Deception

TWENTY-ONE

Staff Sergeant Gerry McCreath stood by the door of his bedroom and listened for sounds of movement. The hotel he was being kept in was large, square and anonymous, fancy enough to be expensive, yet still a soulless block of glass and steel, a couple of miles from Brussels city centre. He hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours straight in the past three days, but that wasn’t down to the bedding or the decor. First had been the unfamiliar, of not being constantly under orders. Even in Selly Oak Hospital, his timetable had been fixed from morning until night. Second came the pricking of conscience after agreeing to do what he’d never thought himself capable of. Now it was fear, plain and simple.

Oddly enough, fear was something he could deal with. Christ, he’d known enough of it recently.

He scooted across to the bedside cabinet and gathered his few belongings together. Cash, watch, wallet, a cheap paperback he couldn’t get into. He tossed the book aside and dropped the rest into his pockets, resolve suddenly spurring him on. Then he picked up his overnight bag and paused to take stock. He was dressed in a jacket, white shirt and dark slacks, which the men who’d brought him here had made him wear. It fitted the ambiance better, one of them had joked. A man named Deakin, ex-British army. He seemed to think it was amusing, a serving soldier agreeing to trade the information in his head in exchange for cash and a new identity. Like it was some kind of game.

He was breathing fast — too fast. He had to keep control. Ever since his wounds had been patched up, he’d been getting anxiety attacks. The slightest thing could set them off, from a door slamming, to the sound of someone shouting. . The medics said it was normal and they’d subside in time. But if anything they seemed to be getting worse. And now this situation wasn’t exactly helping. He forced himself to calm down, focussing on the wall and trying to find a picture of somewhere serene. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. Right now it had to.

Since deciding to seek the Protectory’s help, he’d been doubtful about what he was getting into. Going on the run had been done on a whim, high on prescription drugs and the after-effects of his injuries, when he was desperate to be away from the stuff he’d been doing with 16 Air Assault Brigade. It wasn’t going to work out over there, he told himself. The lads would be at it for years, slowly losing numbers. Eventually the politicians would have to admit defeat, or have Afghanistan as a permanent killing ground, a gross war of attrition. How could you fight an enemy you couldn’t even see most of the time? Where they hid among civilians and came at you out of nowhere, and the next time you stepped down from a Chinook in a swirling dust cloud you could be right on top of an IED-

He breathed deeply until the thoughts receded. Too late for all that. Focus. He’d made the jump and now he had to face the consequences. Whether he did the trade the Protectory wanted him to, emptying his head of everything he knew or. . he did what his brain was telling him to do right now, before anyone came back, he was out on a limb and would have to make the best of it. Trouble was, he now knew, after what he’d just heard, changing his mind might be the last thing he ever did.

So much for the support the head man of the Protectory — Deakin? — had promised. Help us, he’d said, and we’ll help you. If you don’t want to, no fault, no worries. We’ll give you a ticket out and new papers, even a couple of names and addresses where you’ll find work and a chance to disappear into the undergrowth. He was certainly persuasive, that Deakin, no messing. Made it all sound so simple. Only it wasn’t. Not now. Now it was shit serious and. . Christ, what would his mum have said. .?

He gripped his bag tight, his breathing coming under control, every muscle and nerve telling him he should be on the move. He had to make a decision. Now. Stay here and sell out. . or go back and face whatever shit they wanted to throw at him. There were no half measures. Only, if he was going back, he’d have to move quick, while the two Bosnian minders were out of the way. They’d disappeared suddenly, but promised to be back. It must have been them who did for Neville Pike. They had that look about them. The call to his mate earlier, who’d put him in touch with Deakin in the first place, had been a shocker. News from England, he’d said, then told him about a hit on a car carrying two redcaps and a third man named Pike.

Is that what they did to people who changed their mind?

He’d tried to ignore it, thinking there had to be more to it. Maybe Pike had blown it and threatened to dob them in. Then another thought came creeping, one that stopped him getting to sleep at the thought of the Bosnians. Was it only the doubtful who got slotted? Or was it everyone’s fate?

He eased the door open and peered through the crack. Saw a long corridor with a light-tan carpet lit by yellow overhead lights. Follow the yellow brick road to. . what? He took a deep breath. He could make it down there, no problem, like a greyhound on whisper mode. If anyone else showed up, either Deakin or his Yank mate, he’d run right through them. He already had his exit route scoped: down the back stairs and out through a side door near the kitchens. In a place like this, the fire escape door was probably rigged to show up on a security screen if it was opened. He couldn’t risk that. But he’d seen the staff sneaking out for smokes through another door, and figured that would be his best way. He’d noticed how taxis were always coming and going here, too, all through the night, so there would be no problem flagging one down and flashing some notes. Quick trip to the station and he’d be heading for the coast.

And England. London. Home.

He stepped out and started running.