting instead to walk toward N. I fell into step beside him and shot him a quizzical look.

Mickey put his arm around my shoulder and said, "We'll go to Sarah's, it's a bit more private." He patted his computer bag.

"I've even brought some milk to go with the Earl Gray. Do you know, there's a little shop in Georgetown that gets it straight from Sir Thomas Lipton himself!" He was very pleased with himself; maybe he was hoping I'd take special note of his initiative when I filed my report. Fuck the milk; I wanted to see what was next to it.

As we walked along 23rd, I carried on playing the part of best mate in nice-to-see-you mode. I couldn't decide whether he was really good, or away with the fairies. Either way, I was glad I could run faster than him and had a weapon.

"I'll leave the clearing to you now," he said.

"You're probably much better at it than I am."

I laughed and nodded in response, so that anyone watching would assume he'd just made a joke.

"By the way," he grinned, "the man sitting on the corner? He's always around here; he works in the apartments. I know you'll be keeping an eye on him."

I looked around and saw Green Shirt, sitting on the wall to the right of Sarah's apartment, smoking.

"Just in case you started to worry. You may have seen him on your area clearing

I certainly did on my drive-past; in fact I always look out for him. It makes me feel better to know he's there." He gave me a cherubic smile.

We reached the entrance and the water system was still drowning the flowers. Wayne was behind the desk, leaning back in his chair and reading a newspaper. It was like watching an action replay; they both had the same clothes on and even the dialogue was the same: "Hello, Wayne, how are you today?"

Wayne put down his paper and grinned like an idiot. He was obviously having a really good day again.

"I'm very good. And how are you today?"

"I'm just Jim Dandy." The corners of Mickey's mouth were almost touching his ears. As we walked toward him, Wayne turned his fall attention to me. I really felt as if I was being welcomed to the asylum.

"How are you today? Do you still need that car space? If you want it, you got it!"

I said, "I'll certainly bear it in mind. Thanks."

He put his hand up.

"Hey, no problem."

We reached the desk and Metal Mickey switched his camp game-show host's voice into overdrive: "Wayne, I bet if you looked in the delivery drawer you'd find a large UPS envelope addressed to Sarah."

Wayne had a look, rummaged around for a moment and handed it over.

"Why, thank you, Wayne, I hope you continue to have a very nice day!"

We said our good-byes and walked to the elevator. He saw me looking at the envelope; as the elevator doors closed he raised an eyebrow.

"Why, Mr. Snell, you didn't expect me to carry the material around with me, did you?"

Sarah's apartment was just as I'd left it. There was even the faint aroma of burned food hanging in the air. Metal Mickey wrinkled his nose.

"Cooking--the other night," I explained, closing the door behind us.

"Ooh, that's what it is." He walked toward the kitchen.

"I'd ask for the recipe, but..." He twitched his nose again.

"Can I get you some tea?" He threw the envelope onto the settee and unzipped his bag.

I walked over and sat down beside it, checking my watch. The envelope looked quite thick, but I had plenty of time before my RV with Sarah.

I heard the kettle being filled as I ripped open the UPS plastic outer. Inside was a brown envelope, sealed with Sellotape.

Metal Mickey came back into the room.

"They're printouts, and they are now your responsibility." He couldn't help looking rather pleased with himself.

"How did you get all this?" I asked.

He gave an impish smile and his eyes twinkled.

"Ask no questions, you'll be told no lies; that's what my dear mother always used to say." He came over and sat down next to me.

"However, I have a friend," his fingers mimed quote marks "who has access to Intelink." He clasped his hands together between his legs and did a pretty good impression of a Cheshire cat. It was the most pleased I'd seen him, and he had every reason to be.

Intelink was switched on in 1994. The need for real-time intelligence had never been so acute, as the Gulf War demonstrated when General Schwarzkopf very loudly complained that the spooks had failed to produce satellite imagery fast enough. The network was soon being used as a central pool by all thirty-seven members of the United States Intelligence Community, from the CIA to FINCEN (Financial Crimes Enforcement Network), plus other groups connected with national security and the military. I knew that at least 50,000 people had passwords, with varying levels of access.

We both heard the kettle boil and click off. Mickey jumped up.

"Tea!

Milk, sugar?"

"Strong. Shaken, not stirred."

I heard him giggle as I pulled out the wad of paper, filed in three clear-plastic sleeves. It was definitely stuff off Intelink. On the top file I could see the META tagging: <"IL. CIA Executive Order 12958: Classified National Security Information^ META (Megadata) is a system for pulling down the documents needed from hundreds of thousands on call.

The information available is nearly half a million electronic pages; just over 80 percent of all the National Security Agency's output can be accessed in two hours.

The rest of the title went on to give its level of security. This document was tagged Intelink-P--in other words, managed purely by the CIA and top secret, available only to policymakers.

Mickey came back with the tea. I had just finished skimming through the rest of the tags. This was looking good. There was another IntelinkP and an Intelink-TS--classified secret, about a third of the intelligence community have access at this level. I was quite looking forward to having a read. I looked at Mickey as he held a sugar lump on a spoon for me.

I shook my head.

"How on earth did your friend get this stuff?"

He sat down and proceeded to put four lumps in his cup.

"Well, the objective is the eventual flow down, or up, of information as various security classifications impose themselves. Right now, standard COTS tools are used, but they're not specially augmented with multilevel security.

These tools don't provide the right hooks, so for now different levels of security are provided by different physical levels of security, so there's an issue regarding upgrading and downgrading information between security levels."

I gave up listening to him halfway though his waffle.

"What the fuck are you on about?"

His spoon fought a battle with the amount of sugar in his cup.

"If they say something is an 'issue," it means they haven't got that sorted out yet.

Now and again you can confuse the system. Especially when it's new and is taking a while to sort itself out."

He went back into Cheshire-cat mode and took a sip of what must have been very sweet tea. I was waiting for his teeth to drop out as he spoke.

"The only one that can't be got into at the moment is a new, fourth level. It hasn't even got a name that I know of. Maybe it's only for the president and a few of his best buddies, who knows?"

I didn't touch my cup, just kept flicking through the pages, looking for things I understood. I heard him slurp another mouthful of tea, and then a loud swallow.

"There will be a lot in there that is of no use to you whatsoever.

He just pulled down any document containing information that might be relevant. He's such a nice boy. Drink your tea, Nick, it'll get cold."

I nodded and didn't say a word. He got the hint; I heard the cup go down on its saucer. Mickey stood up and went back into the kitchen, then returned with his laptop bag.

"Nick, I hope you find it interesting reading.

I've left the milk and tea for you."

I looked up at him.

"Thanks, mate."

"Of course, you'll destroy all the files before you leave?"

"No problem."

He got to the door and turned, dangling the apartment keys between his thumb and index finger.

"By the way, send my love to Sarah. Tell her, if she needs these, I'll be leaving them with Wayne."

I looked at him, trying to look confused.

"Er, what?"

His eyes twinkled.

"Oh, you are so transparent, Nick! PV? Pants, that's what it is, a load of frilly old pants. I'm not that mad, you know. I bet they told you I was, didn't they? Well, let's just let them think it. Pension, that's what it's all about, my absolutely gorgeous disability pension." Still highly amused with the whole thing, he turned to leave.

I said, "Michael, thank your friend for all his help."

He looked back with a smile that suggested it had already been taken care of.

"Been there, done that. Now remember, say a special hello to Sarah for me. Byeee." The door closed behind him. I got off the settee and turned the lock. If anybody decided to hit the place, it should at least give me enough time to get the papers down the toilet.

I checked out Baby-G. An hour to go before the RV with Sarah. I pulled out the papers that were tagged Intelink-P: Executive Order 12958.

I turned the pages, but they meant nothing to me, just lots of directions on security of documents. Maybe Mickey's friend had a sense of humor.

Next was Executive Order 12863 on the PFIAB (President's Foreign Intelligence Advisory Board) and Executive Order 12968: Access to Classified Information. I thumbed through acres of stuff that was full of abbreviations and acronyms. I understood ziff.

Then I saw the reason I had been given it. One of the subparagraphs was entitled, "Yousef." I felt a jolt of adrenaline.

I read slowly, making sure I understood every word.

Since 1995, several senior officials in Clinton's administration had been under surveillance by the FBI. At first they suspected that one of them was spying for the Saudi government, but more recently that information was being leaked to Bin Laden. According to this report, the hunt for Yousef had narrowed to include a senior official on the National Security Council, the 1,200-strong body that advises the president on intelligence and defense-related matters. Its office is in the White House.

I picked up my lukewarm tea. It tasted shit; I'd have to make a new brew. I went to the kitchen with the files. There was plenty of jargon and junk, but it was clear that the hunt for Yousef had begun after the interception of a message between Washington and Bin Laden's farm in the Sudan that hinted about an agent who might be able to get a copy of a secret letter signed by Warren Christopher, then secretary of state, that spelled out American commitments to the Palestinians in the Middle East peace process.

The handler in the Sudan had replied, "That is not what we use Yousef for."

The report carried on to say that they believed there was little chance of discovering Yousef's identity after the intercept, because he would have been one of the first to learn about it on Intelink. All communication between him and his handlers would have ceased. I had a quiet laugh to myself.

Maybe that was what the fourth level of Intelink was all about: trying to keep people like him out of the loop.

There were references to other documents relating to Yousef, but Mickey's friend hadn't included them. I placed the cup on the floor and picked up the other Intelink-P file. Its tag told me it was a CIA document, entitled simply, "Counter-terrorism Center." It wasn't the whole document, just the introduction, but even that ran to fifteen pages. I definitely needed more tea.

When the Clinton administration endorsed the idea of specialized units to infiltrate terrorist operations and disrupt them, the CIA established the Counterterrorism Center as a central clearing house for intelligence. Its aim was to "give the president more options for action against foreign terrorists to further preempt, disrupt and defeat international terrorism."

These options included covert operations designed to prevent terrorism, or to take revenge for successful attacks on Americans. New cadres of undercover CIA officers were sent overseas, and the use of CIA teams was expanded to assess and predict threats against United States military personnel deployed abroad.

Part of this strategy was a new level of cooperation between the intelligence agency and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, its traditional rival.

Senior FBI agents stationed overseas held long and successful meetings with CIA station chiefs the first at the United States Embassy in Rome, the second at the embassy in London to work out ways to cooperate against terrorists and other international criminals.

The kettle boiled and cut out. I left it for a while; this was getting interesting.

I knew that such a meeting would have been unthinkable as recently as two years ago, when the two agencies were at each other's throats over their conduct in the investigation and arrest of Aldrich Ames, a spy for Moscow inside the CIA.

I put the file down, threw a tea bag into a cup and poured. The next page dealt with Sarah's group. The unit had scored several successes. British police raided the London home of an Algerian named Rachid Ramda and found links with the Armed Islamic Group, an Algerian organization suspected of seven bombings in France that killed seven and wounded 180 in 1997. The police also discovered records of money transfers, and traced them to Bin Laden's headquarters in the Sudan.

In Egypt, security officials uncovered a conspiracy by the extremist group Islamic Jihad to assassinate President Hosni Mubarak. It seemed that Sarah's group was investigating evidence that Bin Laden helped fund the plot. They also had evidence that Bin Laden was the major backer of a camp in Afghanistan called Kunar, which provided training for recruits of Islamic Jihad and the Islamic Group, both Egyptian terrorist organizations.

This was in addition to the three terrorist training camps in northern Sudan, which Bin Laden helped to fund, and where extremists from Egypt, Algeria and Tunisia received instruction.

I threw the tea bag into the sink, added milk and wandered back to the settee to read some more. Sarah's explanation of events was becoming more convincing as the minutes passed. I sat back down. To track Bin Laden's activities, the National Security Agency's eavesdropping satellites were used to listen in on telephone and e-mail conversations throughout the world. CIA analysts were able to determine that in January he had held a meeting with leading members of his network to prepare for a new wave of terrorism. Soon afterward he publicly announced his intentions when he issued a fat wa calling on Muslims to kill Americans.

I had a drink and held the cup on my chest, slumped on the sofa.

American officials are barred by executive order from planning an assassination.

But after the fat wa was issued. Bin Laden was named in a secret presidential covert action order on terrorism, signed by Bill Clinton, that authorized intelligence agencies to plan and carry out covert operations that might lead to death. Such a measure was necessary, the report concluded, for two reasons:

"I. We believe that Bin Laden is planning new terrorist acts against American interests.

"2. We believe that the question is not whether Bin Laden will strike again, but when."

I bent my neck forward and drained the cup. I checked my watch; thirty minutes to go to the RV I went back into the kitchen and turned on the electric hob, then placed my cup and the two files I'd read on the work top

It was time for file number three. This one came from an acronym, DOS FAN which I didn't recognize. The document discussed the investigation and arrest of several of Bin Laden's operators worldwide.

The hot plate was red. I saw a smoke alarm on the ceiling, and stood on the sink unit to pull out the batteries. Then I touched one of the papers I'd read to the plate. Once it was in flames I placed it in the sink, put a few more on top and carried on reading.

The first few pages detailed those responsible for the World Trade Center bombing: Mohammed Salameh, a Palestinian, and his roommate in a Jersey City apartment, Ramzi Ahmed, an Iraqi who'd fought in Afghanistan and arrived at Kennedy International Airport on a flight from Pakistan in September 1992. After the bombing, he spent most of the next three years until his eventual arrest at a guest house called the House of Martyrs in Peshawar, Pakistan, which was owned by Bin Laden.

On that same flight in 1992 had been Ahmad Ajaj, a Palestinian fresh from Afghanistan, whose suitcase was full of bomb-making manuals. Ajaj was convicted in the Trade Center bombing, as was Mahmud Abouhalima, who raised money for the rebels. Arrested in Egypt, he told his captors that the bombing was planned in Afghanistan by veterans of the jihad.

Meeting at a New York mosque, Ramzi Ahmed recruited Mohammed Salameh, Nidal Ayyad and Mahmoud Abouhalima. They helped him buy and mix explosive chemicals in cheap apartments and a rented storage space in Jersey City. Abdul RahmanYasin, an Iraqi, was also recruited.

From time to time, I fed the fire in the sink. Halfway down the third page I found out what DOS FAN stood for: Department of State Foreign Affairs Network, Mid East policy group.

The report went on to detail individuals from one particular cell that was under scrutiny, and their names tallied with those Sarah had given me. I finished the last four pages and burned them, too. I felt as if I'd been speed-reading Tolstoy's War and Peace.

I turned the tap on and pressed the button for the waste-disposal unit.

There was the wailing of metal as it took the black ash. I got a grip on myself and decided it didn't change a thing. All I cared about was Josh's kids.

Another thing Sarah had been right about: there was no one to turn to.

Josh couldn't be trusted not to approach one of his superiors. Even if his kids didn't go to the ceremony, the others would still be at risk, and he'd want to do something about it.

I watched the last bit of ash swirl down the hole, and turned off the tap and waste disposal. Only five minutes left to the RV I was going to be late, but it wasn't as if she had anywhere else to go.

Fuck it, I'd have to get her into the White House without Josh knowing what we were up to. I didn't know quite how I was going to do it. Once again, I felt more bonehead than Bond.

I walked into the bookshop after clearing the area. The coffee shop was to the rear, and I spotted Sarah at one of the tables, nursing a tall latte. She was dressed much smarter than when I'd last seen her. The baseball cap was gone, and in its place was a gray trouser suit and designer loafers that must have sent her credit card into meltdown. Her facial appearance had been totally changed by a pair of black, rectangular, thick-rimmed glasses.

As I approached she smiled and gave me the hello-sonicetosee-you RV-drill look. I looked surprised and delighted--not that I had to fake it-and she stood up for the lovey-lovey kiss on the cheeks.

"How are you?

It's so good to see you." She voiced her pleasure for the benefit of the people around us.

We sat down and I put my nylon bag beside her new leather one and matching briefcase. She noticed my raised eyebrow and said, "Well, I should be looking the part. I am a lawyer, remember?" I smiled, and she gazed at me for several seconds before taking a studied sip of her coffee.

Then she gave me the smallest of smiles.

"Well?"

What could I do but nod.

"Yep, let's get on with it. But we do it the way I need it to be done,

OK?"

She nodded back, her smile slowly widening into a victory grin.

"I was right, wasn't I?"

We left the bookshop and walked along the main street. I told her everything, from what Lynn and Elizabeth had said to the attack on the house. I just left the T104 out of the story, and kept the return to the U.K.

in its place. She never asked. I also told her about Kelly, the events that made me her guardian and where Josh stood in all of this. It would undoubtedly come into any conversation once we met up.

"We met when we did, OK? The dates and everything will work. You used to work for us as a secretary." She nodded. I said, "We didn't see each other because it was all too complicated. Then we met up again. How long ago was the Syria job?"

"Late 'ninety-five about three and a half years ago."

"OK, we met again four weeks ago, in London, in a pub in Cambridge Street, and we sort of got back together, saw each other, nothing big time.

And this is our first trip together. We've come here because you've never been before and I like Washington, so we thought, Fuck it, let's do it."

She cut in, "But I told the kid I'm a lawyer and I'm working."

I didn't like her calling Kelly that, but she was right about the story.

"OK, you're in the States to meet a client, in New York, and I wanted to show you D.C. The rest you can busk."

"Fine. There's only one problem, Nick."

"What's that?"

"What's your name? Who are you?"

"I'm Nick Stone."

She laughed.

"You mean that's your real name?"

"Yeah, of course."

And then it dawned on me, after all the years that we'd known each other, I didn't know her name, either. I'd only ever known her as Greenwood.

"I've shown you mine, you show me yours."

She was suddenly a bit sheepish.

"Sarah JarvisCockley."

It was my turn to laugh. I'd never known anyone with such a fucked-up name.

"Jarvis-Cockley?" It was pure Monty Python.

"It's a Yorkshire name," she said.

"My father was born in York."

Stopping at a call booth, I tried Josh's number. It would be pointless traveling there if he hadn't got home yet. He was in, and sounded excited about seeing us both.

We got a cab, crossed back over the river and followed the Jefferson Davis Highway southwest, away from D.C." toward the Pentagon. We didn't talk.

There was nothing left to talk about; she'd told me what the two players looked like while we waited for a cab. It was hardly worth the wait. Neither appeared to have any special features that were likely to make them stick out. From the sound of things, we'd be looking for Bill Gates and Al Gore, only with darker skin.

We were both too tired to say any more. It was easier for us to leave each other with our own thoughts, and mine centered on how the fuck I was going to do this. She put her arm in mine and squeezed my hand. She knew what I was thinking. I had a feeling she usually did, and somehow that felt good.

We approached Arlington National Cemetery: I could see aircraft emerging above the trees on the opposite side of the road, as they took off from the National Airport by the river. At least the sun was trying to come out, even if it was in patches through the cloud.

I gazed at the row upon row of white tombstones standing in immaculate lines on the impossibly green grass to our right. Heroism in the face of idiocy was an everyday job for me, but it was difficult not to be affected by the sheer scale of death in this place.

I knew the Pentagon was just around the corner as the highway gently turned right. The traffic wasn't that bad now; it would be much worse in a few hours, as the staff of the world's biggest office complex headed home.

The car parks each side of us were the size of Disneyland

The Pentagon came into view. It looked just like the Fayetteville mall, except that the stone was a more depressing color. We lost sight of it momentarily as we went under a road bridge. One of the supports still bore a crudely painted white swastika. Josh had seen it as a sign of democracy.

"The day they clean it off," he once said to me, "is the day no one can speak out." I just saw it as the halfway marker between his house and

D.C.

"About another twenty minutes," I said. Sarah nodded and kept on staring at the massive stone building. A Chinook helicopter was lifting from the rear of it, the tailgate just closing. I always liked it once the gate closed; it kept the cold out.

I'd been to Josh's house many times before while we sorted out Kelly's future. They lived in a suburb called New Alexandria, which was south of Alexandria proper and quite a way southwest of D.C." but people who lived there called it Belle View, after the district next door. That way it didn't sound as if they wanted to live in Alexandria but had been forced to buy a little farther away. The nearer your house was to D.C." the bigger your bank balance had to be.

Josh's house was on the Belle View road, overlooking the golf course.

As we turned onto it I gave the taxi driver directions.

"Halfway down, mate, on the right."

Sarah moved closer to me and leaned to whisper in my ear.

"Thank you for believing me, Nick. I'm glad you're here."

I knew how lonely she felt. I put my fingers between hers.

The golf course was to the left, and facing it were rows of three-story, brick-built homes that in the U.K. would be called town houses. The whole area was green and leafy, and probably a wonderful place for kids to grow up in. I half expected snowflakes to start falling and James Stewart to appear around the corner.

"Just behind that black pickup." The Asian driver grunted and pulled in. Parked on the drive outside Josh's was a double-cab bed Dodge truck with large chrome bumpers and kids' mountain bikes stashed on a rack at the back. A big For Sale sign was hanging outside the house.

A middle-aged Mexican woman in a cream raincoat emerged from the front door, which was about ten very worn stone steps above pavement level. She looked at us and smiled, then just carried on past. I looked at Sarah.

"That must be my new friend."

Josh appeared at the door, all smiles, his head and glasses shining as brightly as his teeth. He was wearing a gray sweatshirt tucked into belted gray cargo fatigue trousers and a pair of walking boots. As he came down toward us he was still grinning away, but concentrating more on getting a good view of Sarah through the sun bouncing off the taxi windows.

He opened the door for me, and I stepped out after paying off the driver, who took my money with another grunt. We shook hands and he reminded me that he had the strongest grip of anyone I knew. He said, "Great to see you, man. I didn't think we'd link up again so soon." He lowered his voice.

"How did the job go?"

"Not too bad, mate. It took a day, that was all." It was good to see him.

He released my hand and I pumped it, trying to get some blood back.

Sarah came around the front of the taxi, between the two vehicles. I held my hand out toward her.

"Josh, meet Sarah."

"Hi, Sarah." He shook her hand and I saw her reaction to his grip.

"Nice to meet you, Josh. Nick has told me a lot about you." She must have been reading too many books; whoever says that in real life? Josh just gave her his biggest smile.

"I don't know what he's said, but when we get inside I'll tell you the truth." He ushered us up the steps and through his front door.

The first thing Sarah asked for was the bathroom. Josh pointed up the stairs, "First on the left." As an afterthought he called after her, "We're going into the living room, so you make as much noise as you want." That was something I'd forgotten to warn her about; Josh didn't change his sense of humor for anybody. I wondered if that was one of the reasons his wife had eloped with a tree-hugging yoga teacher.

The holiday cases were still in the hallway.

"Where are the kids?" I asked as we walked past them.

"Jet lag is not an option with kids. It's rehearsal time in D.C." man. The big day is tomorrow."

I wasn't going to pursue the subject. It made me feel too much of a lowlife, and besides, it was too early to hit him with the real reason I was here.

"Of course. I hope they have a good time."

The house hadn't changed at all. The flowery three-piece suite and thick green shag-pile carpet were still in place. The pictures were the same, and you couldn't move for them: Josh as a soldier, Josh becoming a member of Special Forces, Josh and the kids, Josh and Geri, the kids, all that sort of stuff, plus all those horrible school photographs, rows of gappy-toothed kids in uniform, with that really stupid grin that they only do when there's a camera pointing at them.

He closed the door and said, "So, my friend, how does it all square with Sarah? What does she know?"

I stepped closer to him.

"All she knows is that Kelly's family were killed and I'm now her guardian. She knows what Kev did, and how I knew him. You're the other executor of the will. That's how we became friends. She thinks I work for a private security firm. We haven't got down to details yet."

He nodded. That was more or less all he knew about me anyway.

"Cool.

Now a couple of details to get out of the way, mate. Do I get Maria to make up one bed or two?" It had always sounded really funny to me when Americans said "mate," because of the accent; the word sounds like it should only come out of Antipodeans or Brits, but Josh had got into the Brit way of speaking with me. Either that, or he'd been taking the piss all this time.

It was a good question, and I had to make the answer sound convincing.

I smiled.

"One, of course."

"All rightttt!" A big, conspiratorial grin lit up his face. We both sat down, him on a chair, me on the settee.

"Next important question, how is Kelly? She get to her grandparents

OK?"

"She's fine. Yes, everything went OK. I spoke to her today; she's missing you and the crew. I think you'll be getting a thank-you card from her soon."

The small talk was already killing me. Normally I would chat happily about that sort of shit; it was what our relationship was all about. But at the moment all I could think about was the fact that I was about to fuck him over big time even though I knew it was the right thing.

The door opened and Sarah came in. Josh stood up.

"Anyone for a brew?"

I laughed. To Americans, a brew means a beer; I'd once been with Josh and had said, "Do you fancy a brew?" He'd looked at me as if I should be certified. One, we were driving; two, we were looking after kids, and three, it was nine o'clock in the morning. It had been a bit of a standing joke ever since.

Sarah was out of this one. She sort of smiled to look as though she got it, but she probably wasn't used to being offered a brew at embassy cocktail parties, and it certainly wasn't going to be a big thing in her social circle.

He turned to Sarah.

"Coffee good for you?"

"Thank you."

He turned and walked toward the door, talking as he went.

"The kids will be back from singing practice soon and all hell will break loose. It'll be so cool for them to find you here."

We listened to him pottering around in the kitchen. Sarah went and sat on one of the chairs only a short distance from me, but significant in the circumstances. I said, "Sarah, we're sharing a room tonight."

She got it immediately, stood up and came and sat next to me.

"What now?"

It was pointless bullshitting her.

"I don't know, switch on and take my lead. It's far too early yet."

She looked anxiously at the carpet.

"I'm worried, Nick. This has got to work."

"Trust me. Look over there," I nodded toward the books to the right of the fireplace.

"Second shelf down." What had caught my eye was Designing Camelot the Kennedy White House Restoration. I looked at her through her glasses.

"That's got to be a good omen." I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt.

She saw it, and her expression gained a new determination. Josh came back with the coffee pot, mugs and biscuits as she was pulling it from the shelf. He started to pour.

"Flat white?" he asked. We nodded.

He saw Sarah flicking the pages, admiring the pictures of the White House interior.

She looked up and caught his eye.

"Now there's a classy lady." She turned the book around so we could see the picture of Jackie 0.

"Yes, ma'am, she certainly turned this town upside down. That's her in the State Dining Room. She was our Princess Diana, I guess you could say. Geri loved her. I bought her that book for her birthday, just before she left."

He started to open the packet of biscuits.

"I have to hide these from the kids, otherwise there'd be none left.

"You know what?" he said through a mouthful of biscuit, "I didn't realize all the things you have to do when you're looking after kids singlehanded.

I've had to learn so much."

Sarah looked surprised.

Josh looked over at me, quite happily, "You didn't explain?"

"I thought I'd leave it to you," I said, trying to turn it into a joke.

"Yeah, leave it to you, then I'd tell her the truth later on."

He looked at Sarah.

"Geri had gotten more and more involved in local projects and classes, that sorta thing, so that she could"--he pulled a face to underline the words--"better herself." He passed a mug of coffee to her.

"One of them was yoga. You know, I guess I was too busy working and stuff to see what was going on. I just didn't notice the classes were lasting longer as the months passed."

I smiled in sympathy as he passed me my mug, and we had eye-to-eye.

"In fact, she got to like the classes so much she never really wanted to come home." I could see him looking at Sarah for her reaction. He'd managed to make it sound like a joke, but I knew that deep down he was devastated.

I felt guilty as hell as I listened to Sarah doing a number on him, but I knew it was the only way.

Nodding toward the pictures above the gas log fire, Sarah continued to reel him in.

"What about the children? They're such beautiful kids; whatever got into her to make her leave them?"

He picked up his coffee and sat back.

"The yoga teacher, that's what got into her." He tried a laugh, but it was starting to really hurt him now.

Sarah took a second or two to get that one, but I could see from her eyes that she'd picked up on Josh's sadness.

"She calls once a week," Josh said.

"The kids miss her real bad."

"How long has it been?" she asked quietly.

"Must be about nine months or so." He looked over at me. I nodded;

the timing was about right. Not that he didn't know; I bet he'd counted every single day. He took a sip from his mug, deep in thought.

We all sat in silence for a while, until Sarah asked a couple of polite, ice-breaking questions about the children, and Josh told her what she already knew. She was good; they were bonding. He was almost enjoying having a woman listen to the story and appear to understand his point of view.

There came a sound of crashing and slamming, and shouting in heavily accented English. Maria was back with the kids and telling them to slow down. She put her head through the door.

"Hold!"

A second or two later, the kids came surging past her to see their dad.

At that moment they spotted me.

"Nick! Nick! Is Kelly here?"

Then they stopped and got embarrassed because they saw somebody they didn't know.

"Hiya," I beamed.

"No, Kelly's at school. Did you enjoy your time in London?"

"Yeah, it was cool. It's a shame Kelly can't be here, though." They were all excited. They went over to their dad, kissing and cuddling him until he was buried.

"You guys, this is Sarah, Nick's friend. Say hello to Sarah."

All together they shouted, "Hello, Sarah."

"Hello, everybody, very nice to meet you." She shook each of them by the hand.

Formalities over, it all changed. It was straight into, Dad, can I do this?

Dad, can I do that?

"Dad, it's really cool! There are kids from everywhere, even New Mexico. Some of them are going swimming. Can we go swimming?"

Josh said, "Yes, yes, yes but later. Maria'll arrange it. Go and have something to eat. Go, go, go."

The kids went out in a whirlwind and headed for the kitchen. I heard the radio go on, tuned in to a Latin music station. We heard them all squabbling, and Maria making the most noise of all, telling them to keep the noise down.

I carried on looking for a time when I could hit him with my pitch. The kids went out, came back, eventually went to bed, and Maria went home.

By then we'd seen the new garden shed, we'd talked about Christmas, Easter, even about Thanksgiving and the different ways Americans and Brits stuff their turkeys. I still preferred Paxo to peanuts. Josh told Sarah about tomorrow's events and what the kids were going to be doing. He couldn't disguise his pride that his kids were part of it all. He was going to be watching it with some of the ERT (Emergency Response Team) people, whose kids were also involved.

Sarah was perfect all the time; maybe it wasn't even put on, because something told me she genuinely liked Josh. I was glad, as these were the only two adults I had any feeling for. I wanted them to like each other. It mattered to me. Fuck the job in hand; I knew it had to be done, and soon, but we seemed to be moving into something more important between us. I hoped so. Once the job was finished, I needed Josh to appreciate our reasons for keeping him in the dark.

Before we knew it we'd had pizza, nachos, a couple of bottles of wine, and it was nearly ten o'clock. We seemed set to spin shit all night, but I knew I had to wait for the right moment. I listened to the other two as they put the world to rights.

I heard Josh saying, "Have you met Kelly yet?"

Sarah was just sitting back drinking wine next to me.

"Kelly? No, I haven't, not yet. You know Nick, he keeps his cards very close to his chest." She gave me one of those strange looks couples give each other when they're talking about one thing, but thinking about something else.

"I have spoken to her, though." She was keeping the lies close to the truth.

It was always the best way.

Josh said, "She's a really good kid, you'll like her a lot. Maybe ifGeri was here Kelly would have come to live with us and the kids. It's been really hard for her."

Sarah looked at me to carry on the story. I began to think she was liking this, finding out about me.

"Yeah, but me and her, it's all right," I mumbled.

Sarah reached out and grasped my hand.

Josh broke the silence.

"Ah .. . you sure you two don't want to be alone?"

We all started laughing. I looked at Josh and remembered that I had a job to do, and now was the time to do it.

"Mate, I've just had a brilliant idea. Well, good for us, but maybe hard for you to sort out."

He sat back and took a sip of wine.

"Yesss ... and what could that be?"

He suddenly sounded like my dad.

"Well, if there was any chance of a trip around the White House for us you know, like the time you took me around before? Sarah would love me forever." I smiled at her.

She picked up the ball, blushed and her eyes lit up.

"That would be absolutely brilliant. Can you really fix that, Josh?"

Josh wasn't looking too sure.

"Well.. ."

I decided to jump in and keep it all upbeat. Looking at Sarah, whose face now resembled that of a child at a fun fair I said, "This boy is the greatest.

He took me around the White House last year. He was running the vice-presidential protection team."

"Oh, I'd love that. That would be fantastic!" She was making all the right noises.

I said, "There's a bowling alley in the basement so Bill can go and have a bit of a practice, and some of the stonework still has scorch marks from when the Brits tried to burn it down in eighteen hundred and something or other."

She turned to Josh.

"Is he bullshitting me?"

He shook his head as he took another sip of wine.

"No, the Brits came to Washington and burned the lot down. It was eighteen fourteen."

I said, "Come on then, mate, what do you say? I'll even buy a crap tie to make me look like Secret Service if you want. What do you say?" I always took the piss out of the way they dressed. The White House team's uniform seemed to be either a gray suit, or a blue blazer and dark gray trousers. The only thing they were allowed to have choice over, it seemed, was their ties. I had never seen so many Daffy Ducks and Mickey Mouses in one place, apart from the window of Tie Rack. Josh had an impressive display of sheep jumping over gates and Bugs Bunny eating carrots.

It was time for him to insult me in return.

"Lard-ass, you will never look like an agent. No matter how hard you try."

Sarah stood up.

"This is way over my head," she grinned.

"So I'm going to pop upstairs again." She knew it was time to leave us alone. She raised an eyebrow at Josh.

"I'll shut the door this time, so you won't be embarrassed if I make a noise."

Josh rocked back on his chair and started laughing as the door closed behind her. He looked at me.

"She's cool, man, real cool." I could see his smile tighten; I was sure he was thinking about Geri and how much he missed her. I felt sorry for him, but I didn't want to let him off the hook.

"What do you reckon then, mate? Any chance? It would be great for her, and on top of that I'd score an unbelievable number of Brownie points, if you know what I mean?"

He sat back in his chair, holding his arms up in mock surrender.

"Whoa, man, chill. Chill out on trying to sell it to me. I got it." He put his arms back down and got serious.

"I'll try, but I can't say for sure," he said.

"I'll phone up in the morning. What's your cutoff time?"

"It's got to be three at the latest. We're on the six-something flight from Dulles to Newark."

He held up his hands again.

"OK, OK, I'll see what I can do. Tomorrow's a big deal up there, but maybe we can go in the morning. Nothing's going to kick off until around midday, and the kids won't be doing their thing until one."

He put his glass down, filled it up again and offered me some. I nodded and passed mine over. He hadn't noticed that I was only sipping while he was knocking it back.

Josh held up his glass.

"It's really good to see you, man."

I raised mine.

"And you, lard-ass."

Sarah walked back in, probably having listened behind the door the whole time. I gave her a big smile as she sat down.

"Josh says we might be able to get in tomorrow before we go back to New York. He's going to see what he can do."

She gave him the sort of look that would have made a blind man's heart beat faster.

His face lit up.

"Hey, you know what? I have a neat idea. If I can't take you in myself, I could probably get you onto one of the tours. You could always come back and go around with me another time."

Sarah carried on looking excited, but I knew that she'd be flapping inside.

Josh continued.

"I could organize tickets for you both without much trouble. You won't see the bowling alley or the pool, just the main building reception rooms, but hey" he looked straight at Sarah "the important thing is you get to see the State Dining Room, and that's the only part left that Jackie 0 furnished. It's the room in the picture you showed me."

Sarah reached across and touched his hand. I could see she wished she'd never mentioned the woman.

"Thank you, that would be great. I just hope that we'll be able to do it with you; it would be much more fun."

Josh just about melted.

"Yeah, I know what you mean, it would be kinda cool to show you around. I promise I'll call in the morning; that's all I can do, man."

"It's going to happen, believe me," I said to Sarah.

"I told him, if it didn't, I'd tell the White House about the rubber duck."

"The what?"

Josh looked at me with an embarrassed smile.

I said, "There's this yellow rubber duck that gets passed around all the different sections in the Secret Service and the Unit."

She cut in.

"The Unit?"

She was well aware of what I was referring to, but she knew Josh would expect her not to be.

"Delta Force," I explained.

"Sort of the American SAS. Anyway, the big thing is to have a picture taken with the duck in the most unusual places. Josh's task was to get photos taken in the White House, so he had one of it floating in the president's toilet in the private apartments, and he even managed one on the desk in the Oval Office ..."

Josh yawned politely and started rising to his feet.

"On that happy note..."

As we said our good nights Sarah picked up the Kennedy book and put it under her arm, and we all trundled up the stairs. At the top landing, Josh went left to check on his kids; through their open doors I could see night lights glowing below a poster of a basketball hero, and a big picture of their mother. Duvets and toys were strewn everywhere.

Our bedroom was farther along to the right. It was exactly what might be expected of a spare room in one of these houses: very clean and new looking, with a polished-wax pine bed with shiny nuts and bolts showing either side. I got the feeling the design choices had been Geri's, not Josh's, because it was all matching flowery curtains, pillowcases and duvet covers;

if anything good was to come of Geri leaving, it was that Josh could sort out the decor in the next house. The bed was made up, with one corner of the duvet pulled back invitingly. Maria had done such a professional job that I half expected to see a note with tomorrow's temperature and a chocolate on the pillow.

I closed the door behind us, and right away Sarah was into her bag. She picked up her weapon and mag, and went into the en suite, leaving the door ajar. I watched as she loaded it by pulling back the top slide placing a round in the chamber and letting the action go forward under control to cut out any noise, then just pushing the last two millimeters into place against the round. She then pushed the magazine in quietly until there was a click.

I laughed.

"You expecting a rough night?"

She turned and smiled, then checked safety. I got up and joined her in the bathroom. Sarah turned on the tap in the basin and started to clean her teeth. The danger with whispering is that you can make an even louder noise by doing it incorrectly than you would by talking. I leaned into her ear and said, "If he does get us in, then no matter what, we don't harm him. OK? We don't harm him or anyone else; have you got that?"

She nodded as she spat out toothpaste.

I said, "We're all on the same side here. If we get caught, or even challenged, we don't fight back. Nobody gets killed, and we don't take weapons, OK? They stay in the bags." The security would be so tight we'd never be able to get them in.

"Anyway, we don't need them."

She rinsed her teeth, turned and nodded her agreement, offering me the toothbrush.

"Thanks." Our eyes met, then she smiled and went into the bedroom.

I watched her undress as I brushed my teeth. She laid her clothes neatly over the chair, and when she was completely naked she started taking off the price tags from the new lace underwear she'd bought to wear the next day. As ever, she wasn't shy about her body, but I sensed this was different from her performance in the motel. That was business, while this was .. .

well, whatever it was, it felt good. I watched her in the glow of the bedside light.

Digging into her bag again, she took out a new shirt, unwrapped it and put it on the chair. Then she looked up at me and smiled. I finished my teeth as she came back in and we swapped rooms again.

As the bathroom door closed, I sat on the bed and started to pull my clothes off, thinking about the prospects for tomorrow. I could hear Josh, opening and closing doors somewhere along the corridor, checking on the kids again, I guessed, or locking up, or whatever he did at this time of night. The toilet flushed, and after a while Sarah appeared.

She pulled back the duvet and climbed in beside me. I smelled toothpaste on her breath and soap on her skin. Her leg touched mine I wasn't sure how accidentally. Her skin felt cool and smooth.

We both lay there, thinking our own thoughts. I wondered whether her thoughts were anything like mine. After a while she turned to me.

"What are you going to do after this, Nick? After you've left the service, I mean?"

It was something I had always tried not to give any thought to. I shrugged.

"I don't know. I never think that far ahead, never have. Tomorrow night that's far enough. And I hope I'll be celebrating that we're all still alive."

"I don't think I'll stay in," she said.

"I'll probably do what everybody else does get married, have children, all that sort of stuff. I sometimes wish I had a child." She lifted herself up on one elbow and looked into my eyes.

"Does that sound crazy?"

I shook my head.

"Not since I've had Kelly."

"You're very lucky." She moved her face closer, and I could feel her breath on my neck.

"Maybe I'll write my memoirs." She brushed my face with her hand.

"But where could I possibly start the story?" She paused, her eyes shining.

"And what would I say about you?"

"Hmm." I smiled.

"Not easy." Fuck, if she carried on like this I'd go to pieces and tell her I was in love with her or some shit like that. I couldn't handle it at all.

Her lips brushed against my forehead too lightly for it to be a kiss, then moved down to my cheek. I turned my head and my mouth met hers. I closed my eyes and could feel her body half on top of mine, her hair brushing my face.

Her kiss was long, gentle and caring, then suddenly more urgent. She pressed her body hard against mine.

I was woken by the screams of 200 kids--or at least that was what it sounded like. I kept my eyes closed and listened to the din. Maria had arrived and was trying to shush and organize them, and in doing so she was stirring things up even more.

A herd of elephants went downstairs, followed by Mexican commands to "put on clean sock" as she went past our door. I opened my eyes and looked at Baby-G. It was six fifty-eight.

I yawned, turned and saw Sarah. She was sitting up, nicking through the Jackie 0 book. I muttered, "What was that you were saying about children last night?"

Eyes firmly fixed on the page, she nodded, not listening. I hoped this wasn't going to be one of those terrible momings-after when both of us desperately wished we were somewhere else and neither of us could bring ourselves to be the first to go for eye contact. I hoped not, because I knew it would only be that way for me if it was for her.

"Time spent on reconnaissance is seldom wasted. Nick," she said, glancing at me and smiling. Things were looking up.

I propped myself up and checked the scabs on my arm. They were sealing up OK; the bruising was now very dark and swollen. I moved closer and looked at the book. It was mostly about the decor of each of the main rooms that Jackie 0 had changed in the 1960s. The useful stuff was at the back in an appendix: floor plans of both wings, west and east, plus the executive mansion in between. There was no way of telling if the layout was still the same, but that was all we had, apart from my memory of Josh's guided tour.

I looked up to read her eyes, and they told me she was already walking into the White House press room. Her work cassette was in.

I threw off the duvet and headed for the shower. I came back ten minutes later, drying my hair with a towel, to find her already dressed, apart from her jacket and shoes.

"Let's go down and find out what's happening.

I'll shower later." She waited while I threw on my clothes and followed her.

Armageddon was well under way in the dining room. Spoons crashed into cereal bowls, chairs scraped on the wooden floor, the toaster popped, Maria rutted and fussed. In amongst all this the kids were practicing their songs. The problem was they were all in different time. It sounded like cats in heat. I tried to remind myself that this was a celebration of peace, rather than a declaration of war.

Josh had his back to me, doing some magic act with lunch boxes. He looked like a TV chef cooking ten things at once, wrapping sandwiches in plastic wrap, washing apples, throwing in handfrils of cheese snacks. He was wearing navy-blue suit trousers and a freshly ironed white shirt; I could see his white T-shirt underneath, and the dark skin of his arms. I couldn't wait to see his tie. The thing that worried me was that he had a light-brown pancake holster just behind his right hip, and a double mag carrier on his left. I just hoped he didn't end up having to use what would be going in there on us two. I checked with Sarah. She'd clocked his gear, too.

Josh didn't even look around as I came in; he just called out, "Morning!

Coffee's in the machine over to the left." I could see the percolator bubbling away.

"Bagels are by the toaster. Can't stop, got to get these ready before Puff Daddy and his backing crew here are picked up for their gig."

I went over and split some of the pre-cut bagels, putting a couple in the toaster as Sarah poured some coffee. We put on a good show, as if I knew that she liked nothing better than toasted bagels for breakfast and didn't even have to ask, and she knew exactly how I liked my coffee. She asked Josh if he wanted some and he looked up from the lunch boxes for a second, nodded and smiled.

She poured.

"So what are our chances, Josh?"

He had his back to us again, jamming too much food into a Little Mermaid lunch box.

"I was going to give them a call at the top of the hour," he said, "just after the shift change."

He finished loading up the Little Mermaid and glanced at his watch.

"Tell you what, let's see if I can get hold of the guy now."

He walked over to the wall telephone and dialed, hooked the receiver with about a ten-foot lead between his shoulder and ear, then walked back to put the lunch boxes into the kids' day sacks He had sold out: his tie was just plain old blue. He saw me looking at it in disgust, annoyed that there was nothing I could take the piss out of. He grinned back at me.

The day sacks were made of clear plastic the only sort of bag that could be taken into some American schools now, because the kids had to show they held only books and lunch boxes and not guns. I imagined that White House security would have thought them a good idea, too.

I could hear cartoons on the TV next door. That worried me; it meant they'd finished breakfast and were killing time. In this house, there was never any TV while there were meals to be eaten or work to be done. I looked at my watch. It was seven thirty-two.

He got an answer.

"Yo, it's Josh." There was a gap.

"Yeah, absolutely fine, I'll be there today anyway to watch my kids; we can talk then." They spun more work shit for a while, and had an in-joke about their president.

The toaster popped up. I picked up the bagels and went to the fridge, digging out some spread. Sarah's eyes followed me as she crossed to sit at the kitchen table. She looked like a student waiting for her finals results.

I deliberately didn't look at Josh; if he turned I didn't want any eye-to eye

Our unconscious bubbles away inside, and mostly we manage never to let people see in; the only place they can is our eyes. I'd spent most of my life controlling it, but Josh knew the score. He'd been there, too. I just concentrated hard on the bagel as I spread, and listened.

He finished warning and got down to business.

"Who's the shift coordinator today? Ah, right. Is Davy Boy in?" He sounded pleased.

I walked across the kitchen and sat next to Sarah. She had her hands around her mug, just sipping slowly, taking fantastic interest in the coffee's molecular structure. Josh was still gob bing off on the phone with his back to us and zipping up the day sacks Once he'd done that, he walked over to us and dumped them on the table, still waffling.

"I've got two really good friends here, over from the U.K." and I want to bring them in for a visit. What do you say, bud?" He smiled at whatever was being said at the other end.

"Yeah, today ... yeah, I know, but it's their only chance, man ... yeah, that's OK." He looked at his watch, placed his thumb on the cutout, looked at us and said, "Call back in thirty."

Both of us managed a genuine look of happiness, but I was bluffing big time. We had a problem if the kids left before we got the OK for the visit.

I checked my watch again. It was now seven thirty-nine. Josh smiled, too, feeling good about himself as he sat down at the table with his coffee.

Sarah sounded excited.

"I'll go and get ready, then. See you both soon." She gave my shoulder a loving squeeze and disappeared.

Josh checked the kitchen. His jobs were done. We drank coffee in silence.

He ate a bagel and listened to Maria still shouting at the kids in the next room. I said, "When do the kids leave, Josh? It's a bit early for a one o'clock start isn't it?"

"About eight. A school bus will pick them up and take them downtown.

Dress rehearsals, man. I'll be glad when this is all over; this quilt business seems to have taken over my life."

I nodded. I knew exactly what he meant.

I tried to fill the silence.

"What's the dress code?" I said.

"I don't want to let you down."

"Hey, no problem, man. I just gotta look good; it's my job."

We continued to drink our brews and gob off. I asked if I could borrow one of his ties.

He was about to clip me over the head when a shout came from the dining room.

"Daddy! Daddy!" There was some whining going on and Maria was just about to go ballistic. He got up.

"Back in five."

He went out with a smile on his face; mine dropped. I checked again.

Seven forty-five. Fifteen minutes till the kids left, but closer to twenty-five before we got the go or no go for the visit. Not good; I needed the kids here just in case we had a no go, otherwise plan B wouldn't work. Time to get my finger out of my ass and get in gear. I put my coffee down and went upstairs. Sarah's shower was running and she was standing naked by the curtain, just about to step in. I said nothing, but went to my bag and pulled out the 9mm, then checked the chamber.

She came over to me, putting her mouth right against my ear as she asked what was happening.

I placed the weapon in the waistband of my jeans and pulled out my shirt to cover it.

"The kids could be leaving before Josh gets the go or no go."

She leaned over the chair, got her clothes and started to dress, muttering, "Shit. Shit. Shit."

"You wait here and stand by. If I have to go for it, you'll hear. If so, get down to me and be quick about it. Remember, don't kill him, OK? Do you remember what to do?"

She nodded as she tucked her shirt into her trousers. I still wanted to run through it with her. We couldn't afford to fuck up now.

"If it's a no go, I'll hold them here, and you will have to go with Josh on your own. Can you handle that?"

She nodded again, without looking up.

"Good. Remember, he will do whatever you say if the kids are hostages.

Make sure you keep reminding him about his kids."

This time she stopped dressing and looked up at me.

"Good luck," I said quietly.

She smiled.

"And you."

Checking my shirt, I went downstairs, leaving Sarah as she checked that there was a round in the chamber, ready to go.

The bags had gone from the kitchen, but kid-type noise was still coming from the TV room. Josh came back in from giving them their day sacks

"What's the score up there, then, eh?" He jerked his head to indicate upstairs.

"Is it serious?"

"I think so, mate. I hope so."

He had a big smile on his face.

"She's magic, man. She'd make my head spin."

"Tell me about it." I sat down to finish my coffee, with a sly check of Baby-G. It was seven fifty-seven. Three minutes and the kids could be leaving; still over ten before the call.

Dakota came into the kitchen, very excited about the day's program.

"Hi, Nick. Are you and Sarah hanging out with Daddy today so you can see us sing? It's going to be so cool!"

Josh tried to calm her down.

"Wow, chill. We don't know yet, we're waiting on a call. You'd better say good-bye to Nick now, just in case." With that he went back into the TV room to usher the others into the kitchen.

Dakota came over and gave me a hug. It must have felt as strange for her as it did for me. I was holding back; I didn't want her to feel the weapon.

"If I don't see you this afternoon, I'll call you all soon--with Kelly,

OK?"

By now the others were coming through, more interested in what they were missing on the TV than in saying goodbye.

Josh was getting them organized.

"All go upstairs and say good-bye to Sarah. Holler through the door if she's in the shower." Off they scrambled.

I heard their shouts, and hers in return.

Josh was on the doorstep with Maria. It looked as if she was finished until this afternoon. Good: one less to worry about.

It was eight o'clock. Things could start getting scary soon. I made sure my work cassette was in, and stayed there. At least Josh's holster wasn't full yet; it never was with the kids around. I heard the hiss of air brakes outside.

"The bus is here, kids, let's go!" There was a thumping on the staircase and one in my heart as I walked into the hall to stop them, hand now reaching under my shirt.

They saw me.

"Bye, Nick, see you this afternoon!"

The phone rang and Josh came past me, back into the kitchen, sounding exasperated.

"Come on, kids, get your bags. Bus is waiting!"

Through the open kitchen door, I saw him answer the phone. I was standing in their way as they were about to turn left toward the door that led from the hallway into the TV room. I put my hand around the pistol grip. I knew it would work; people don't fuck about when it comes to their children.

Sarah was at the top of the stairs, weapon strong, five steps behind. The worse scenario I could imagine couldn't be stopped now. She was walking down the stairs, pistol behind her, in case one of the children looked back.

I slowed the herd.

"Hey, hey, don't go yet. I think your dad wants you all in the kitchen. He's finding out if Sarah and I are coming to see you all sing today." They turned left through the door to their dad. I had eye-to eye with Sarah. She was nearing the bottom of the stairs and was placing her weapon in her trouser band.

"Remember what I said."

She nodded as we both went into the kitchen with the last of the kids.

He got to the end of his call and the kids were all over him, wanting to know.

"Right, we're on at ten!" He beamed.

The kids cheered and we both cheered with them.

"Well done!" I had a big smile on my face.

"Thanks a lot, mate.

Brilliant!"

He remembered the bus.

"What are you guys doing here? Go, go!" He shooed them out toward the front door.

I heard the hiss of the bus's air brakes and the chug of diesel as it dragged itself down the road. Josh came back into the kitchen and collapsed onto a chair with a loud sigh, pouring himself some more coffee as he looked up at Sarah.

"Come back, Geri, all is forgiven." He looked at me.

"Great news, huh? To tell you the truth, I'm quite looking forward to it myself."

Sarah laughed, more out of relief than anything else.

"Say, do you guys have a camera?"

We didn't.

"No problem, we can pick one up from a store. I'm quite looking forward to going downtown. I miss working the team, man." He took another slug of coffee.

"This job is driving me crazy, know what I'm saying? I've got to get back on ops." Tilting his head back, he killed the coffee.

"I'm going to make a call to arrange parking. It's a nightmare up there."

Sarah stood up.

"I'll finish getting ready and pack."

I followed her out to the stairs and passed over my weapon.

"In the bags."

I was back at the coffee percolator as Josh finished his call. I motioned to see if he wanted more, and he nodded. The phone went back on the wall and he came to the table.

I took a seat beside him.

"We'll just have to wait now while she puts her face on."

He smiled as he unfolded the newspaper. I started to flap as the Washington Post was laid out on the table top, but the chances of the story still being in there after three days were pretty slim, especially given the amount of column inches devoted to events at the White House.

"Anything interesting?"

"Hell no, just the normal shit."

He turned the paper around to show me the front page: pictures of Netanyahu and Arafat in town yesterday. The subject was a bit too close to home for me at the moment.

He turned the paper back as I asked, "What do think, mate? Think it will work? You know, the peace deal?"

He started to give his views on the summit. Not that I was listening, but I wanted him to talk, which was why I'd asked the question in the first place. The more he was gob bing off, the more I could just sit there and nod and agree or throw in the odd question, but at the same time get myself revved up for the job. I was in my own little world, so relieved the call had brought good news.

I heard Sarah coming down the stairs. It brought me back to the real world. He was now honking about all the roadworks and the D.C. traffic as Sarah came into the room with our bags and my jacket. She may not have had time for a shower but she'd made up for it with eyeliner and lip gloss.

Josh stood up, looking at his watch.

"OK, let's saddle up!"

I picked up our two bags while Josh ran upstairs. He didn't say why, but we both knew that it was to fetch his weapon.

A bleep came from the pickup and the lights flashed. Josh jumped into the cab, and Sarah and I went around to the passenger side. As I opened the door a toy racing car fell out. Crayons, a coloring sheet from McDonald's and other kids' crap littered the foot well I put our bags in the back; our weapons were inside now, and would stay there.

Sarah picked up the toy from the sidewalk and climbed in. I followed;

there was room enough for three in the front seat.

The morning sky was still overcast, but bright when the sun came out between the clouds. I had to squint as I looked through the windshield. A pair of mirrored sunglasses were hanging by their cord from the rearview mirror. Josh put them on over his shiny head and fired up the ignition. The engine gave a big four-liter growl, and out we backed, the antenna automatically starting to rise.

The radio came on, and to my surprise it was a woman talking about the place of Jesus in today's world. Josh looked at me, obviously feeling that my unasked question needed an answer.

"Christian channel," he said, not at all defensively.

"A couple of guys got me into listening. It's been a help. I've even started going to a few meetings with them."

I said, "That's good, Josh," and wondered if his bible studies had got as far as Judas yet.

We headed north, back along the route by which the taxi had brought us. Josh chatted about how long it had been since he'd been to the White House, and what he missed about working there. The thing he didn't miss, he said as we gradually crawled our way to D.C." was the traffic. He hated it. As if we didn't know by now.

Sarah saw a filling station coming up and reminded Josh to stop for a one-shot camera. Twenty-five minutes after leaving the house, we were back on the Jefferson Davis Highway approaching the Pentagon. Instead of passing it, however, we took a right onto a bridge that took us across the Potomac. Josh became the tourist guide.

"Left, that's the Jefferson Memorial, and farther over is the Lincoln Memorial. Sarah, you've gotta get Nick to take you to the Reflecting Pool at sunset; it's real romantic, just like the movies."

We had plenty of time to admire the view, as the traffic was backed up from halfway over the bridge. Eventually we started heading north on 14th Street, bisecting the vast stretch of grass that is the National Mall, running from the Capitol building all the way down to the Lincoln Memorial by the Potomac.

Once over the Mall we made a few turns. Josh said, "Here we are, where all the dirty deeds are done!" We drove past the target, leaving it to our left.

"We have to go around because of the one-way system. But that's cool, you get to see it from all sides."

Once we'd done a circuit counterclockwise, we landed up on 17th Street.

The front of the White House faced north, sandwiched between two gardens, Lafayette Park, which was part of the pedestrian area in the front, now that Pennsylvania Ave was closed to traffic, and, at the rear, backing onto the National Mall, the Ellipse, a large area of green that looked as if it had become a giant car park for government permit holders.

The White House was flanked to the west by the old Executive Office and to the east by the Treasury Department. Each of the two buildings had an access road between it and the White House, but both were closed to traffic. West Executive Avenue was closed off to pedestrians as well, but East Executive Avenue wasn't, to allow the public entry through the east wing of the White House.

We turned left and slowed down. Rows of cars were parked on the grass of the Ellipse, and in amongst them was a line of about a dozen yellow school buses.

Josh indicated again. The road had originally bent around, away from the White House, but had since been blocked off to create yet another car park. We passed the gates to West Executive Avenue and stopped on the corner of State Place. Josh opened the window and put his hand out.

"Yo!"

He got a nod from a man dressed in a gray single-breasted suit and what looked like a reddish tie. He'd been standing by the gates and started to amble toward us.

"Davy Boy! Long time!"

"Yo, Josh, good to see you!"

Sarah and I looked at each other as they exchanged greetings. She had the same concern as I did: Was this guy going to stay with us?

"How goes it, Davy, get a place for me?"

Davy continued toward the wagon. I could see his tie now lots of small Dalmatians on a red background.

"Hey, you know what, just park in the West Exec duty pool."

As we got out of the vehicle Josh clapped Davy enthusiastically across the shoulders.

"Come here, let me introduce you to my friends from the U.K. This is Sarah." They shook hands.

"And this is Nick." We pressed the flesh.

"Hey. Good to see you. Welcome." Davy was in his mid-thirties, and very open and friendly. He was also tall, fit, good-looking and had all his own teeth white and perfect. If he hadn't been in the Secret Service, a great career would have beckoned as the Diet Coke man.

Davy had everything arranged.

"I'll take you guys to the gate house, get you an ID pass each and take you in. As you know, it's kinda busy today, but we'll do what we can for you."

Sarah and I gushed our thanks as we started to walk off with him. Josh cut in from behind us, "See you folks in a few." I heard his door close and the wagon start to move.

Davy did all the small talk.

"Take long to get here?"

I looked at my watch. It was ten sixteen.

"No, not really, just over an hour."

"That's good. Was he complaining about the traffic?"

"He did nothing but moan."

Davy Boy liked that one. It seemed that nothing had changed with his old work mate

Josh's black Dodge passed us on the way to the gates that would let him into West Executive Avenue. We were going there as well, but via the security gatehouse. Josh stopped at the big, black iron gates, which opened automatically for him. The gatehouse was to the left, with a turnstile and airport-style metal detector. From a distance it had looked as if it was made of white PVC and glass, like a conservatory. As we got nearer, I could see that it wasn't; the white paint covered steel, and the glass was so thick I could only just make out movement inside.

As the gates closed behind him, I could see Josh parking in line, nose in to the pavement, about fifty meters up on the left-hand side.

There was a big round of applause to my right and the roar of excited children's voices coming from a huge marquee that had been erected in the rear White House gardens. Davy grinned.

"There are about two hundred of them in there. Been practicing all morning." He screwed up his face as the applause continued.

"At least they think they're good."

I could see more clearly into the gatehouse now that we'd gone through the fence, turned right and were standing by the metal detector. Just beyond that was the turnstile. Two bodies were inside the gatehouse. The door opened and one of them came out. An electric buzz came from the turnstile as Josh came through to join us. The guard was white and in his forties. His Secret Service uniform was a very sharply pressed white shirt, a black tie, black trousers with a yellow stripe and black patent-leather belt kit, holding a semiautomatic pistol and spare mags. He couldn't wait to have a go at Josh.

"Things must be getting desperate around here if they're bringing you back!"

Josh laughed; he'd obviously had this for years from this guy, because he gave him the finger as he replied.

"I've been sent to get rid of all the dead wood, so you'd better watch out, lard-ass."

Everybody contributed to the banter as the fat one slapped his stomach.

Sarah and I were the gooseberries in this, so we just kept our mouths shut and concentrated on looking awestruck at standing so close to the official residence of the most powerful man on earth.

I could see that Lard-ass and a younger black guy who was still inside the gatehouse were also responsible for manning a bank of TV monitors and radios. Davy got hold of a clipboard and went through the signing-in procedure.

"Nick, surname please?"

"Stone." Being with Josh, there was no option but to reply truthfully.

"OK, S-to-n-e." There was a few seconds' pause as he finished writing.

"And Sarah?"

"Damley."

He frowned, and she spelled it for him as she wiped her new glasses with a tissue from her pocket.

"OK, if you can just sign here and here for me, please."

The first signature was for the ID card, the second for the entry log.

Josh then signed himself in as well. Davy gave the clipboard back to the guard, who handed Sarah and me each an ID card. Lard-ass smiled at Sarah as he passed her card over.

"You're not going to let these two losers show you around, are you?"

"I guess I'm stuck with them for now."

He smiled and shook his head.

"The only place these two know is the canteen. You'll just be eating doughnuts and drinking coffee all day, and look what that did for me!" He looked down at his belly.

We joined in the laughter. Mine was out of sheer relief at getting even this far. It appeared that we weren't quite in the Good Lads Club because we didn't have our cards on nylon straps we had clips, with a black V on a white background, not for visitor, but volunteer. It must have been part of the deal, today being busy: no visitors. It seemed Davy and Josh had made a real effort for us. I hated that. It made me feel even more guilty, but I'd live. At least, I hoped I would.

Our IDs looked quite different from the ones Davy and Josh were wearing.

Theirs had a blue edge surrounding their pictures, and some red markings underneath. We clipped ours onto our jackets and Davy clapped and rubbed his hands together.

"OK, people, let's do this thing." He walked around the detector and waited with Josh as we walked through it.

As we all went through the turnstile I didn't know which feeling inside me was stronger, elation at getting past the first hurdle, or concern that I was now fenced in and the clock was ticking.

We walked north along West Exec Ave. We weren't inside the actual grounds yet, as the iron fencing that stretched away from the gate divided the White House from the road. We seemed to be aiming for an entrance about fifty meters farther up, which opened onto the front White House lawn. Looking through into the gardens, I could see the rear of the main building and the marquee. A member of the Emergency Response Team was standing under a tree, talking into his radio as he watched the road, and us. He really looked the business. He was dressed from head to foot in black: black coveralls, black belt kit, body armor and boots. He had a baseball cap with ERT on the front and a pager that was hooked onto the leg strapping that went around his thigh to keep his pistol and holster in place. It looked as if his main weapon, probably an MP5, was covered by a black nylon support across his chest.

Josh took a back seat as Davy started to give us the brief while we continued toward the gate.

"Regardless of what people think, this place is basically just an office complex. Over to the left-hand side" we looked over at the old Exec Building in perfect unison, like a group of Japanese tourists "that's where the VP's office is, and that's also the Indian Treaty Room. It's a fantastic sight, I'll try and get you in there later on, especially if our little tour the other side of the fence is cut short."

We carried on up the road between the two buildings, basically just listening to Davy Boy. The more you listen, the less you have to say and the less you can fuck up and the more time you can spend looking for anyone who looks remotely like a dark-skinned Al Gore or Bill Gates.

Walking purposefully between the two buildings, via the gate, were men in conservative suits and women in identical two pieces, each with an ID card dangling on a nylon cord. Television and power cables snaked across the tarmac, and at the top of the road, where it met Pennsylvania Avenue, satellite trucks were jammed onto every available square inch of space.

As we got to within ten meters or so of the gate I saw Monica Beach in front of me, on the White House side of the fence. I looked at Sarah. She'd seen it, too. Multicolored umbrellas were pitched high to keep the light out of the camera lenses. Spotlights were rigged up for the reporters to look good in front of the cameras, and there were yet more power cables.

They seemed to have a life of their own. The whole place looked like a Hollywood location.

Beyond Monica Beach I could see another gatehouse, which I guessed was the press entrance point from Pennsylvania Avenue. Throngs of people with videos and cameras jostled against the railings to get a good shot of the building. They seemed to be photographing everything that moved, maybe in the hope of capturing some celebrity to show the folks back home. If this all went to rat shit in a few hours' time, I guessed the police would be appealing for them to hand in their footage.

Davy continued to give us the general picture as we stood at the gate.

There was a bit of a bottleneck as ERT and uniformed Secret Service security scrutinized the IDs of everybody who was waiting to go through.

"The White House can be broken down into three main parts. The east wing"--he pointed to the far side of the main house; we looked, but I was more intent on scanning the faces of the news crews that were walking from the building up to the beach--"then, in the middle, the executive mansion. That's the part you always see in newsreels. As you can see, just outside, on the lawn, is where the ceremony will take place. The kids will be doing their thing in front of the stage."

Arranged on the stage were a couple of rows of chairs, and two lecterns emblazoned with the presidential seal. The flags of Israel, Palestine and the United States were being unfurled on flagpoles. The scene looked idyllic.

Sarah was watching the hordes of tourists poking their video cameras through the fence.

"Isn't it dangerous to be so exposed to the road?"

Davy shook his head.

"No, they'll close off Perm Ave soon." He pointed to our side of the executive mansion.

"This here is the west wing, used mainly for administration and press briefings, as you can see." He nodded over to the TV crews behind us.

We turned, and it gave both of us an opportunity to have a good look at the personnel. I couldn't see anyone who looked remotely like our targets.

In any case, these guys were technicians sorting out camera gear, not reporters.

We just had to get back to playing the tourist.

"The Oval Office is in the west wing and not in the executive mansion," Davy went on.

"That's why these guys"--he pointed at the crowd by the fence--"never get to see him. They're always looking at the wrong place and from the wrong side. The Oval Office overlooks where all the kids are at the moment."

Still we waited, shuffling forward toward the security. Now and again Josh and Davy waved at somebody they recognized. We moved out of the way so that a group of sharply dressed men and women could come through the gate onto the road. One of the women recognized Josh.

"Well, Mr. D'Souza! What brings you to town?"

Josh stepped to one side with a larger than normal smile on his face.

"I

thought I'd just drop in and say heyyy." We stood and waited for a few seconds so that he could finish his conversation. I could hear him talking about his kids being part of the ceremony. Sarah suddenly remembered something.

"Oh, no, the camera. I've left it in the car."

Josh heard and turned his head.

"Hey, no problem, I'll open the truck."

Sarah didn't want to mess up the conversation.

"That's OK, I'll do it."

She held out her hand for the keys and Josh presented them.

I'd forgotten it, too. We were going to need it, as we were tourists on a once-in-a-lifetime trip. Josh looked at me as if I was a mop head

"We now know who's the one with the smarts!" Then he turned back to his conversation.

We waited until Sarah ran back to us with the camera in her hand, and Davy continued the tour.

"Come on, I'll show you something that you see on the news every day." Following yet more power cables, we were walking along the pathway that led from the gate to the front of the east wing. We went down a few steps and past a door with a small white semicircular canopy over it. More power cables spewed over the ground and a portable generator was chugging away to my left. Every time we passed groups of people, I watched Sarah for a reaction. She was the only one who could give a positive ID on these people. I could make only possibles.

"Here we are." We'd arrived at a large glass-paneled door. I looked to the left and saw a satellite truck backed up against the side of the main stone staircase, which was the North Portico of the executive mansion. Under the staircase were open doors leading into the ground floor. A flight above it led to the first floor and the main entrance. Davy ushered us through and we were immediately confronted by a very familiar sight, the lectern with the presidential seal from which I'd seen so many White House statements delivered. The room looked very purposeful and businesslike, but was much smaller than I'd imagined. Facing the lectern were plastic chairs, arranged in rows with a center aisle. It looked more like the setup for a community meeting in the local village hall, except that there were wires everywhere on the floor, with camera crews sorting out TV equipment and mikes. I was busily scanning the room, looking at the dozen or so people who were in a frenzy preparing for the afternoon's events.

Josh looked at us both.

"You got your camera?"

I played dumb.

"What?"

"Your camera?"

There was a big laugh. He said, "Go on, get up there!"

Sarah and I looked at each other and I thought, Fuck it, we've got to do it, it would be unusual not to. Josh took pictures of each of us at the lectern, and one of us together; we put our arms around each other for it and smiled. He threw the camera at me as we walked toward him.

"Something to show your grandchildren!" On cue, Sarah and I exchanged the expected coy smile.

We came out of the press conference area and back onto the pathway.

Davy was looking at the satellite truck. Josh was still saying hello to everyone he knew and explaining to them why he was here. Davy had made up his mind.

"Hey, you know what? I think we will go around the other side. It's kinda busy in there." Shading our eyes from a sudden burst of brilliant sunshine, we started to walk up the small flight of stairs that would take us to the same level as the main entrance staircase.

Still no Al or Bill, but we were a bit early. What we were going to do when we pinged them, I hadn't actually worked out yet. It all depended on the situation. I hoped we could get Josh to take action, alert him that something was wrong, or maybe I'd say that I'd seen people I could positively ID as terrorists. Whatever, it didn't matter, as long as these people stopped them. All we had to do was find them first.

I asked, "Davy, when do the rest of the media arrive, mate? Do they go anywhere to get instructions and stuff like that?"

He pointed back to the press room.

"The media get a briefing in there at noon. The TV presentation guys won't pitch up until then. They just have their sound and lighting people rig up first."

I looked excited.

"Would it be possible to see the briefing? I'm a bit of a media junkie, I really like that sort of thing."

Davy looked at me as if I was mad. How could something like that be interesting?

"Sure, no problem."

I looked over at Sarah as we walked. She knew what I was doing. All we had to do was keep this up until midday. If the players were going to show, they'd be at the media brief.

We'd reached the bottom of the stairs of the North Portico leading into the mansion. Davy pointed to the stage on the grass opposite, still receiving its finishing touches. He nodded toward Pennsylvania Avenue.

"The cameras will be on that side of the stage, with the TV reports made from the media area we passed earlier." We both nodded and looked extremely interested, which wasn't difficult. Josh wasn't so enthralled. He asked Davy, "Where to now?"

"You wanna see the alley?"

We continued to walk past the executive mansion toward the east wing.

The drive we were walking on went from the white gatehouse the press used and swept in a semicircle to the far right of the lawn, where there was a similar security post. An ERT guy was walking toward it from a line of black Chevy pickups parked in line on the driveway. Their red and blue light racks, darkened windows and antennae made me remember that there were probably more guns within a 200-meter radius of where we were standing than Jim's had sold in its lifetime. We would have to be careful not to get zapped ourselves when they took on the players.

We now had an uninterrupted view down into the lower area on the other side of the staircase. I couldn't help noticing the paint. It was more cream than white, and it was peeling. We moved a bit farther along and went down some steps that took us below the level of the grass. At the bottom, Davy turned and walked backward so he could face us as he explained, "This is the part the public don't get to see." We bent down to get past some large steel ventilation pipes. He pointed at the executive mansion.

"This is really the ground floor. Behind this wall are some of the state rooms, like the Diplomatic Reception Room, the China Room, that kinda thing." He indicated the area below us.

"But this is more interesting... the basement, that's where it's at. In fact, there are two basements. Bowling, rest areas, paint shop and repairs. There's even a bomb shelter down there."

Looking to the right, I saw windows that opened onto rooms under the White House driveway and lawn.

We came to a white, glass-paneled double door. Actually, it was more gray than white, now. You could tell this was the admin area. Davy kept the door open for me and Sarah. Josh followed.

We were now under the main staircase. Across the way the satellite crew were working under the eagle eye of an ERT escort. Davy gave him a wave.

"Hi, Jeff, good to see you, man."

Davy steered us toward the door that was nearest the other entrance, into which all the cables seemed to lead. Once through it, I was hit straightaway by the smell: the heavy odor of school dinners and cleaning products that I'd known as a child and that, as I got older, I came to associate with army cook houses or stairways of low-rent accommodation. We were in a hall about four meters wide, with polished floor tiles. The walls were stone, with a plaster skim and many years' worth of cream gloss paint. Grooves and concave shapes had been gouged into the plaster by carelessly pushed food trolleys, an empty one of which was parked up in the corridor.

Following the cables, we passed an elevator and staircase on our left, then went through another door. It was like walking into a different world.

We emerged into the opulent splendor of marble walls and glass chandeliers, hanging from high cross-vaulted ceilings. The smell had disappeared.

Blocking the view to our left were two tall brown screens, positioned like a roadblock. Davy and Josh muttered greetings to the ERT and two Secret Service agents who were in the area. One of them had a blue tie with golfers in various poses, the other had a yellow one covered with little biplanes.

Davy said, "This is the ground floor hallway. We can't see down it today as the president will be here later on. He won't want to see all this stuff trailing around." He was pointing to the cabling.

Sarah wanted to know more.

"Why, what's happening in here? I thought everything was going on outside?"

Two television technicians walked past from left to right, escorted by their ERT minder. Josh was still talking quietly to the two Secret Service guys.

Davy whispered, "At about eleven, Arafat, Netanyahu and the president will be in the Diplomatic Reception Room for coffee." He nodded his head toward the TV crew, who were now walking back toward us.

"These guys are rigging up a remote for CNN that's going to put out live coverage.

The leaders stay there for twenty to thirty minutes, then move out for an early lunch."

Sarah was trying to work out where the Diplomatic Reception Room was, pointing past the screens.

"That's the oval-shaped room down there on the right, isn't it?"

Davy nodded.

"Yeah, after lunch they then move to the Blue Room.

That's the same shape and directly above on the first floor. Then, at one o'clock, they walk out onto the lawn and get blasted by the heavenly choir." He screwed up his face again at the thought of 200 kids out of tune.

Josh came over and joined us.

"Hey, guys, I think we'd better move on."

We got the hint. The Secret Service guys didn't want us around so near coffee time.

We started down the corridor to the right, following the cables. Davy sparked up, pointing at a large white double door at the end of the corridor.

"That leads to the west wing, where the briefing area is." The cable went through a door on the left of the corridor. We turned right and entered one of the admin areas. The smell came back to me. To the left was another elevator.

"That's the service elevator for the State Dining Room."

Davy was clearly enjoying his role as tour guide.

"It's directly above us on the first floor." To the right of the elevator was a spiral staircase.

We stopped by the elevator. Davy had a huge grin on his face.

"I gotta show you folks the burn marks you Brits made last time you made an unannounced visit!"

A trolley headed toward us, pushed by an efficient-looking, mid-fifties black guy in black trousers, waistcoat, tie and a very crisply laundered white shirt. It was laden with coffee pots, cups and saucers, biscuits of all sorts. The guy said, "Excuse me, gentlemen," then saw Sarah and added, "and lady," in a very courteous manner as he cruised past, the cups rattling on the metal trolley. Basically, of course, he was just telling us to get the fuck out of the way. He was a man with a mission.

We climbed down the spiral staircase as Davy continued his running commentary.

"We have two other elevators, one hundred and thirty-two rooms and thirty-three bathrooms."

Josh chipped in.

"And seven staircases."

I tried to raise a smile of acknowledgment. At any other time this would be interesting, but not now.

At the bottom we stopped by a pair of fire doors with thick wooden panels inset with two rectangular strips of wired, fire-resistant glass and covered with dirty hand marks where they got continuously pushed. Above them sat a large slab of stone supporting the archway. Black scorch marks were clearly visible.

"We've kept them there just as a little reminder of the sort of thing that happens when you guys come to town. Not that you stayed that long; we'd had more than enough of you by then."

There was more laughter. I saw Sarah check her watch.

Davy said, "You know, people think that it was called the White House after you Brits burned it down. Not so, it only got its name in 1901, under ..." He turned to Josh for the answer.

"Roosevelt." Josh looked at us sheepishly.

"Hey, if you work here you have to know these things."

There wasn't much we could say, and there was only so much burned stone we could look at. After a minute or so, Davy said, "OK, let's go bowl a few."

As we pushed our way through the fire doors, I could see maybe twenty-five or thirty meters of white painted corridor in front of me, each side of which had white wooden doors slightly inset into the walls. The whole area had a functional feel. It was lit by strip lighting, with secondary lighting boxes positioned at key points in case of power failure or fire. The same cook house-and-polish smell hung in the air. There was no activity down here at all. Our footsteps squeaked on the tiles and echoed along the corridor.

We came to a pile of cardboard boxes and bulging bin liners stacked against the wall.

"It's just like any other house," Davy said.

"All the junk goes into the basement."

We passed several of the white doors and came to a gray metal one with a slowly flashing red bulb above it. Davy pointed up.

"Let's see who's in."

He swiped his ID card through a security lock and said, "Welcome to Crisis Four."

He opened the door and gestured us in. I followed Sarah into a darkened room that contained a bank of at least twenty CCTV screens set into the wall in banks of three. Each carried a different picture, with a time code bar at the bottom ticking away the milliseconds. The colored views were of large, richly decorated rooms, and hundreds of meters of corridors and colonnades. On a desktop that ran the whole length of the console, illuminated by small down lighters were banks of telephones, microphones and clipboards.

I went in and moved to one side so that Josh could follow. The temperature was cooler in here; I could hear the air conditioning humming gently

above me. Lined up in front of the bank of screens were four office chairs on castors. The sole occupant of the room was sitting on one of them, dressed inERT black, his baseball cap illuminated by the screens as he mumbled into one of the phones.

I looked at Sarah. Her eyes were glued to the screens; I could see the light from them reflecting off her face.

The phone went down and Josh called out, "Yo, Top Cat! How goes it?"

TO spun around in his chair and raised both arms.

"Heyyya, fella! I'm good. It's been a while." He was white and looked in his mid-thirties, with a very smart, well-trimmed mustache.

They shook hands and Josh introduced us.

"This is Nick, and this is Sarah, they're from the U.K. Friends of mine. This is TO." We both walked over to him, and he stood up to shake hands. His chin already had shadow and he looked as if he needed five or six shaves a day; either that, or he'd been on duty all night. He was maybe about five foot six, with short dark brown hair under his black cap.

TC's firm grip contrasted with his very soft Southern accent, but both oozed confidence.

"What have you seen so far?"

"Josh has been showing us what happened the last time the Brits were down here."

Sarah had a question to ask Davy.

"Do you think it would be possible to see the State Dining Room? It's just that I'm a big fan of Jackie 0 and..."

Davy looked at TO, who shrugged apologetically.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you folks that no one can go upstairs today."

Josh felt that he had to explain.

"Access depends on what is going on.

Just about any other day would have been fine. Hey, thousands of people visit most days; it's one of Washington's biggest attractions."

Sarah and I both started waffling variations on the theme of, "It's no problem, it's great just being here. We're really enjoying it."

Davy sounded like he had a good idea.

"I tell you what, from here you can see it all anyway." He pointed at the screens, and then proceeded to give us a quick rundown.

"As I said, this room is Crisis Four. It's one of the control centers from where any incident in the White House or grounds can be monitored and controlled. Which control center is used depends on where the incident occurs."

Sarah and I were all eyes and ears as we looked at the screens, especially the one that showed the press briefing room. Not much had changed in there. I kept my eye on it, though.

TO took over the brief as he went back to his chair.

"Crisis Four could be used, say, if anything happened upstairs--the president and first lady would be moved down here to the secure area. It also doubles as the bomb shelter. There's a kinda neat room beyond this for the VIPs." He pointed at a screen.

"There's the State Dining Room. That's kinda neat, too."

It didn't look as if lunch was going to be served there today. The long dark wood table had just silver candelabras placed along its center. Apart from that it was bare. Sarah studied the picture for a while, as if taking in all the detail of the decor. My eyes were focused on the shot of the briefing room.

"Is that the Diplomatic Reception Room?" Sarah put her finger on a screen to my left, pointing to a doorway. Looking over, I could see the brown screens blocking off the ground floor corridor, and the ERT escort standing over the CNN guys, who were still fiddling about with cables.

TO confirmed it.

"That's right. Any minute now you'll see the big three appear and walk in there. At the moment they're across the hall, in the library."

As I watched the picture he was indicating, flicking back to check the briefing room every few seconds, our friendly waiter came out of the reception room and walked back toward the brown screens. This time his trolley was empty. I heard com ms mush coming from TC's earpiece.

"The coffee's there, all we need now are the drinkers." The ERT guy began to move the CNN people out of the corridor, back toward their wagon. I flicked my eyes over at one of the screens again. Shit! Bill Gates was in the briefing room. At least, the hair and glasses matched what I thought he looked like. He had walked in and was just looking around. I needed Sarah to confirm, but she was the other side of Davy as we all stood around TO in his chair. I kept looking at her, trying to catch her eye. I couldn't say anything yet; I could be wrong. Why wasn't she also checking that screen? They were focused on the other one with the four Secret Service men at the far end of the corridor.

More mush was coming from TC's earpiece.

"Here they come ..."

A few seconds later the three world leaders walked out into the corridor and turned toward the camera. They were moving quite slowly so that Arafat could keep up. I checked Bill Gates. He was now sitting down and writing. I looked back at the other screen, then at Sarah. Come on, look at me, check the screen, do something! She was oblivious to anything but the three leaders as a group of advisers followed them, clutching folders and nodding with each other as they walked.

"Hey, let's give you folks a listen." TO leaned over the desktop and hit a button on the console. A speaker in front of us burst into life. A very quick but calm New York voice was giving commands over the net. People were acknowledging him in just the same tones. It sounded like mission control at Houston. Small red buttons were now lit on three of the microphones on the desk. I checked Bill Gates. He hadn't moved.

They walked along the corridor for a short way, Clinton between the two others as they moved in line abreast. A few paces more and they turned left into the Reception Room.

I looked across at Sarah. She was checking the large green digital display clock on the wall. It was 10:57; they were right on time.

"Hey, Sarah, isn't that Gatesy? You know, that reporter friend of yours?" I couldn't think of anything else to say. I pointed and everyone turned to look.

Sarah took a step forward and looked at the figure sitting down, reading his notes. Standing back, she looked at me.

"No, it's not. His hair is much darker. But they do look similar."

TO stood up "That's it, folks, I've gotta go." He hit the console button.

The sound and red microphone lights died.

We all shook hands again.

"I hope you people have a good trip. Ask these two nicely, see if they'll take you over to the Treaty Room."

Davy said, "It's on the itinerary, after the alley."

TO nodded as he headed for the door.

"See you guys. Hey, Davy, don't forget, four thirty this afternoon, we've got that meeting." They ran through a few details of their work admin while Sarah and I, the gooseberries, just stood by, keeping an eye on the briefing-room screen.

We followed TO out of Crisis Four. When we were all out in the corridor he made sure the door was secure, then turned right and walked off toward the fire doors with a cheery wave of the hand.

A couple of Hispanic women came squeaking along in white overalls and white patent-leather shoes, looking like a cross between cleaners and nurses, and talking at 100 mph in their own language. They stopped as they passed us, nodded and smiled, then returned to their warp-speed conversation.

We turned left and moved farther down the corridor.

Josh had an idea.

"Hey, you know what? I'll go over and see if I can get us into the Treaty Room, and maybe even the VP's office."

"That would be great," I said.

"Would we still be able to watch the press brief?"

Sarah joined in.

"Yes, I'd love to see that as well. I have--" Josh smiled as he put his hands up defensively, like a parent fending off an overenthusiastic child.

"Hey, no problem. In a few." He turned and walked toward the fire doors. Sarah and I exchanged a relieved glance as Davy led the way. We stopped two doors down.

Davy grinned.

"This is the best room in the house." He opened the door. Inside was an open space, maybe fifteen feet by fifteen, with stack able plastic chairs arranged around the walls, the same as in the briefing room. Beyond that, in shadow, was a single-lane bowling alley.

The floor was highly polished lino. The walls were painted white and covered with a couple of posters of bowling teams, and pushed against it was a large wooden box, also painted white, with compartments that looked as if they were holding about eight or nine pairs of bowling shoes.

There was whirring and clicking as all the bits and pieces of alley machinery came to life and the strip lighting along the alley flickered on.

Davy smiled back at us as he walked toward the shoes.

"I've got a great story for you guys."

By now the bowling balls were rolling up onto the stand and the pins were being positioned by the machine at the bottom of the lane.

Davy had his back to us, his shoulders rolling as he anticipated his own story. His head moved to look at us both again and he pointed at the top pair of shoes.

"You see these?" We both nodded. He looked back to pull them out. I took the opportunity for a quick look at Baby-G. Fifty-five minutes to go until the press brief.

Davy turned around to walk back to us.

"These are Bill's personal bowling shoes," he said.

"Look at the size of the things."

They must have been something like size sixteen, at least.

"He's a big man all right." Hefting them in his hand, he chuckled.

"You know the old saying, big feet, big..." He suddenly checked himself in case Sarah didn't approve. She was smiling.

The shoes were white with red stripes. As Davy reached us, he turned them around and showed us something.

"See this?" All smiles, he pointed to the back of the shoes. I saw that each had a little mark in black felt tip.

"One day Bill came down with some of his bowling buddies. He went to get his shoes, and a couple of the advisers saw this written on the back."

He pointed again. On one was the letter L, and on the other an R. "There they were, supposed to be discussing world affairs, and his aides were suddenly more worried about how he'd react to people writing on his shoes ... "Well, Bill picked them up, and for a moment there was silence ..." I could tell old Davy Boy had told this story many, many times, because the pauses were in just the right places. "... yep, there he was, the President of the United States, the most powerful man in the world, and someone had gotten a pen and done that to him!

"Nobody was too sure how he was going to take it. Anyways, he looked down at the shoes, and then Bill started to laugh.

"I'll tell you what, boys, this is just what I need ... they are so darned confusing, not being proper shoes and all."

" Davy started to laugh. I wasn't sure if the story was funny or not, and nor was Sarah. I just took Davy's lead and joined in. I could hear Sarah, standing slightly behind me, doing the same.

The laughter died down and Davy carried on, pleased with our reaction.

"And that's why it's still there. Apparently Bill says it cuts his prep time by a half, so there's more time to play."

He was going to put the shoes back. He turned away and took two steps, and there was a thud.

Bill's shoes fell out of Davy's hands. There was no blood until he hit the floor, face forward, and then it started to spurt from his head, dark and thick. I swung around.

Sarah was in a perfect firing position, standing at forty-five degrees to Davy, with her right pistol hand out straight, pushing the suppressed weapon at the target, her left hand cupped around both the pistol grip and the other hand, pulling back. She looked so relaxed she could have been on the range.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I shouted. What a bone question; I could see precisely what she was doing.

I didn't know why, but I was half whispering, half shouting as she lowered the pistol.

"For tuck's sake, we agreed, no killing. What are you doing bringing that thing in? We don't need it."

She just stood there, in a different world, calmly putting the pistol back into her waistband.

This was out of control. No matter what happened now, we were in a world of shit and I had no idea by whose rules we were playing.

I started to move toward the door.

She looked at me quizzically.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm locking the door what do you think I'm doing, letting everyone in? We're in deep shit, Sarah. Do you have any idea what you've done?

This won't stop anything; it makes it worse."

I reached the door and turned the lock inside the tumbler. It was pointless going over to Davy. There wasn't a sound from him, and dark, deoxygenated blood seeped from his mouth.

I stayed where I was, shaking my head in disbelief.

"It was under control, Sarah, for flick's sake. Midday the press brief, remember? What the fuck are you doing?"

She started toward the door. I moved across her, putting my arms up to stop her.

"Whoa, this is way out of control. It's time to stop this, now, and get help. Just get thinking of a fucking good story."

I pointed at Davy as I turned toward the door once more. Why had she done it? It took two seconds before it became obvious to me why. She'd stitched me up.

"You flicking bitch!" I started to turn back toward her.

At the same instant I felt pain explode in my stomach. The wind was knocked out of my lungs as I fell to my knees. I felt a fierce burning sensation on the left side of my gut.

The left side of my forehead hit the floor, then my nose. There were sparks flashing in my head. I tasted blood in my throat. I'd never taken a round before.

I couldn't see Sarah. I was too busy curling into a fetal position as I tried to control the pain.

I started a low moaning noise that I couldn't stop. I slowly, slowly rolled my head to find her. She was crouched over Davy. His ID was now around her neck; at a casual glance she would look part of the environment.

Her loafers tiptoed around him, avoiding the blood, then took the pistol from his belt and the two mags from their carrier.

I didn't want her to know that I was still alive. I lay as motionless as I could, eyes closed, trying to stifle my own moaning. It wasn't working.

I sensed her standing over me. I opened my eyes. She was just too far away for me to reach her, even if I'd been able to.

She looked at her watch and then at me. The weapon came up and stopped in line with her eyes. For the first time in my life I thought of someone I would miss, and I decided that my last thought would be about Kelly. I looked at Sarah and waited. There was a delay, but no emotion, no explanation. Then she said, "You have a child now. I hope you live long enough to see her." She lowered the weapon, checking her watch again as she walked away.

The tumbler was turned and the door opened. I tried to shout, but it didn't happen. The only sound that came out was a weak rasp.

"Fuck you!" Blood sprayed out of my mouth. She glanced down at me, no reaction in her eyes.

There was a pause as she checked outside, then the door closed quietly.

She was gone.

The pain was intensifying. I looked around frantically for a panic button or a phone, but I couldn't see too well, things were getting hazy. Two others left to kill Arafat? My ass; it had been her all along. How the fuck did I not see it?

Being curled up in a ball on the floor wasn't going to do me or the VIPs any good. I needed to do something, even if it didn't work. As I died, I would at least know that I'd tried to right my fuckup.

My vision was starting to blur. I was taking short, sharp breaths, and my stomach muscles were tensing of their own accord. I moved my hand over a hole in my belly the size of a five-pence piece and plugged it with my thumb. At least I didn't have to worry about an exit wound; I knew it was subsonic ammunition for the silenced Chinese thing. The round would still be kicking around inside me somewhere.

I dragged myself toward the door, through a pool of Davy's blood, which had started to ooze across the lino, and I was just about to pull myself up to open it when it swung inward and connected with my skull.

Curled up again in pain as more sparks flashed up in my head, I was just about switched on enough to know that I was stopping the door from opening fully.

Encountering resistance, whoever it was got their body weight behind the door and pushed hard. I was shunted along the floor until they could get in.

It was Sarah again. She didn't talk, just closed the door behind her.

Then, grabbing hold of my feet and avoiding the blood, she started to drag me facedown across the room, grunting with the effort.

I felt as if I had a magnesium incendiary burning in my stomach. I tried to keep tensed up, and all I could see was a dark trail of blood where my body had just been.

After four or five paces she dropped my feet on the floor. I moaned as I curled up, trying to reduce the pain as she aimed her pistol at the door.

It opened. Josh had good news.

"Hey, guys, it looks like we're going to " I tried to shout a warning, but nothing came. The expression on his face was of utter shock and disbelief, his eyes looking even wider behind his lenses. Sarah was in front of him in a perfect firing position, calmly pointing at his center mass. People take a while for this kind of information to sink in, especially if they're not expecting it, but Josh was catching on fast.

Sarah maintained her very cool, controlled voice.

"Close the door, Josh."

His eyes flicked between the two of us, took in Davy's prostrate body, then mine, and finally settled on the pistol, no doubt trying to work out how the fuck she'd brought it in.

"Close the door, Josh."

If Josh was scared, he wasn't showing it. He was taking in all the information;

without saying a word, he did as he was told and then stood stock still, showing Sarah his hands.

She said, "You will now turn around and put your hands on your head."

He knew the routine. If you've got your back to the person who's pointing the pistol at you, you can't assess what's going on.

"Move out of the blood, then down onto your knees."

Once you're on your knees, you're very vulnerable.

She had more instructions.

"With your left hand, using your thumb and forefinger, take your weapon out. Do it now."

I was helpless, just a curled-up bundle of shit. I heard voices in the corridor.

I recognized the loud Hispanic accents of the two white-shoed women, walking from the direction of the fire doors. Sarah quickly checked her watch again.

Should I call out? I didn't have the strength. They wouldn't hear me. I looked over at Josh, who I could see side-on. He was considering the same option.

He wasn't flapping as he obeyed her, his finger and thumb on the pistol grip.

"I'm taking it out now, Sarah."

"Good, Josh. Now put it on the floor behind you."

Keeping his right hand on his head, he flicked the weapon behind him onto the lino. I could see the sweat coming down from his bald head onto his face and the wet patches in the armpits of his jacket as he raised his arm again. Fear is a good thing, there's nothing wrong with that, it's a natural reaction; you've just got to be able to control it. He'd been here before and knew what to do.

For a moment I had the strange feeling that I was in an audience, looking at actors on a stage. I knew exactly what would be going through Josh's mind. He'd be wondering how he was going to get out of this, and just waiting for the chance to do something about it anything.

Blood is the same as milk. Drop a carton on the floor and it looks as if three have been emptied. Davy's blood had spread outward and was mixing with mine around my face. I didn't have the energy or inclination to move, I just spat from time to time to try and keep it from going in my mouth.

Sarah threw Josh's weapon the length of the bowling alley and the clatter echoed around the walls. She checked her watch once more.

"OK, Josh, this is what you will do. Are you listening?"

He nodded.

"You will take me to the Diplomatic Reception Room. You will be my escort. Do you understand?"

He was very calm as he answered, "I can't do that."

Americans have this wonderful total conviction about themselves and their country. Even when they're up to their necks in ten types of shit they have this unshakeable belief that everything will be all right, that America is behind them and the Seventh Cavalry will come over the hill at any moment.

After being captured during the Gulf War, as opposed to asking for things, American prisoners would demand them--they just knew they were on the winning side. In the Regiment, you always knew that if you were in the shit you would never be left behind, and that was sometimes the only thing that helped you through, but the Americans believe that at a national level. I wished I had their confidence.

Sarah couldn't quite believe what she'd heard.

"What?"

Josh said simply, "I will not do that."

There was a pause, and I watched Sarah's face for a reaction. It wasn't long coming.

"Josh, you've got some thinking to do, and not a long time to do it in. Think about your children. This is no time to mess about with your family, Josh. Take me to that room or you will die. I've got nothing to lose, I'm going to be dead soon anyway." She had certainly listened to my brief on how to get Josh to do want she wanted. She checked her watch. If she needed to get to the Diplomatic Reception Room before the end of the coffee break, there wasn't much time left.

"They're great kids. Josh, and they need you. You're all they have left.

Besides," she smiled her curious little smile, "you could even try to stop me. You can't do that if you're dead. I'm either going with you, or on my own, with you dead--in ten, Josh."

I saw his chest rise and fall as his body took in more oxygen to suppress the shock it was experiencing. I could only guess what he was thinking:

Do I die now? Or do I accept what she's saying, and try to prevent it on the way? At least then I'm going to be alive for a little longer.

I had blood in my throat and my voice was hoarse as I said, "Take her, Josh. Just do it."

He looked at me and our eyes locked. I could see for sure what he was thinking now: You fucking asshole. No matter if I had known what she was going to do or not, to him I was now the world's biggest bastard.

Fair one.

I looked up at Sarah as she gave the final warning.

"It's make-your mind-up time." She didn't have long until the coffee break ended.

He looked at the wall, thought for a few seconds more, and quietly said,

"OK."

"If you try to fuck with me, Josh, know this: I will kill you before anyone has time to react. I don't want your president. I just want the other two. But if you fuck with me ... do you understand me?"

He closed his eyes and nodded. When he opened them again he fixed them on mine. I hoped my eyes were saying: I didn't know this was going to happen, mate, and I'm sorry, so sorry.

But his expression told me it was a bit late for that.

Now that she was going to have an escort, Sarah took off Davy's ID card and put her own one back on. That was detail, and detail counts.

She said, "Let's go."

She stepped back from the door as Josh walked toward it.

"My weapon might be hidden, Josh, but at the slightest sign that you're fucking with me I'll ensure that I get you first."

He nodded, looked back at me and walked out.

She followed without giving me a second glance.

Everything was out of focus; my head was spinning. I was losing too much blood. Between us, Davy and I had the lino pretty much covered.

But now wasn't the time to worry about that; I had to accept that I'd been shot, and get on with it.

struggled onto my hands and knees, sucked in a couple of deep breaths and started to crawl over toward the abandoned ID card. Every movement was agony. With each bend of a knee or stretch of an arm I felt as if a red-hot saw was working on my stomach. It took me what felt like forever to cover the ten or so feet. My head was swimming as I tried to pull the nylon loop over my head without disturbing the injury in my guts.

When I'd finally finished, I couldn't even remember why I'd done it.

I began crawling to the door, coughing, spitting lumps of blood, moaning to myself like a drunk in the gutter, my clothes, face and hair soaked with my blood and Davy's.

On my knees, I fumbled with the handle like a panicking child. It was a normal knob, with the tumbler lock in the middle, but I couldn't make my hands work. My fingers weren't listening to my brain, or maybe it was just that they were too slippery with warm red fluid.

I knew what I was trying to do, but I couldn't accomplish it. Maybe it's true that your life can flash before you as you die. I was suddenly looking down a long tunnel, to when I was about six years old and fell through a glass roof into a garage. I'd been with a gang of older boys, running across the roof as an initiation test. I hit the ground, cut and bruised, and had to fight with the door bolt to escape. I was so scared that I couldn't make any

sense out of how to pull the fucking thing across, and once I'd gone through all that, there was no way I was going to show them how much it hurt. They let me join their gang.

My hands started to shake as they slithered around the door handle. I was losing it. I knew I was going to die soon. I didn't care; I just didn't want it to happen until I'd at least tried to stop Sarah.

I forced myself to calm down, take deep breaths and tell myself what I needed to do, just as I'd done back in that garage. It worked.

"Help ... help me ..." I tried to shout, but could only manage a weak splutter. Not surprisingly, nothing happened.

I couldn't just lie there in the doorway and wait. Pressing myself against the frame I scrabbled and pushed myself upright and, head reeling, I half turned, half fell into the corridor. I bent over, leaning against the wall for support, my left hand clutching my stomach. Blood smeared along the white plaster as I stumbled toward Crisis Four.

She didn't have far to go. If Josh fucked up and got zapped, she'd just have to follow those TV cables and she'd be there.

My only hope was to find TO. Anyone would be a start. I focused hard.

There was no red light on outside Crisis Four. Shit. I started to look for a fire alarm, though at that moment I didn't think I'd recognize one if it hit me in the face.

I felt my reserves of strength ebbing by the second as I swiped the ID card through the machine and tumbled through the door.

There was a picture on every screen, but they were moving in a slow spin, like a kaleidoscope. I started crawling again.

I didn't know how I got to TC's chair, let alone off the floor and into it.

All I knew was that, as I tried with every ounce of whatever strength I had left to focus on the screens, I could see her.

Sarah and Josh had just come out of the kitchen area. The ERT guy hadn't moved from the area of the brown screens and just turned toward them as they appeared.

Spitting out the blood and mucus that was gathering in my throat, I hit the microphone switch.

"Mayday, mayday. Black man, white woman on the first floor. Mayday, mayday ..." I didn't know if it would mean anything to them, but I hoped they'd get the idea.

There was no reaction from the ERT guy. Then all three slipped out of focus and became a blur. I screwed my eyes shut and opened them again, spitting out another mouthful of crap onto the desk.

Refocusing, I could see the ERT guy motioning to them to either move out toward the staircase or go back into the kitchen. I lifted my head to look at the picture above, which was showing what was happening on the other side of the brown screens. There were a few people in plain clothes at the far end, but no reaction from them either.

Fuck it! I tried again.

"All stations, all stations ..." then stopped, my head resting next to the base of the microphone. The red light wasn't on.

I started leaving bloodstains over as many buttons as I could reach, wishing I'd taken notice of which ones TO had hit when he turned off the speaker.

I got a light.

"Mayday, mayday .. . first floor, first floor. Mayday, mayd--" The ERT guy was switched on and responded immediately, moving toward them.

Sarah was quicker. She must have seen his face react to the message from his earpiece. She drew her weapon, instinctively aiming from the stomach as soon as it was free of her waistband. Josh dived on her, but too late. She fired.

The ERT guy dropped like a bag of shit. Then, within a second of the struggle, so did Josh. Fuck, what had I done?

Sarah turned and ran as the corridor filled with blurred figures in plain clothes and black uniforms.

The cameras were now cutting from location to location as the main control room tried to get a fix on her as she disappeared off the screen. I knew where she was going.

I swiveled around on the chair, and with my left hand on my gut, forced myself to my feet. The door shimmered in front of my eyes as if I were looking through a heat haze. I staggered into the corridor. I didn't look around, just turned right and faced the fire doors.

There couldn't have been much of the stuff left to be pumped around, but adrenaline was getting me up and moving.

She'd be here soon. The Secret Service would bring the principals down to the shelter until everything was clear, and she'd aim to cut them off.

I crashed through the two doors and looked up just as Sarah was taking her last steps down the spiral stairs. She was going shit or bust, head down, pistol in hand.

I couldn't think of anything else to do but throw myself at her in some sort of rugby tackle. Perhaps it would have helped if I'd ever played a game of rugby.

I collapsed against her, throwing my arms around her waist and linking them together behind her back as her momentum propelled me backward into the swing doors.

She was still moving, taking me with her, cracking me on the head with her pistol. By now I really couldn't feel that much. My arms slipped down to her legs and she started to fall with me.

The fire doors flew open again as we burst through. We both hit the ground and the doors swung back, trapping my lower legs.

She was stretched out, her back on the floor, and I was wrapped in a mess around her feet. I could make out the pistol was still in her hand.

My guts wrenched and screamed as I kicked my legs free from the doors and scrambled up her body, slapping my hand down heavily on her forearm to hold the weapon down. She kicked and bucked to try and get me off her. She was like an insect on its back, frantic to get upright.

I became aware of screaming, shouting and heavy footsteps echoing around the area, but it was as if a mute button had been hit, and everything was happening a long way away.

I didn't care where the noise was coming from. All that mattered was her left hand, which was going for Davy's pistol now that she couldn't use hers. I could feel it in her waistband as I moved farther up her body.

Her resistance got stronger; it was as if she were having some sort of fit, her head and body thrashing from side to side.

I put all my weight on her. It wasn't that difficult, I was fucked. Her hand struggled to work its way between us toward the weapon. Our heads were so close together that I could feel her breath on my face. I had to head-butt her, there was no other way. She reacted noisily. The three times I made contact, I heard the back of her head bounce off the floor. It was messy, but it slowed her up.

My head now hurt almost as much as my stomach. I was in shit state.

Keeping my forehead pushed against hers, blood dripping from my mouth and nose, I prized the gun out of her grip as she tried to clear her nose and mouth.

I rammed the barrel into her windpipe and looked at her, my forehead still putting pressure on hers. She didn't return my stare as I tried to focus, just closed her eyes and tensed her body as she waited for death. Our bodies rose and fell with her labored breathing as the doors were kicked open and I began to make sense of the shouting from behind me.

The mute button had been deactivated.

"Release the weapon! Release the weapon now! Do it!"

I thought about it for the two seconds I would have before they pulled or shot me off her.

Her body relaxed and she opened her eyes and looked at me. It was almost an order.

"Do it... please."

Fuck it. I tilted the gun upward and it slid two inches until it jammed under her chin. Pointing it toward her skull, I let my head move aside. Her eyes followed mine as I pulled the trigger.

Blood and splintered bone splashed onto the side of my face.

I'd finished the job I'd been ordered to do; that was what I made myself think. A moment later I felt the pain shoot up my arm as someone kicked the pistol out of my hand.

I was manhandled onto my back. I looked up and there was ERT black everywhere, then Josh loomed over me, blocking out everything else, blood dripping onto me from the mess on his face. They tried to pull him off me as he started to give me a good kicking. It wasn't working.

I turned on my side and curled up to protect myself, and through the haze I could hear orders being shouted and the general confusion around me.

I was losing it. Josh was still screaming above me, and managed a few more kicks. It didn't matter, I could no longer feel them. What I really wanted to happen, did. I became unconscious.

JUNE 1998

I came out of the flat on Cambridge Street, checked I'd put the key on the ring of my Leatherman and closed the door behind me. It was a strange feeling, being a virtual prisoner here in Pimlico. I'd brought plenty of worried-looking people here in the past, but never imagined that some day I'd be one of the victims myself.

The debrief was taking forever. The Firm was trying to strike a deal with the Americans. Both sides wanted this to go away, and they weren't the only ones. It had been four weeks since I'd come out of hospital, and I'd been confined to the area ever since, under what amounted to house arrest.

I was getting paid, and at operational rate, but it still wasn't a good day out.

None of my injuries hurt much anymore, but I still needed bucket loads of antibiotics. The entry wound had sealed up quite well. All that was left was a dent in my stomach, colored the same vivid pink as the puncture wounds in my arm.

Walking down the last couple of stone steps to the pavement, I looked to my left at the crowd enjoying an end-of-the-week drink at the picnic tables outside the pub. Friday evening's rush hour had turned the whole street into a car park. The traffic fumes were cooking up nicely in the early evening sun. The heat was unusual for this time of year. It felt more like

Los Angeles than London.

I crossed between the stationary vehicles, heading for the all-in-one shop on the corner. The Asian father and son combo were used to me now;

dad started folding a copy of the Evening Standard as soon as he saw me come in. I felt like a local. Weaving back over the road, I headed for the

pub. There were just as many people inside, and above the din Robbie Williams was giving it full volume on the sound system. The smell of smoke, stale beer and body odor reminded me not to come here again. It did that every night.

I worked my way toward the rear, where I knew it wouldn't be so packed, and, besides, that was where the food was. I'd started to recognize some of the regulars sad fucks like me, with nowhere else to go, or office workers big-timing it, or old men smoking their roll-ups and spending an hour nursing a warm pint.

I asked for my usual bottle ofPils and, helping myself to a handful of peanuts from one of the bowls, headed for a booth. The one with the most room was occupied by an old man who looked as if he'd just come from a British Legion outing, all tie and association badges. He couldn't have been there long; his bottle of light ale hadn't yet been poured into his half of bitter.

"Anyone sitting here, mate?"

He looked up and shook his head. I eased myself into the seat slowly, taking care that my jeans didn't ride up and expose the tag around my right ankle. Taking a swig ofPils, I opened the newspaper.

It was all the usual doom and gloom. Ethiopian and Eritrean forces had stopped bombing the shit out of each other with their MIG 23s to give foreign nationals time to be airlifred from the war zone. That was the sort of work I liked, just plain and simple war. You knew where you stood with that shit.

I scanned the rest of the news sections, but there was still nothing about what had happened in Washington. Still no mention of the injuries to the ERT guy and Josh, and I knew now that there never would be. Lynn had given me the American party line during one of our little evening rides around town. The press release was short: a stressed-out member of the domestic staff had become temporarily deranged in the White House basement. It was a minor incident, dealt with in minutes. The three world leaders hadn't been made aware until well after the event. The most the story ever got was a column inch in the following day's Washington Post.

I was glad the ERT guy hadn't died. He'd just been wounded in the thigh something to tell the grandchildren about. Josh had got it big time in the face. Lynn said the round had split the flesh on the right side and made his mouth look as if it ended by his ear. I'd been told the surgery was a success, but I doubted he'd ever be modeling for Calvin Klein.

My one hope was that his Christian thing would work in my favor. Sitting in the flat a few days earlier, waiting for the debriefing team to arrive, I'd been listening to Thought for the Day on the radio.

"If you can't forgive the sin," the voice had said, "at least try to forgive the sinner."

Sounded good to me. I just hoped Josh could get Radio Four in his truck.

I hadn't spoken to him yet; I'd wait a while, give him time to calm down and me time to work out what the fuck I was going to say.

I hadn't seen Kelly since the Americans released me into the Firm's custody. We'd spoken on the phone, and she thought I was still away working.

She said that Josh had called. He'd told her nothing about what had happened, just that Sarah and I had visited.

I still had no regrets about killing Sarah. The only thing that pissed me off was that every time in my life I'd let someone get close to me, they fucked me over. Everybody, that is, apart from Kelly. It seemed to be my job to do that to her.

I'd blown it again by making promises I couldn't keep. She still wanted to go to the Bloody Tower, and she wanted to go with me. Three times now I'd arranged it, only to cancel at the last minute because the debrief dragged on. At least she was going to her grandparents this weekend. Carmen and Jimmy would spoil her rotten.

I took another long swig of Pils fuck the antibiotics, I usually forgot to take them anyway and checked Baby-G. They started serving in twenty minutes.

The debrief was going OK, I thought, but you never knew with these people. I wasn't getting as hard a time of it as I might, mainly because Lynn and Elizabeth were potentially in just as much shit as I was and were taking measures to cover their asses. Even so, every event of those five days was being dissected in great detail. Not documented, of course. How could it be; it hadn't happened.

Not that any of it meant much. I was lying to the team, using a script supplied by the good colonel. I'd RV with him each evening, and the Serb would give us a few laps of London. As Lynn had said, "You need guiding, Nick, on some of the more, shall we say, delicate areas of the operation."

And, of course, to avoid the slight problem of the T104, since not even the investigation crew would be aware that such things existed. The only ones in the know were lowlife like me, Elizabeth and Lynn. To the investigators, I didn't even have a name; I was just referred to as the "paid asset." That suited me just fine.

Lynn had already told me that I'd been sent on the job because, if anyone could find her, I could. But I knew there was more to it than that. It had become blindingly obvious that those two fuckers had known all along what she was up to, and thought I'd be so pissed off with her I'd feed her through the grinder without a second thought.

They'd even known where she was hiding, but wanted me to go through the process of finding her. They reckoned that if I thought I'd tracked her down through my own efforts, and if what I saw on the ground confirmed their story, that would put me even more in the mood.

There were still loose ends, of course. I still couldn't work out if Metal Mickey was part of Lynn's game or not. After all, Lynn did say he was loyal. But to whom? Fuck it, who cared? It just annoyed me that these people could never just tell it straight. Why bother to tell me all that bullshit?

I would still have done the job if I'd known the truth. The fucking games they played pissed me off, and worse, they put me in danger.

Naturally, nothing in the big picture had been changed by Sarah's death. Bin Laden was still out there doing his stuff. Yousef had closed down, but he'd probably resurface in a year or two. And I still wasn't going to be getting permanent cadre: they said I'd be a disruptive influence on the team. I'd tried to get a bung instead, claiming that what happened in the White House might have been my fuckup, but I did stop the president from being shot. Well... you have to elaborate a bit. It didn't work.

Even the deafest old duffer in the pub must have heard their laughter. All I got was the promise that if a single word came from my lips that was off message I was history.

My major concern now was, what did I get up to after this? I needed to get some real money together so I didn't have to carry on getting fucked over by these people. Maybe I'd take a look at the American rewards program.

Bounty hunting terrorists, white supremacists and South American drug dealers wouldn't be so bad. Maybe I could try and recover those Stingers from the muj. Who knows?

The bottle was empty. People were three deep at the bar and it took ages to get myself another. As I rejoined my mate in the booth, I was again careful not to expose the light-gray band of plastic around my ankle, housing its two inch by two inch box of electronics. I checked my watch again; just over ten minutes till the peanuts disappeared and the menus were put on the bar. Not that I needed one. I knew it all by heart.

I thought about Sarah again. I'd learned more about her in my stints with Lynn than I had in all the time I'd known her. I'd always felt that she was holding something back from me, and in my stupid way I'd decided it was because she was scared of intimacy.

Sitting back on the cigarette-burned red velour, I started to pick at the label on the Pils bottle. The old man bent his neck as he tried to read the headlines on my paper. I passed it across the table.

The night before last had been another hot and humid one. Lynn had picked me up as usual for our daily debrief on the debrief, but this time in his new Voyager. It looked like the Firm's budget had got a bit of a boost this new fiscal year. The air conditioner was going full blast. The Serb, as ever, kept his eyes fixed on the road.

"How was all this allowed to happen?" I said.

"How come you didn't suspect her earlier?"

Lynn kept his gaze on the real world beyond the darkened window.

"Elizabeth voiced concerns." He shrugged.

"We took a few people aside for a word, but there was nothing we could put our finger on. The false flag operation in Syria seemed like a good moment to put her to the test."

Lynn obviously held a lot more pieces of the puzzle in his hand than he was letting me see, but he did tell me this much. The Syrian operation had been taken on by the Brits only as a means of checking whether Sarah was Bin Laden's best mate. It was Elizabeth's idea. Sarah changed the data, killed the Source and covered her tracks. She was good at doing that. I thought back to her giving the American a round in the head after taking his clothes in the forest. But she wasn't good enough in Syria. Without knowing it, Sarah confirmed that she didn't exactly go to sleep every night humming "Rule Britannia." It was then just a question of letting her lead the way to Bin Laden. The only problem for Elizabeth was that she had omitted to fill in the Americans when Sarah was posted to Washington.

Lynn had turned and looked at me as if to underline his next disclosure.

"Things got slightly out of hand when Sarah took an active part in the ASU," he said.

"Once that had happened, how could we tell our friends across the sea? That was where you came in."

I let that one sink in in amongst all the other crap I was trying to make sense of.

The investigating team had been clutching at straws to explain Sarah's behavior, and I wasn't doing much better. I asked him, "Do you know what turned her?" He seemed to know everything else.

"We'll never completely know, will we? People are still trying to fathom out T. E. Lawrence ... and who really knows what made Philby and the rest do what they did?" There was a pause.

"A team went to Sarah's mother, to pass on the tragic news. She was saddened, of course, but very proud of her daughter's most untimely death in the service of her country."

"I thought her parents were dead."

"No, just her father. He died when she was seventeen. A team have been weaseling with the mother for a few weeks now. You know, trying for any links or information that may be useful."

Sarah's father, George, they had learned, was a big-time oil executive who was a stern disciplinarian and a major-league hypocrite. He'd spent his whole working life in the Middle East without ever getting to like the Arabs unless, that is, they were either royal or wealthy preferably both and took to all things Western in much the same way that flies take to shit. The right sort of Arab certainly didn't include his lower-class domestic staff and their nine-year-old son.

The friendship between Sarah and Abed had been perfectly innocent, the mother had said. The fact was, her daughter was just desperately lonely. But as far as George was concerned, inside every Arab was a rapist just waiting to get out.

The two kids were inseparable. Sarah was an only child, pushed from pillar to post all her life, with a remote, domineering father, a placid, ineffectual mother, and no opportunity to make lasting relationships. You wouldn't need to be an agony aunt to understand her joy in finding a friend at last.

George, however, was not amused. One day, Abed's mum and dad didn't turn up for work. Nor did the boy come around in the afternoon, as he usually did. The whole family seemed to have vanished. Then, just a few days later, Sarah's father pulled the plug on her education in Saudi and packed her off to a U.K. boarding school.

It was only after her father had died that Sarah learned what had really happened. She was helping her mother go through her father's things when she came across a gold Rolex Navigator.

Sarah said, "I never knew Daddy had one of these."

Her mother looked at the watch and burst into tears.

The Rolex had been given to him by a grateful business acquaintance.

It was George's prize possession. He had accused Abed of stealing it, and thrown the whole family out onto the streets. With a reputation as thieves hanging over them, their chances of ever working again would have been ziff. They would have seen out their days as "dust people," the lowest of the low, outcasts from Saudi society and living on the edge of starvation.

Sarah waited until her mother had finished, then left the house without another word. She never saw her again.

"Of course, I don't go along with all this nonsense about blaming everything in your life on the traumas of childhood," Lynn said.

"My parents dragged me around Southeast Asia until I was seven, then I went to Eton. Never did me any harm."

The menus were being plonked unceremoniously on the bar counter by the girl who'd served me before. The thought of dishing out another hundred stuff and chips obviously didn't fill her with too much excitement.

I decided on the pie and another beer. The same as last night and the night before. A quick look at Baby-G told me it was seven forty-eight, just over half an hour until my RV Traffic was still clogging the street by the time I left, but at least it was moving. I turned left, checked my watch yet again and headed toward Victoria Station. Thirteen minutes till the pickup. I turned two corners and stopped, waiting to see if anyone was following. They weren't.

Crossing the road, I cut through a housing estate that was packed with K reg Vauxhall Astras and Sierras, sat on a wall by the rubbish chute and waited. Half a dozen kids were skateboarding up and down the only bit of clear tarmac they could find--the exit in front of me that led onto the main drag toward the station. I listened to their banter, thinking about when I was where they were.

I thought of Kelly--the girl who'd had her whole family killed, and now had a stand-in father who constantly let her down. And worse than that, much worse, I was probably the closest thing she had to a best friend.

Sarah's words came back to me.

"You have a child now. I hope you live long enough to see her."

I cut away from all that and got back to real life by reminding myself of the two big lessons I'd learned in Washington. The first was never again to be so soft with someone who showed emotion toward me. I had to stop kidding myself that I knew, or even understood, that sort of stuff. The second was easier: always carry a pistol. I never wanted to play Robin Hood again.

It was last light as I sat, watched and listened. Sarah's words still bugged me.

"You have a child now ..."

The Voyager would be arriving any minute. I looked at Baby-G and thought about George's Rolex. And then I knew what I had to do. I wasn't exactly a top-of-the-range example for Kelly, but the very least I could do was be dependable. Maybe, just maybe, the one thing that Sarah had given me by sparing my life was the chance to do the right thing.

Moving swiftly away from the RV point, I jumped a fence that secured a communal garden.

Crouching in the shadows, I pulled the Leatherman from my pocket, opened the knife blade, and cut away at the plastic encircling my ankle.

The pliers made short work of the half-inch steel band that ran beneath.

I knew that the instant the circuit was broken the alarm would be raised. Even as the tag was being binned in the bushes, the standby team would be running for their cars, getting briefed via their body com ms (personal radios).

Jumping back over the fence, I headed toward Victoria at a controlled, fast pace. Fuck 'em. What were they going to do? Well, quite a bit, but I'd worry about that when it happened. It wasn't as if I was doing an out and out runner. I'd be back in the flat on Sunday, talking to the morons about Afghanistan. The only difference would be that I'd have acquired two new friends with necks as big as the Serb's, assigned to guard me 24/7, just in case I was overcome again by the desire to take a weekend off.

There were sirens behind me now on the other side of the estate. They must be flapping big time to call in the police.

As I neared the station I just hoped the investigating team had kids of their own, and would understand when I explained to them on Sunday that all I wanted to do was take my child to the Bloody Tower for a day out.

After all, I'd made her a promise. A normal person's promise.