Remote Control

REMOTE CONTROL

Andy McNab

GIBRALTAR: SUNDAY, MARCH 6,1988

We didn't know which of the three was going to detonate the bomb. All Simmonds had been able to tell us was that it was a big one, and that it would be initiated remotely.

For now, though, there was nothing to do but wait. The security service had triggers out on the checkpoints with mainland Spain. Until the players were sighted, Pat, Kev, and I were to stay exactly where we were: sitting outside a cafe just off Main Street, drinking coffee, looking and listening.

The spring air was crisp and clear under a blindingly blue Mediterranean sky, the morning sun just starting to make it comfortable enough for shirtsleeves. The trees that lined the square were packed with birds so small I couldn't see them among the foliage, but they made enough noise to drown out the sound of traffic going up and down the main drag, just out of sight. It was strange to think that this small outpost, on the tip of southern Spain, was still under British jurisdiction, a last bastion of Empire.

Through my earpiece I heard Euan make a radio check to the operations room. Everything he said on the net was very precise, very clear, very calm. Euan was the tidiest man in the world. If you sat on a cushion he would puff it up again the moment you stood up. Dedication was his middle name.

I heard a loud hiss of air brakes and looked up. A tour bus had turned into the square and was parking about twenty yards away. The sign in the windshield said young at heart.

I didn't pay much attention. I was bored, looking for things to do. The laces on one of my running shoes had come undone.

I bent down to do them up and got a jab in the ribs from the hammer of the 9mm Browning. The holster was covert, inside my jeans; that way, only the pistol grip would be in view if I pulled open my black nylon bomber jacket. I preferred to have my pistol at the front. A lot of the guys wore theirs on the side, but I could never get used to it. Once you find a position you like, you don't change; you might be in deep shit one day, go to draw your weapon and it isn't there it's several more inches to the right and you're dead.

I had an extended twenty-round magazine protruding from the pistol grip. I also had three standard thirteen-round mags on my belt if fifty-nine rounds weren't enough, I shouldn't be doing this for a living.

The senior citizens began getting off the bus. They were typical Brits abroad, the men dressed almost identically:

beige flannels, sensible shoes, and a V-neck sweater over a shirt and tie. Most of the women were in polyester slacks with elastic waistbands and a sewn-in crease down the front. They all had flawless, blow-dried, jet black, white, or blue-rinsed hair. They spotted the cafe and started to move as a herd toward us.

Pat muttered, "Fuck me, the enemy must be getting desperate They've sent the Barry Manilow fan club. Friends of yours, grand ad He grinned at Kev, who offered him a finger to swivel on. Whether you like it or not, you have to quit the SAS the Special Air Service at the age of forty, and Kev had just a year or two of his contract with the Regiment left.

The young at heart settled down at nearby tables and picked up the menus. It was now decision time for them whether to have dessert or go for a sandwich, because it was halfway between coffee break and lunchtime and they didn't know which way to jump.

The waiter came out, and they started talking to him one syllable at a time. He looked at them as if they were crazy.

On the net I heard, "Hello, all call signs, this is Alpha. Radio check, over." Alpha, who was located in the ops room, was our controller. When we'd flown in sixty hours ago, our team of eight SAS soldiers and support staff had requisitioned rooms in the accommodation block at HMS Rooke, the British naval base in the docks, and turned them into living space.

Kev responded quietly into his concealed microphone:

"Golf."

Pat: "Oscar."

I heard Euan: "November."

My turn came: "Delta."

The elderly Brits started taking pictures of themselves.

Then they were swapping cameras so they could appear in their own photographs.

Slack Pat got up and said to one of them, "Here yare, love, want me to take one of all of you?"

"Ooh, you're from England, are you? Isn't it nice and warm now?"

Slack was in his early thirties, blond-haired, blue-eyed, good-looking, clever, articulate, funny; he was everything I hated. He was also six feet two, and one of those people who naturally shit muscle. Even his hair was well toned; I'd seen him climb into his sleeping bag with his hair looking groomed and perfect and wake up with it in the same condition. Pat's only saving grace, as far as I was concerned, was that when he stood up, there was nothing where his ass should have been. We used to call him Slack because he had lots of it.

He had just started doing a Richard Avedon when we got:

"Stand by, stand by!" on the net from one of the female triggers.

"That's a possible, a possible--Bravo One toward the town square."

Alpha came back, "Roger that. Delta, acknowledge."

I got to my feet, gave two clicks on the radio transmitter that was wired into my jacket pocket, and started walking. It was pointless all three of us moving at this stage.

Families on their Sunday paseo strolled across from my left. Tourists were taking pictures of buildings, looking at maps, and scratching their heads; locals were sitting down, enjoying the weather, walking their dogs, playing with their grandchildren. There were two men with comfortable-looking beer bellies, old and not giving a fuck, smoking themselves to death. Pants with big suspenders, shirt and undershirt, soaking up the March sun.

I wondered how many of them would survive if the bomb went off just here.

I was just starting to get in my stride when a very fired up male trigger shouted: "Stand by, stand by! That's also a possible Bravo Two and Echo One at the top end of Main Street."

This got me quite excited.

I listened for Euan. His task in this operation was the same as mine: to confirm the "possibles" with a positive ID. I imagined him sauntering along the sidewalk like me. He was short, with an acne-scarred face and the world's biggest motorcycle, which he could just about keep upright because his toes only brushed the ground. I liked to take the piss out of him about it as often as I could. I knew the guy like a brother--in fact, probably better; I hadn't seen any of my family for more than ten years. Euan and I had been young soldiers together; we'd passed Selection at the same time, and we'd been working together ever since. The fucker was so unflappable I always thought his heart must have been only barely beating. I'd been with him in Hereford when the police arrived to tell him that his sister had been murdered. He just said, "I think I'd better go to London then and sort things out." It wasn't that he didn't care; he just didn't get excited about anything. That sort of calm is contagious. It always made me feel secure to have guys like him around me.

I hit Main Street and spotted Bravo One right away.

I got on the net: "Alpha, this is Delta. That's confirmed-Bravo One, brown pinstripe on faded blue."

He always wore that brown pinstriped suit jacket; he'd had it for so long that it sagged in the pockets, and there were constant creases in the back from wearing it in a car. And the same old faded and threadbare jeans, the crotch halfway down between his balls and his knees. He was walking away from me, stocky, slight stoop, short hair, long sideburns , but I recognized the gait. I knew it was Sean Savage.

Bomb maker number one for the Provisional Irish Republican Army--PIRA.

I followed him to a small square at the bottom end of Main Street, near the governor's residence, where the band of the resident British infantry battalion would fall out after the changing of the guard. It was where Simmonds suspected the PIRA team might plant their bomb.

Alpha, the base station controlling the operation for now, repeated the message so that everyone knew which direction Savage was walking in. I knew that Golf and Oscar Kev and Slack Pat would soon start moving up behind me.

There were six or seven cars parked up against the wall of an old colonial building, taking advantage of the shade. I saw Bravo One push his hand into his jacket pocket as he headed toward them. For a split second I thought he was going for the initiation device.

Without checking his stride, Savage focused on one vehicle in particular and headed toward it. I moved slightly to the right so I had a clear view of the license plate.

"Alpha, this is Delta," I said.

"That's Bravo One now at vehicle Mike Lima 174412."

I pictured Alpha with the bank of computers in front of him in the control room. He confirmed, "Roger that, Mike Lima 174412. That's a white Renault Five."

"It's on the right, third car from the entrance," I said.

"That's nose in."

By now the keys were in Savage's hands.

"Stop, stop, stop. Bravo One at the car, he's at the car."

I was committed to passing him quite close now I couldn't just change direction. I could see his profile; his chin and top lip were full of zits, and I knew what that meant.

Under pressure, his acne always blew up.

Savage was still at the Renault. He turned, now with his back to me, pretending to sort his keys out, but I knew he'd be checking the telltales. A sliver of Scotch tape across a door, things arranged in a certain way inside the vehicle; whatever, if they were not as he had left them. Savage would lift off.

Kev and Slack Pat would be somewhere near the entrance to the square, ready to "back." If I got overexposed to the target, one of them would take over, or if I got in deep shit and had a contact, they would have to finish it and we'd all worked together long enough for me to know that, as friends as well as colleagues, they'd let nothing stand between them and the task.

The buildings were casting shadows across the square. I couldn't feel any breeze, just the change in temperature as I moved out of the sunlight.

I was too close to Savage now to transmit. As I walked past the car I could hear the keys going in and the click of the lock.

I headed for a wooden bench on the far side of the square and sat down. There were newspapers in a trash can next to me; I picked one out and pretended to read, watching him.

Savage made a suspicious move and I got back on the net:

"Alpha, this is Delta that's his feet outside, he's fiddling underneath the dashboard, he's fiddling under the dashboard.

Wait..." I had my finger on the button, so I was still commanding the net. Could he be making the final connection to the bomb?

As I was doing my ventriloquist act, an old guy wandered toward me, pushing his bike. The fucker was on his way over for a chat. I took my finger off the button and waited. I was deeply involved in the local newspaper but didn't have a clue what it said. He obviously thought I did. I didn't want to stick around and discuss the weather, but I wasn't going to just blow him off either because he might start jumping up and down and draw Savage's attention.

The old guy stopped, one hand on his bike, the other one flailing around. He asked me a question. I didn't understand a word he was saying. I made a face that said I didn't know what the world was coming to, shrugged, and looked down again at the paper. I'd obviously done the wrong thing. He said some angry shit, then wheeled his bike away, arm still flailing.

I got back on the radio. I couldn't exactly see what Savage was doing, but both of his feet were still outside the Renault.

He had his ass on the driver's seat and was leaning under neath the dash. It looked as if he was trying to get something out of the glove compartment as if he'd forgotten some thing and gone back to get it. I couldn't confirm what he was doing but his hands kept going into his pockets.

Everything was closing in. I felt like a boxer I could hear the crowd, I was listening to my seconds and the referee, I was listening for the bell, but mostly I was focused on the boy I was fighting. Nothing else mattered. Nothing. The only important people in the world were me and Bravo One.

Through my earpiece I could hear Euan working like a man possessed, trying to get on top of the other two terrorists.

Kev and Slack Pat were still backing me; the other two boys in our team were with Euan. They'd all still be satelliting, listening on the net so as to be out of sight of the targets, but always close enough to back us if we got in trouble.

Euan closed in on Bravo Two and Echo One. They were coming in our direction. Everybody knew where they were; everybody would keep out of the way so they had a clear run in.

I recognized them as soon as they turned the corner.

Bravo Two was Daniel Martin McCann. Unlike Savage, who was well educated and an expert bomb maker, "Mad Danny" was a butcher by trade and a butcher by nature. He'd been expelled from the movement by Gerry Adams in 1985 for threatening to initiate a campaign of murder that would have hampered the new political strategy. It was a bit like being kicked out of the Gestapo for cruelty. But McCann had supporters and soon got himself reinstated. Married with two children, he had twenty-six killings linked to his name. Ulster Loyalists had tried to whack him once, but failed. They should have tried harder.

Echo One was Mairead Farrell. Middle class and an ex-convent schoolgirl, she was, at thirty-one, one of the highest-ranking women in the IRA. See her picture and you'd think, aah, an angel. But she'd served ten years for planting a bomb in Belfast and reported back for duty as soon as she was released. Things hadn't gone her way; a few months earlier her lover had accidentally blown himself up. As Simmonds had said at the briefing, that made her one very pissed off Echo One.

I knew them both well; Euan and I had been working against them for years. I got on the net and confirmed the ID.

Everybody was in place. Alpha would be in the control room with the senior policeman, people from the Foreign Office, people from the Home Office, you name it, every man and his dog would be there, everybody wanting to put in their two cents' worth, everybody with their own concerns. We could only hope that Simmonds would be looking after ours.

I'd met the Secret Intelligence Service desk officer for Northern Ireland only a couple of days earlier, but he certainly seemed to be running our side of the show. His voice had the sort of confidence that was shaped on the playing fields of Eton, and he measured his words slowly, like a big-time attorney with the meter running.

We wanted the decision made now. But I knew there would be a big debate going on in the ops room; you'd probably have to cut your way through the cigarette smoke with a knife. Our liaison officer would be listening to us on his radio and explaining everything that we were doing, confirming that the team was in position. At crunch time, it was the police, not us, who'd decide that we go in. Once it was handed over to the military, K.ev would control the team.

The frustration was unendurable. I just wanted to get this over.

By now Farrell was leaning against the driver's door, the two men standing and facing her. If I hadn't known differently I'd have said they were trying to chat her up. I couldn't hear what they were saying but their faces showed no sign of stress, and now and then I could hear laughter above the traffic noise. Savage even got out a packet of mints and passed them round.

I was still giving a running commentary when Alpha came back on the net.

"Hello, all call signs, all call signs, I have control, I have control. Golf, acknowledge."

Kev acknowledged. The police had handed over; it was Kev's show now.

The targets started to move away from the vehicle, so I pushed the button four times.

Golf came back: "Stand by, stand by!"

That was it; we were off.

I let them walk toward the main square, and then I got up. I knew we wouldn't lift them here. There were far too many people around. For all we knew, the players might want to go out in a blaze of glory and start dropping the civilians, take them hostage, or, even worse, go into kamikaze mode and detonate the device.

Alpha came back on the net.

"Hello, all call signs, all call signs cancel, cancel, cancel! I do not have control! Cancel!

Golf, acknowledge."

At once I heard Kev's not-so-formal reply: "What the fuck's going on? Tell me what's going on?"

"Wait .. . wait ..." Alpha sounded under pressure.

There were voices in the background.

"All stations, all stations, the police need another ID, they need to be sure.

Golf, acknowledge."

What do they want, introductions?

"Hi, I'm Danny, bomber and murderer, I enjoy traveling and working with children."

We were in danger of losing them if we didn't act soon.

Alpha came back: "All stations, ATO is moving to check the vehicle. Delta, we need that confirmation." The ATO is the ammunitions technical officer.

I acknowledged. There was obviously some sweating going on in the ops room. The boss was getting a hard time from the police; it sounded like a chimpanzees' tea party in there.

The terrorist team would be crossing the border within minutes. Once they were on the other side, they could detonate the bomb with immunity.

I was now on the other side of the road, and wanted at least to get parallel to them so I could see their faces again. I had to reconfirm the players, then stick with them.

More activity on the net. I could hear the tension in Alpha's voice now, telephone lines ringing, people milling about.

Kev cut in: "Fuck the ops room, let's keep on top of them until someone somewhere makes a fucking decision. Lima and Zulu, can you get forward?"

Zulu came on the net for himself and Lima, very much out of breath: "Zulu and Lima, we... we can do that."

"Roger that, move up, tell me when you're there."

Kev wanted them beyond the health center. They were running hard to get ahead of the targets; they didn't care who saw them as long as the players didn't. But we still hadn't got control.

Kev came back on the net: "Alpha, this is Golf. You need to get your finger out now we're going to lose them. What do you want us to do?"

"Golf, wait, wait.. " I could still hear noise in the background: lots of talking, more telephones ringing, people shouting instructions.

Everything went quiet.

"Wait... wait..."

All I could hear now was the background noise of Alpha on my radio, plus my pulse pounding in my head. Then, at last, the voice of Simmonds very clear, a voice you wouldn't argue with. I heard him say to Alpha, "Tell the ground commander he can continue " "All call signs, this is Alpha. I have control. I have control.

Golf, acknowledge."

Kev got on the net, and instead of acknowledging, said, "Thank God for that. All call signs, if they get as far as the airport, we'll lift them there. If not on my word, on my word. Zulu and Lima, how's it going?"

They came back on the net.

"That's us static at the junction. We can take." They were at the intersection of Main Street and Smith Dorrien Avenue, the main approach road to the crossing into Spain. The players were moving toward them.

I could lift off soon. I'd done the job I'd been brought here to do. I prepared myself for the han dover.

But then they stopped.

Fuck.

"Stop, stop, stop!" I said.

"That's Bravo One, Two and Echo One static."

Everybody was closing in. Come on, let's lift them here and now.

Savage split from the other two and headed back the way they'd come, toward the town center. It was all going to rat shit. We had two groups to control now, and we didn't know who had the detonation device.

Kev arrived to back me. On the net, I could hear the other two players being followed toward the border by the rest of the team as I moved in to take Savage. He turned left down an alleyway.

I was just about to get on the net when I heard a police siren, followed by gunfire behind me.

At the same instant Euan came on the net: "Contact!

Contact!"

Then more shots.

Kev and I looked at each other. What the fuck was going on? We ran around the corner. Savage had heard the shots, too, and turned back toward us. Even at this distance I could see his eyes, big as plates and jerking like he was having a seizure.

There was a female pedestrian between us. Kev shouted, "Stop, security forces! Stop!"

With his left hand, he had to push the woman over to the side and bang her against the wall to keep her out of the way.

She was going down, blood pouring from her head. At least she wouldn't get up and become a target.

She began screaming. We had Kev hollering and screaming at Savage, and all the people in the area were starting to scream. It was turning into a gang fuck.

Kev flicked back the right side of his sport jacket to reach the pancake holster over his kidneys. We always put a bit of weight in a pocket a full magis good to help the jacket flick back out of the way.

But I wasn't really looking at Kev; I was looking at Savage. I could see his hand moving to the right side of his jacket. He wasn't some knuckle-dragging moron from the backstreets. The moment he saw us, he knew the score. It was decision time.

Kev drew his pistol, brought it up, and prepared to fire.

Nothing.

"Stoppage! Fuck, Nick, fuck, fuck!"

Trying to clear his weapon, he dropped on one knee to make himself a smaller target.

That was when everything seemed to go into slow motion.

Savage and I had eye-to-eye. He knew what I was going to do; he could have stopped, he could have put his hands up.

My bomber jacket was held together with Velcro, so at times like this I could just pull it apart and draw my pistol.

The only way a weapon can be drawn and used quickly is by breaking the whole movement into stages. Stage one, I kept looking at the target. With my left hand I grabbed a fistful of bomber jacket and pulled it as hard as I could toward my chest. The Velcro ripped apart.

At the same time I was sucking in my stomach and sticking out my chest to make the pistol grip easy to access. You get only one chance.

We still had eye contact. He started to shout, but I didn't hear. There was too much other shouting going on, from everyone on the street and the earpiece in my head.

Stage two, I pushed the web of my right hand down onto the pistol grip. If I got this wrong, I wouldn't be able to aim correctly: I would miss and die. As I felt my web push against the pistol grip, my lower three fingers gripped hard around it.

My index finger was outside the trigger guard, parallel with the barrel. I didn't want to pull the trigger early and kill my self. Savage was still looking, still shouting.

Savage's hand was nearly at his pocket.

Stage three, I drew my weapon, in the same movement taking the safety catch off with my thumb.

Our eyes were still locked. I saw that Savage knew he had lost. There was just a curling of the lips. He knew he was going to die.

As my pistol came out I flicked it parallel with the ground.

No time to extend my arms and get into a stable firing position.

Stage four, my left hand was still pulling my jacket out of the way and the pistol was now just by my belt buckle. There was no need to look at it; I knew where it was and what it was pointing at. I kept my eyes on the target, and his never left mine. I pulled the trigger.

The weapon report seemed to bring everything back into real time. The first round hit him. I didn't know where I didn't need to. His eyes told me all I wanted to know.

I kept on firing. There is no such thing as overkill. If he could move, he could detonate the bomb. If it took a whole magazine to be sure I'd stopped the threat, then that was what I'd fire. As Savage hit the ground I could no longer see his hands. He was curled up in a ball, holding his stomach. I moved forward and fired two shots at the head. He was no longer a threat.

Kev ran over and was searching inside Savage's coat.

"It's not here," he said.

"No weapon, no firing device."

I looked down at Kev as he wiped the blood off his hands onto Savage's jeans.

"One of the others must have had it," he said.

"I didn't hear the car go up, did you?"

In all the confusion I couldn't be sure.

I stood over them both. Kev's mother came from southern Spain; he looked like a local: jet black hair, about five feet ten inches, and the world's bluest eyes. His wife reckoned he was a dead ringer for Mel Gibson, which he scoffed at but secretly liked. Right now his face was a picture; he knew he owed me one. I wanted to say, "It's OK, these things happen," but it just didn't seem like the time. Instead I said, "Fucking hell, Brown, what do you expect if you have a name the same color as shit?"

As I spoke we put our safety catches on, and Kev and I swapped weapons.

"I'm glad I won't be at any inquest." I grinned at Kev.

"You'd better start getting your shit together."

He smiled as he got on the radio and started to send a situation report. It was all right for him and the others, but Euan and I shouldn't have been here. We had to vanish before the police arrived. We had been flown in from doing undercover work in Northern Ireland with Fourteen Intelligence Group;

it was illegal for its members to operate anywhere else. If either of us were caught in Gibraltar, there would be a shit storm.

The ops room at HMS Rooke was about fifteen minutes away on foot. I tucked Kev's weapon inside my jeans and started walking fast.

The mood was subdued aboard the C-130 as it lifted from the tarmac at 11 p.m. that night.

Spanish police had found PIRA's car bomb in an under ground parking garage in Marbella, thirty miles away, across the Spanish border; 145 pounds of Semtex high explosive and an unattached timing device preset at 11:20 a.m." the time the Gibraltar guard-changing ceremony ended and the soldiers dispersed in the square. The white Renault had been a blocking vehicle after all.

When Simmonds came over. Pat said, "As far as we knew, they had the means to detonate a bomb big enough to separate Gibraltar from the mainland. All it would have taken was one press of a button. If there's going to be an inquest, fuck it.

Better to be tried by twelve, I say, than carried by six."

Deafened suddenly by the roar of the C-130's engines, I glanced at Kev, Pat, Euan and tried to forget what I was going back to. A house isn't a home when there are no pictures on the walls.

Back when we were in the Persian Gulf, Pat had a battle cry: "All for one and one for all." We'd laughed when he used it, but he was right on target. Any one of us would put his life on the line for the others. I cracked a smile; with these guys around me, who needed family? Without a doubt, I thought, this was as good as it was ever going to get. NINE YEARS LATER

If you work for the British intelligence service (also known as the Firm) and get formally summoned to a meeting at their headquarters building on the south bank of the River Thames at Vauxhall, there are three levels of interview. First is the one with coffee and cookies, which means they're going to give you a pat on the head. Next down the food chain is the more businesslike coffee but no cookies, which means they're not asking but telling you to follow orders. And finally there's no cookies, and no coffee, either, which basically means that you're in deep shit. Since leaving the SAS in 1993 and working on deniable operations, I'd had a number at every level, and I wasn't expecting a nice frothy cappuccino this particular Monday. In fact I was quite worried, because things hadn't been going too well.

As I emerged from the subway station at Vauxhall the omens weren't exactly with me, either. The March sky was dull and overcast, preparing itself for the Easter holiday; my path was blocked by roadworks, and a burst from a jackhammer sounded like the crack of a firing squad. Vauxhall Cross, home of what the press call MI6 but which is actually the Secret Intelligence Service, is about a mile upstream from the Houses of Parliament. Bizarrely shaped like a beige and black pyramid that's had its top cut off, with staged levels, large towers on either side, and a terrace bar overlooking the river, it needs only a few swirls of neon and you'd swear it was a casino. It wouldn't look out of place in Las Vegas. I missed Century House, the old HQ building near Waterloo station. It might have been 1960s ugly, square with

IS

loads of glass, net curtains, and antennae, and not so handy to the subway, but it was much less pretentious.

Opposite Vauxhall Cross and about two hundred yards across the wide arterial road is an elevated section of railway line, and beneath that are arches that have been turned into shops, two of which have been knocked through to make a massive motorcycle shop. I was early, so I popped in and fantasized about which Ducati I was going to buy when I got a pay raise--which wasn't going to be today. What the hell, the way my luck was going I'd probably go and kill myself on it.

I'd fucked up severely. I'd been sent to Saudi to encourage, then train, some Northern Iraqi Kurds to kill three leading members of the Ba'ath party; the hope was that the assassinations would heat everything up and help dismantle the regime in Baghdad.

The first part of my task was to take delivery in Saudi of some former Eastern bloc weapons that had been smuggled in--Russian Draganov sniper weapons, a couple of Makharov pistols, and two AK assault rifles, the parachute version with a folding stock. All serial numbers had been erased to make them deniable.

For maximum chaos, the plan was to get the Kurds to make three hits at exactly the same time in and around Baghdad.

One was going to be a close-quarters shoot, using the Makharovs.

The idea was for the two boys to walk up to the family house, knock on the door, take on whatever threat presented itself, make entry into the house, zap the target, and run.

The second was going to be a sniper option. The target saw himself as a big-time fitness freak; he'd come out and have a little jog around a track, all of about four hundred yards. He emerged from his house every day in a lime green, fluffy velour tracksuit, did one lap, and that was his training for the day. The boys were going to hit him just as he started to sweat and slow down--which by the look of him would be after about a hundred yards. I would be on this one to coordinate the hit so that both fired at once.

The third target was going to be taken out on his way to the ministry. Two bikes would pull up at stoplights and give him the good news with their AK-47s.

I landed up in Northern Iraq without any problems and started the buildup training. At this stage not even the Kurds knew what their task was going to be. The Draganov sniper rifles were a heap of shit. However, the weapon is never as important as the ammunition, which in this case was even worse, Indian 7.62mm. Given a free hand I would have wanted to use Lapier, manufactured in Finland and the best in the world for sniping because of its consistency, but Western rounds would have given the game away.

The Indian ammunition was hit and miss mostly miss.

On top of that the Draganovs were semiautomatic rifles. Ide ally, you need a bolt-action weapon, which is not only better for taking the hit, it also doesn't leave an empty case behind because it stays in the weapon until you reload. However, it had to be Russian shit that they were zapped with, and it had to be deniable.

Once all three jobs went down, the weapons were to be dumped and destroyed. They weren't. On the AK there is a forward leaf sight, with a serial number scratched underneath it. I had been told that all serial numbers had been removed at the source, and had taken the information at face value. I didn't check I fucked up.

The only way to save the situation as far as London was concerned was to kill the Kurd teams I'd been training. It was damage control on a drastic scale, but it had to be done. De tail counts. If the Iraqis could trace the weapons, they might make the UK connection. If they then captured the Kurds, who just happened to mention that they had been trained by a Westerner called Nick, it wouldn't take a mastermind to figure out which country he came from. It actually pissed me off to have to kill them, because I'd gotten to know these guys really well. I was still wearing the G Shock watch one of the snipers had given me. We'd had a bet when we were on the range, and he lost. I knew that I could beat him, but still cheated because I had to win. I'd really gotten to like him.

Back in the UK there had been an internal inquiry; every body was covering their ass. And because I was a K, they could land it all on me. The armorers and technicians from the intelligence service said it was my fault for not checking.

What could I say? I didn't even exist. I was bracing myself to take the hit.

I entered Vauxhall Cross via a single metal door that funneled me toward reception. Inside, the building could be mistaken for any high-tech office block in any city--very clean, sleek, and corporate. People who worked there were swiping their identity cards through electronic readers to get in, but I had to go over to the main reception desk. Two women sat behind thick bulletproof glass.

Through the intercom system I said to one of them, "I'm here to see Mr. Lynn."

"Can you fill this in, please?" She passed a ledger through a slot under the glass.

As I signed my name in two boxes, she picked up a telephone.

"Who shall I say is coming to see Mr. Lynn?"

"My name is Stamford."

The ledger held tear-off labels. One half was going to be ripped off and put in a plastic badge container, which I would have to pin on. My badge was blue and said escorted

EVERYWHERE.

The woman came off the phone and said, "There'll be somebody coming down to pick you up."

A young clerk appeared minutes later.

"Mr. Stamford? If you'd like to come with me." He pressed the elevator button and said, "We're going to the fifth floor."

The whole building is a maze. I just followed him; I didn't have a clue where we were going. There was little noise coming from any of the offices, just people bent over papers or working at PCs. At the far end of one corridor we turned left into a room. Old metal filing cabinets, a couple of six-foot tables put together, and like in any office anywhere, the cups, packets of coffee and sugar, and a milk roster. None of that for me, though--in free-fall talk, I'd just stand by and accept the landing.

Lieutenant Colonel Lynn's office was off to one side of the larger area. When the clerk knocked on the door, there was a crisp and immediate call of "Come in!" The boy turned the handle and ushered me past him.

Lynn was standing behind his desk. In his early forties, he was of average build, height, and looks but had that aura about him that singled him out as a high achiever. The only thing he didn't have, I was always pleased to note, was plenty of hair. I'd known him on and off for about ten years; for the last two years his job had been liaison between the Ministry of Defense and SIS.

It was only as I walked farther into the room that I realized he wasn't alone. Sitting to one side of the desk, obscured until now by the half-open door, was Simmonds. I hadn't seen him since Gibraltar. What a professional he'd turned out to be, sorting out the inquest and basically making sure that Euan and I didn't exist. I felt a mixture of surprise and relief to see him here. He'd had nothing to do with the Kurd job. We might be getting the coffee after all.

Simmonds stood up. Six feet tall, late forties, rather distinguished-looking, a very polite man, I thought, as he ex tended his hand. He was dressed in corduroy trousers the color of Gulden's mustard, and a shirt that looked as if he'd slept in it.

"Delighted to see you again. Nick."

We shook hands and Lynn said, "Would you like some coffee?"

Things were looking up.

"Thanks milk, no sugar."

We all sat down. I took a wooden chair that was on the other side of the desk and had a quick look around the office while Lynn pressed the intercom on his desk and passed the order on to the clerk. His office was at the rear of the building and overlooked the Thames. It was a very plain, very functional, very impersonal room save for a framed photograph on the desk of a group I presumed were his wife and two children. There were two Easter eggs and wrapping paper on the windowsill. Mounted on a wall bracket in one corner was a television; the screen was scrolling through world news headlines. Under the TV was the obligatory officers' squash racquet and his jacket on a coatrack.

Without further formalities Lynn leaned over and said, "We've got a fastball for you."

I looked at Simmonds.

Lynn continued, "Nick, you're in deep shit over the last job, and that's just tough. But you can rectify that by going on this one. I'm not saying it'll help, but at least you're still working. Take it or leave it."

I said, "I'll do it."

He'd known what I was going to say. He was already reaching for a small stack of files containing photographs and bits of paper. As a margin note on one of the sheets I could see a scribble in green ink. It could have been written only by the head of the Firm. Simmonds still hadn't said a word.

Lynn handed me a photograph.

"Who are they?"

"Michael Kerr and Morgan McGear. They're on their way to Shannon as we speak, then flying to Heathrow for a flight to Washington. They've booked a return flight with Virgin, and they're running on forged Southern Irish passports. I want you to take them from Shannon to Heathrow and then on to Washington. See what they're up to and who they're meeting there."

I'd followed players out of the Irish Republic before and could anticipate a problem. I said, "What happens if they don't follow the plan? If they're on forged passports, they might go through the motions just to get through the security check then use their other passports to board another flight and fuck off to Amsterdam. It wouldn't be the first time."

Simmonds smiled.

"I understand your concern, and it is noted. But they will go."

Lynn passed me a sheet of paper.

"These are the flight de tails. They booked yesterday in Belfast."

There was a knock on the door. Three coffees arrived, one in a mug showing the Tasmanian Devil, one with a vintage car on it, and a plain white one. I got the impression Lynn and Simmonds were on their second round.

Simmonds picked up the plain one, Lynn picked up the car, and I was left with the Tasmanian Devil running up a hill.

"Who's taking them from Belfast to Shannon?"

Simmonds said, "Actually, it's Euan. He has them at the moment. He'll hand over to you at Shannon."

I smiled to myself at the mention of Euan's name. I was now out of the system and basically just used as a K on deniable operations. The only reason I did it was to finance the other things I wanted to do. What they were I didn't know yet;

I was a thirty-seven-year-old man with a lot on his mind, but not too much in it. Euan, however, still felt very much part of the system. He still had that sense of moral responsibility to fight the good fight whatever that meant and he'd be there until the day he was kicked out.

Simmonds handed me the folder.

"Check that off," he said.

"There are thirteen pages. I want you to sign for it now and hand it over to the air crew when you've finished. Good luck," he added, not meaning it at all.

"Am I going now?" I said.

"I don't have my passport with me -fastball isn't the word."

Lynn said, "Your passport's in there. Have you got your other docs?"

I looked at him as if I'd been insulted.

Passport, driver's license, credit cards are the basic requirements for giving depth to a cover story. From there the K builds up his own cover by using the credit cards to buy things, or maybe make direct payments for magazine subscriptions or club memberships. I had my cards with me as al ways, but not my passport. The one Simmonds handed me had probably been specially produced that morning, correct even down to visas and the right degree of aging.

I didn't have time to finish my coffee. The clerk reappeared and took me downstairs. I signed for the documents in the outer office before I left; thirteen pieces of paper with the in formation on them, and I had to sign each sheet. Then I had to sign for the folder it was in. Fucking bureaucracy.

A car was waiting for me outside. I jumped in the front;

when I was a kid I'd look at people being chauffeured and think. Who the fuck do they think they are? I talked shit with the driver, probably bored him silly; he didn't really want to talk, but it made me feel better.

A civilian Squirrel was waiting on the pad at Battersea heliport, rotors slowly turning. I had one last job to do before boarding; from a pay phone I called up the family who covered for me, people who'd vouch for me if I was ever up against it. They'd never take any action on my behalf, but if I got lifted I could say to the police, "That's where I live-phone them, ask them."

A male voice answered the phone.

"James, it's Nick. I've just been given a chance to go to the States and visit friends. I might be a week or two. If it's more, I'll call" James understood.

"The Wilmots next door had a break-in two days ago and we're going to see Bob in Dorset over the Easter weekend."

I needed to know these things because I would if I lived there all the time. They even sent the local paper to my accommodation address each week.

"Cheers, mate. When you see that son of yours next weekend, tell him he still owes me a night out."

"I will... Have a nice holiday."

As we skimmed over the Irish Sea I opened the briefing pack and thumbed through the material. I needn't have bothered.

All they knew for certain was that two boys had booked tickets to Washington, D.C." and they wanted to find out why.

They wanted to know who they were meeting and what was happening once they met. I knew from experience that the chances of failure were great. Even if they kept to the script and landed in D.C." how was I going to follow them around?

There were two of them and one of me; as a basic anti surveillance drill they were sure to split up at some point. But hey, the Firm had me by the balls.

Judging from one of the documents, it seemed that we'd reached the time of the year when all good PIRA fund raisers headed for the dinner circuit in Boston, New York, Washington, D.C.--even down as far as Tucson, Arizona, to catch Irish American sympathizers who'd retired to the sun. It seemed that the seizure often tons of explosives and weapons during the search of a warehouse in north London last September had produced a financial crisis. PIRA wasn't exactly asking its bank for an overdraft yet, but the increase in legitimate fund-raising in Northern Ireland was an indication that they were sweating. There were also other, less public, ways of raising cash. I was sure my new friends were part of that.

Apart from that, I was still none the wiser about the job. I had no information on the players' cover stories, or where they might be going, inside or outside D.C. All I knew was who they were and what they looked like. I read that Michael Kerr had been a member of the South Armagh ASU (Active Service Unit). He'd taken part in four mortar attacks on Special Forces bases and in dozens of shootings against the security forces and Protestants. He'd even gotten wounded once but escaped into the South. A tough nut.

The same could be said for Morgan McGear. After a career as a shooter in the border area of South Armagh, the thirty-one-year-old subcontractor had been promoted to PIRA's security team, where his job was to find and question informers.

His favored method of interrogation was a Black & Decker power drill. The helicopter was operated by a civilian front company, so the arrival procedure at Shannon, the Irish Republic's premier airport, was no different than if I'd been a horse breeder coming to check the assets at his stud farm in Tipperary, or a businessman flying in from London to fill his briefcase with European Union subsidies. I walked across the tarmac into the arrivals terminal, went through Customs, and followed the exit signs, heading for the taxi stand. At the last minute I doubled back into departures.

At the Aer Lingus ticket desk I picked up my ticket for Heathrow, which had been booked in the name of Nick Stamford. When choosing a cover name it's always best to keep your own first name--that way you react naturally to it. It also helps if your last name begins with the real initial because the signature flows better. I'd picked Stamford after the battle of Stamford Bridge. I loved medieval history.

I headed straight to the shop to buy myself a bag. Everybody has hand luggage; I'd stick out like the balls on a bulldog if I boarded the aircraft with nothing but a can of Coke. I never traveled with luggage that had to be checked in because then you're in the hands of whoever it is who decides to take bags marked Tokyo and send them to Buenos Aires instead. Even if your baggage does arrive safely, if it reaches the carousel five minutes after the target's, you're fucked.

I bought some toothpaste and other odds and ends, all the time keeping an eye out for Euan. I knew that he'd be glued to Kerr and McGear, unless they'd already gone through the security gates.

The departures lounge seemed full of Irish families who were going to find the Easter sun, and newly retired Americans who'd come to find their roots, wandering around with their brand-new Guinness sweatshirts, umbrellas, and baseball caps, and leprechauns in tins and little pots of grow-your-own shamrock.

It was busy, and the bars were doing good business. I spotted Euan at the far end of the terminal, sitting at a table in a coffee shop, having a large frothy coffee and reading a paper. I'd always found "Euan" a strange name for him. It always made me think of a guy with a kilt on running up and down a hill somewhere, tossing a caber. In fact, he was born in Oxford, and his parents came from Surrey.

They must have watched some Scottish movie and liked the name.

To the left was a bar. Judging by where Euan was sitting I guessed that was where the players were. I didn't bother looking; I knew Euan would point them out. There was no rush.

As I came out of the pharmacy, I looked toward the coffee shop and got eye-to-eye. I started walking toward him, big grin all over my face as if I'd just spotted a long-lost pal, but didn't say anything yet. If somebody was watching him, knowing he was on his own, it wouldn't look natural for me just to come up and sit next to him and start talking. It had to look like a chance meeting, yet not such a noisy one that people noticed it. They wouldn't think. Oh, look, there's two spies meeting, but it registers. It might not mean anything at the time, but it could cost you later.

Euan started to stand and returned my smile.

"Hello, dickhead, what are you doing here?" He gestured for me to join him.

We sat down, and since Euan was sponsoring the RV (rendezvous), he came up with the cover story.

"I've just come to see you from Belfast before you fly back to London. Old friends from schooldays." It helps to know you both have the same story.

"Where are they?" I said, as if asking after the family.

"My half left and you've got the bar. Go right of the TV They're sitting--one's got a jean jacket on, one a black three-quarter-length suede coat. Ken is on the right-hand side. He's now called Michael Lindsay. McGear is Morgan Ashdown."

"Have they checked in?"

"Yes. Hand luggage only."

"For two weeks in Washington?"

"They've got suit bags."

"And they haven't gone to any other check-in?"

"No, it looks like they're going to Heathrow."

I walked over to the counter and bought two coffees.

They were the only Irishmen at the bar, because everybody else was wearing a Guinness polo shirt and drinking pints of the black stuff. These two had Budweisers by the neck and were watching soccer. Both had cigarettes and were smoking like ten men; if I'd been watching them in a bar in Derry, I'd have taken it as nervousness, but Aer Lingus has a no-smoking policy on its flights; it looked as if these boys were getting their big hit before boarding.

Both were looking very much the tourist, clean-shaven, clean hair, not overdressed as businessmen, not underdressed as slobs. Basically they were so nondescript you wouldn't give them a second glance, which indicated that they were quite switched on--and that was a problem for me. If they'd been looking like a bag of shit or at all nervous, I'd have known I was up against second or third-string players--easy job. But these boys were Major League, a long way from hanging around the docks on kneecapping duty.

There were kids everywhere, chasing and shouting, mothers screaming after two-year-olds who'd found their feet and were skimming across the terminal. For us, the more noise and activity the better. I sat down with the drinks. I wanted to get as much information as I could from Euan before they went through security.

On cue, he said, "I picked McGear up from Deny. He went to the Sinn Fein office on Cable Street and presumably got briefed. Then to Belfast. The spooks tried to use the listening device but didn't have any luck. Nothing else to report, really.

They spent the night getting drunk, then came down here.

Been here about two hours. They booked the flight by credit card, using their cover names. Their cover's good. They've even got their Virgin luggage tags on; they don't want anything to go wrong."

"Where are they staying?"

"I don't know. It's all very last-minute and Easter's a busy time. There're about ten Virgin-affiliated hotels in D.C.; it's probably one of them--we haven't had time to check."

I didn't write anything down. If you write stuff down, you can lose it. I'd have to remember it.

"Is that all?" I asked.

"That's your lot. I don't know how they're going to transfer from the airport, but it looks like they're off to D.C." big boy."

Subject closed, as far as Euan was concerned. It was now time to talk shit.

"You still see a lot ofKev?"

I took a sip of coffee and nodded.

"Yeah, he's in Washington now, doing all right. The kids and Marsha are fine. I saw them about four months ago. He's been promoted, and they've just bought the biggest house in suburbia. It's what you'd call executive housing." Euan grinned, looking like Santa Claus with white froth on his top lip. His own place was a stone-walled sheep farmer's cottage in the middle of nowhere in the Black Mountains of Wales. His nearest neighbor was two miles away on the other side of the valley.

I said, "Marsha loves it in D.C.--no one trying to shoot holes in the car."

Marsha, an American, was Kev's second wife. After leaving the Regiment he'd moved to the States with her and had joined the Drug Enforcement Administration. They had two young kids, Kelly and Aida.

"Is Slack Pat still over there?"

"I think so, but you know what he's like--one minute he's going to learn how to build houses, and the next minute he's going to take up tree hugging and crocheting. Fuck knows what he's doing now."

Pat had had a job for two years looking after the family of an Arab diplomat in D.C. It worked out really well--he even got an apartment thrown in--but eventually the children he was minding grew too old to be looked after. They went back to Saudi, so he blew off his job and started bumming around.

The fact was, he'd made so much money during those two years he wasn't in a hurry.

We carried on chatting and joking, but all the time Euan's eyes flickered toward the targets.

The players ordered another drink, so it looked as if we were going to be sitting here for a while. We carried on spinning the social shit.

"How's year ten of the house building program?" I grinned.

"I'm still having problems with the boiler."

He'd decided that he was going to put the central heating in himself, but it was a total screw up. He'd ended up spending twice as much money as he would have, had he paid someone to do it.

"Apart from that, it's all squared away. You should come down some time. I can't wait to finish this fucking tour; then I've got about two more years and that's it."

"What are you going to do?"

"As long as it's not what you're doing, I don't care. I thought I'd become a garbageman. I don't give a fuck, really." I laughed.

"You do! You'll be itching to stay in; you're a party man. You'll stay in forever. You moan about it all the time, but actually you love it."

Euan checked the players, then looked back at me. I knew exactly what he was thinking.

I said, "You're right. Don't do this job; it's shit."

"What have you been up to since your Middle Eastern adventure?"

"I've been on holiday, got some downtime in, did a bit of work for a couple of the companies, but nothing much, and to tell you the truth it's great. Now I'm just waiting for the out come of the inquiry. I think I'm in deep shit unless this job gets me out."

Euan's eyes moved again.

"It looks like you're off."

The two boys must have started to sort themselves out at the bar.

I said, "I'll call you after this is finished. When are you back in the UK?"

"I don't know. Maybe a few days."

"I'll give you a call; we can arrange something. You got yourself a woman yet, or what?"

"You've got to be drunk! I was going out with someone from the London office for a while, but she wanted to make me all nice and fluffy. She was starting to do my washing and all sorts of shit. I really didn't get into it."

"You mean she didn't iron a crease in the front of your jeans?"

Euan shrugged.

"She didn't do things my way."

Nobody did. He was the sort of guy who folded his socks instead of putting them inside each other, and stacked his coins in their denominations. Since his divorce he'd become Mr. I'm-going-to-have-the-best-of-everything. People even started to call him Mr. Ikea--you name it, track lights, entertainment center, the whole nine yards. The inside of his house was like a showroom.

I could tell Euan was watching the two players pick up their gear and walk away from the bar.

I took my time; no need to get right up their ass. Euan would tell me when to move.

"Do a one-eighty," he said.

"Look to the right, just approaching the newsstand."

I casually got to my feet. It had been great to see him.

Maybe this job would turn out to be a waste of time, but at least I'd seen my closest friend. We shook hands, and I walked away. Then I turned, looked ninety degrees to the right, and spotted them, suit bags over their arms.

The departures lounge looked like an Irish craft fair. I was starting to feel out of place; I should have gotten myself a Guinness hat.

What was I going to do once I got to D.C.? I didn't know if somebody was going to pick them up, whether they were taking a cab or the bus, or, if they'd managed to get a hotel, whether transport was included. If they started moving around the city, that would be fun, too. I knew Washington a bit but not in any great detail.

They were still smoking like fiends. I sat in the lounge and picked up a paper from the seat. McGear started scrabbling about for change in his pocket as they talked to each other, standing at the bar. He was suddenly looking purposeful; he was either going to go to the slot machines or the telephone.

He got a note out and leaned over to the bartender; I could see him asking for change. I was sitting more or less directly behind them and about twenty feet back, so even if they turned their heads forty-five degrees to either side, I still wouldn't be in even their peripheral vision.

McGear walked toward the slot machines but continued on past. It must be the telephone.

I got up and wandered over to the newsstand, pretending to check the spinning rack of newspapers outside.

He picked up the phone, put a couple of pound coins in, and dialed. He got the number from a piece of paper, so it wasn't one that was well known to him. I looked at my G Shock; it was 4:16 p.m. The display was still on dual time; if there were any Iraqis in the lounge needing to know the time in Baghdad, I was their man.

I checked my pockets for coins; I had about two and a half quid; I would need more for what I was going to do, so I went in and bought a newspaper with a twenty-pound note.

McGear finished his call and went back to the bar. Those boys weren't going anywhere; they ordered more beer, opened their papers, lit another cigarette.

I gave it a couple of minutes, then strolled over to the phone McGear had been using. I picked up the receiver, threw in a couple of pound coins, and looked for a number on the set. I couldn't find one; not to worry, it would just take a bit longer.

I dialed a London number and a woman's voice said, "Good afternoon, your PIN number, please?"

"Two-four-two-two." The digits were etched into my memory; they were the first half of the army number that I'd had since I was sixteen.

She said, "Do you have a number?"

"No. This line please."

"Wait."

I heard a click, then nothing. I kept my eyes on the players and fed the phone. Within a minute she was back.

"What times are you interested in?"

"I'd like to book it from four-thirteen up till now."

"That's fine. Do you want me to call you, or will you call back?"

"I'll call back. Ten minutes?"

"Fine. Goodbye."

And that was it. No matter where you are in the world, you can dial in and the Firm will run a trace.

I phoned back ten minutes later. We went through the same PIN number routine, then she said, "Nothing until four-ten. A Washington, D.C." number. Washington Flyer Taxis, USA."

As she recited the number, I jotted it down, hung up, and immediately dialed.

"Good morning, Washington Flyer Taxis, Gerry speaking.

How may I be of assistance today?"

"Yes, I wonder if a Mr. Ashdown or a Mr. Lindsay has booked a taxi. I just want to make sure they're going to get to a meeting on time."

"Oh yes, sir, we've just had the booking. Collect from Dulles, arriving on flight number--" I cut in.

"Are you going to drop them off at the hotel or are they coming straight to me at Tyson's Corner?"

"Let me see, sir ... They're booked for the Westin on M Street, Northwest."

"All right, that's fine. Thank you."

Now all I had to do was try to get to the Westin before them. Things were looking OK.. Either that, or the fuckers had spotted me and were playing a deception.

The flight to London Heathrow was getting ready to board. I watched them get up, find their tickets, and walk. I followed.

On something like this you always travel club class so you're at the front of the aircraft. You can then choose either to sit down and watch people boarding or let them through ahead of you and come in later on. At the destination, you can wait for the target to come off the aircraft and naturally file in behind--or get out of the way beforehand so that you're ready to make the pickup once you're out of arrivals.

I thought about a drink but decided against it; I might have to start performing as soon as we got to the other side. These guys seemed very professional, so chances were they weren't going to be doing any work after all the Bud they'd been putting away. But still, no drink for me.

I settled into my seat and started to think about Kev and his family. I'd been there when he first met Marsha; I was best man at their wedding and was even godfather to Aida, their second child. I took the job seriously, though I didn't really know what I was supposed to do on the God front.

I knew I'd never have any of my own kids; I'd be too busy running around doing shit jobs like this one. Kev and Marsha knew that, and really tried to make me feel part of their setup.

I'd grown up with this fantasy of the perfect family, and as far as I was concerned Kev had it. The first marriage fell apart, but this one seemed absolutely right. His job with the DEA was now mostly deskbound in D.C. He loved it.

"More time with the kids, mate," he'd say.

"Yeah, so you can be one!" I'd reply. Lucidly Marsha was the mature and sensible one; when it came to the family, they complemented each other really well. Their home at Tyson's Corner was a healthy, loving environment, but after three or four days it would get too much for me and I'd have to move on. They'd make a joke of it; they knew I loved them but somehow couldn't handle people showing so much affection. I guessed that was why I'd always felt more comfortable with Euan. We were both made from the same mold.

As for Slack Pat, he was completely off the scale. Half the world seemed to be his best friend, and he was still working on the others. Even when he opened the fridge door and the light came on he'd have to launch into some sort of chat-up routine. When he started the bodyguard job in Washington, a real estate agent took him to look at an apartment in Georgetown, by the university. The way he told the story, he saw a building with people coming in and out.

"What's that then?" he asked.

"One of the best restaurants in Washington," she said.

"Half of Congress seems to go there."

"Right, I'll take it," he said. The moon was in a new quarter or some shit like that and I thought for a while he reckoned he'd turned into Donald Trump. He told me he used to eat there every day and knew every waitress by name. He'd even started going out with one of them. Maybe it was her who got him into drugs. I hadn't seen it myself, but I'd heard he had a problem. It made me sad. We'd all seen the results of addiction during our time in Colombia. Pat had called them losers.

Now it seemed he was one himself. Hopefully it was just one of his phases. The transfer at Heathrow had been easy. The boys didn't get stopped at the security checks probably because Special Branch had been informed and the flight to Dulles had taken off on time.

I hoped McGear and Kerr were going straight to the hotel.

I hoped they'd be playing the good tourists and wouldn't blow it by not checking in. If I ever lost a target, I'd look in all the places where he might be his place of work, the pub, where the kids go to school, where he lived, or even the bookie's. I needed to know as much as I could about them, because once you're inside your target's mind you can second-guess every movement, even understand why they do what they do. Un fortunately, all I knew so far about McGear and Kerr was that they liked drinking Budweiser and must be dying for a smoke. So I had to start with the hotel.

I needed to get in front of them. That shouldn't be a problem, since club class had its own shuttle to get us to the terminal ahead of the herd. However, since they'd pre booked a transfer, I'd need to grab a cab PDQ if I was going to beat them to M Street. I could have booked one of my own when I spoke to Washington Flyer, but I'd tried to do that in Warsaw once in similar circumstances, only to come out and find the two drivers fighting over who to take first, me or the target. It was the taxi stand for me from then on.

I came out of arrivals through two large automatic doors and into a horseshoe of waiting relatives held back by steel barriers, and limo drivers holding up name boards. I carried on through the bustle, turned left, and walked down a long ramp into heat and brilliant sunshine.

There were lots of people waiting for taxis. I did a quick calculation; the number of passengers didn't go into the limited number of cabs. I wandered toward the rear of the rank and waved a twenty-dollar bill at one of the drivers. He smiled conspiratorially and hustled me inside. Another twenty soon had me screaming along the Dulles access road toward Route 66 and Washington, D.C. The airport and its surroundings reminded me of a high-tech business park, with everything green and manicured; there'd even been a lake as we exited the terminal. Suburbia started about fifteen miles from the airport, mainly ribbon development on either side of the Beltway--very neat wooden and brick houses, many still under construction. We passed a sign for the Tyson's Corner turnoff and I strained my neck to see if I could see Kev's place. I couldn't. But, as Euan would have said, executive housing all looks the same.

We crossed the Potomac and entered the city of monuments.

The Westin on M Street was a typical upscale hotel, slick and clean, totally devoid of character. Walking into the lobby, I got my bearings and headed left and up a few stairs to a coffee lounge on a landing that overlooked the reception area; it was the only way in and out. I ordered a double espresso.

A couple of refills later, Kerr and McGear came through the revolving door. Looking very relaxed, they went straight to the desk. I put down my coffee, left a five-dollar bill under the saucer, and wandered down.

It was just a matter of getting the timing right; there was a bit of a line at the desk, but the hotel was as efficient as it was soulless and now had more people behind the reception desk than were waiting to be served.

I couldn't hear what McGear and Kerr were saying, but it was obvious they were checking in. The woman looking after them was tapping a keyboard below desk level. Kerr handed over a credit card; now was the time to make my approach. It makes life far easier if you can get the required information this way rather than trying to follow them, and there was no way I was going to risk a compromise by getting in the elevator with them. I only hoped they were sharing a room.

To the right of them at the reception desk was a rack of postcards advertising everything from restaurants to bus tours. I stood about two yards away, with my back to them.

There was no big deal about this; it was a big, busy hotel-they weren't looking at me, they were doing their own stuff. I made it obvious I was flicking through the postcards and didn't need help.

The woman said, "There you are, gentlemen, you're in room four-oh-three. If you turn left just past the pillars, you'll see the elevator. Have a nice day!"

All I had to do now was listen to their conversations while they were in their room, and to make that happen I went to the bank of pay phones in the lobby and dialed the Firm.

A woman's voice asked me for my PIN number.

"Two-four two-two."

"Go ahead."

"I'd like a room, please. The Westin on M Street, Washington, D.C.--four-oh-one or four-oh-five, or three-oh-three or five-oh-three."

"Have you a contact number?" "No, I'll call back in half an hour."

They would now telephone the hotel using the name of a front company and request one of the rooms I'd specified. It didn't really matter whether the room was above, beside, or below the targets', as long as we could get in and plant surveillance devices.

I went back to the raised lounge area and read a few of the leaflets and postcards I'd picked up, all the time watching the exit onto M Street.

I ran through a mental checklist of surveillance equipment to ask for. I'd fit the first wave of gear myself: wall-mounted listening devices, phone-line devices, both voice and modem, and cables that fed into the TV in my room to relay pictures.

They'd take me only about three hours to rig up once the Firm had dropped them off.

The second wave, once McGear and Kerr had vacated their room for the day, would be fitted by technicians from the Firm. In their expert hands, a hotel-room TV could become a camera, and the telephone a microphone.

Half an hour later I called the contact number and again gave my PIN number. There was a bit of clicking, then the strains of a string quartet. About five seconds later the woman came back again.

"You are to lift off and return today. Please acknowledge."

I thought I'd misheard her. There was a conference at the hotel given by the Norwegian board of trade, and all the dele gates were exiting for coffee.

"Can you repeat, please?"

"You are to lift off. Please acknowledge."

"Yes, I understand, I am to lift off and return today."

The phone went dead.

I put the phone down. Strange. There had even been a memo in green ink from the head of the service about this the fastball job that had now come to a sudden halt. It wasn't unusual to get lifted off, but not so quickly. Maybe Simmonds had decided these people weren't that important after all.

Then I thought, So what, who gives a fuck? They wanted me to do the job; I've done it. I called the travel agency and tried to get a flight out of Dulles The only one I could get on was the British Airways at nine-thirty-five, which was hours away. Kev and Marsha were only an hour down the road toward the airport, so why not?

I dialed another number, and Kev answered. His voice was wary, until he recognized mine.

"Nick! How's it going?" He sounded really happy to hear me.

"Not too bad. I'm in Washington."

"What are you doing? Nah, I don't want to know! You coming to see us?"

"If you're not busy. I'm leaving tonight, back to the UK.

It'll be a quick stop and hello, OK?"

"Any chance of you getting your ass up here right away?

I've just got the ball rolling on something, but I'd be interested to know what you think. You'll really like this one!"

"No problem, mate. I'll hire a car at the hotel and head straight over."

"Marsha will want to go into cordon bleu overdrive. I'll tell her when she gets back with the kids. Have a meal with us, then you can go on to the airport. You won't believe the stuff I've got here. Your friends over the water are busy."

"I can't wait."

"Nick, there's one other thing."

"What's that, mate?"

"You owe your goddaughter a birthday present--you forgot again, dickhead."

Driving west along the freeway, I kept wondering what Kev could want to talk to me about. Friends over the water? Kev had no connection with PIRA that I knew of. He was in the DEA, not the CIA or any antiterrorist department. Besides, I knew that his job was far more administrative than fieldwork now. I guessed he probably just needed some background information.

I thought again about Slack Pat and made a mental note to ask Kev if he had a contact address for the ass less one.

I got on the interstate. Tyson's Corner was the junction I had to get off at--well, not really; I wanted the one before but I could never remember it. The moment I left the freeway I was in leafy suburbia. Large houses lined the road, and just about every one seemed to have a seven-seat minivan in the drive and a basketball hoop fixed over the garage.

I followed my nose to Kev's subdivision and turned into their road. Hunting Bear Path. I continued on for about a quarter of a mile until I reached a small parade of shops arranged in an open square with parking spaces, mainly little delis and boutiques specializing in candles and soap. I bought candy for Aida and Kelly that I knew Marsha wouldn't let them have, and a couple of other presents.

Facing the shops was a stretch of vacant ground that looked as if it had been earmarked as the next phase of the development.

On and around the churned-up ground were trailers, big stockpiles of girders and other building materials, and two or three bulldozers.

Far up on the right-hand side among the sprawling houses I could just about make out the rear of Kev and Marsha's "deluxe colonial." As I drove closer I could see their Ford Windstar, the thing she threw the kids into to go screaming to school. It had a big furry Garfield stuck to the rear window.

I couldn't see Kev's company car, a Caprice Classic that bristled with antennae. They were so ugly only government agents used them. Kev normally kept his in the garage, safely out of sight of predators.

I was looking forward to seeing the Browns again even though I knew that by the end of the day I'd be more exhausted than the kids. I got to the driveway and turned in.

There was nobody waiting. The houses were quite a distance apart, so I didn't see any neighbors, either, but I wasn't surprised D.C."s bedroom suburbs were quite dead during weekdays.

I braced myself; on past form, I'd get ambushed as soon as the car pulled up. The kids would jump out at me, with Marsha and Kev close behind. I always made it look as if I didn't like it, but actually I did. The kids would know I had presents. I'd bought a little Tweety-Pie watch for Aida, and Kelly's was the Goosebumps kids' horror books numbers thirty-one to forty I knew she already had the first thirty. I wouldn't say anything to Aida about forgetting her birthday;

hopefully she'd have forgotten.

I got out of the car and walked toward the front door. Still no ambush. So far, so good.

The front door was open about two inches. I thought, Here we go, what they want me to do is walk into the hallway like Inspector Clouseau, and there's going to be a Kato-type am bush. I pushed the door wide open and called out, "Hello?

Hello? Anyone home?"

Any minute now the kids would be attacking a leg each.

But nothing happened.

Maybe they had a new plan and were all hidden away somewhere in the house, waiting, trying to muffle their giggles.

Inside the front door there was a little corridor that opened up into a large rectangular hallway with doors leading off to the different downstairs rooms. In the kitchen to my right I heard the sound of a female voice singing a station jingle.

Still no kids. I started tiptoeing toward the noise in the kitchen. In a loud stage whisper! said, "Well, well, well I'll have to leave ... seeing as nobody's here ... What a shame, because I've got two presents for two little girls..."

To my left was the door to the living room, open about a foot or so. I didn't look in as I walked past, but I saw something in my peripheral vision that at first didn't register. Or maybe it did; maybe my brain processed the information and rejected it as too horrible to be true.

It took a second for it to sink in, and when it did my whole body stiffened.

I turned my head slowly, trying to make sense of what was in front of me.

It was Kev. He was lying on his side on the floor, and his head had been battered to shit by a baseball bat. I knew that, because I could see it on the floor beside him. It was one he'd shown off to me on his last visit, a nice light aluminum one.

He'd shaken his head and laughed when he said the local rednecks called them Alabama lie detectors.

I was still rooted to the spot.

I thought: Fucking hell, he's dead--or should be, looking at the state of him.

What about Marsha and the kids?

Was the killer still in the house?

I had to get a weapon.

There was nothing I could do about Kev at the moment. I didn't even think of him, just that I needed one of his pistols. I knew where all five of them were concealed in the house, always above child level, and always loaded and ready, a magazine on the weapon and a round in the chamber. All Marsha or Kev had to do was pick up one of the weapons and blast anyone who was pissed off at Kev--and there were more than a few of those in the drug community. I thought. Fuck, they 'we got him at last.

Very slowly, I put the presents on the floor. I wanted to listen for any creaking of floors, any movement at all around the house.

The living room was large and rectangular; against one wall was a fireplace. On either side of it were alcoves with bookshelves, and I knew that on the second shelf up, on the right, was the world's biggest, fattest thesaurus, and on top of that, tucked well back out of view, just above head level but close enough to reach up for, was a big fat gun. It was positioned so that as you picked it up it would be in the correct position to fire.

I ran. I didn't even look to see if there was anyone else in the room. Without a weapon, it wouldn't have made much difference.

I reached the bookcase, put my hand up, and took hold of the pistol, spun around, and went straight down onto my knees in the aim position. It was a Heckler & Koch USP 9mm, a fantastic weapon. This one even had a laser sight under the barrel where the beam hits, so does the round.

I took a series of deep breaths. Once I'd calmed myself, I looked down and "checked chamber." I got the top slide and pulled it back a bit. I could see the brass casing in position.

Now what was I going to do? I had my car outside; if that got reported and traced, there'd be all kinds of drama. I was still under my alias cover; if I got discovered, that meant the job got discovered, and then I'd be in a world of shit.

I had a quick look at Kevjust in case I could see breathing.

No chance. His brains were hanging out, his face was pulped.

He was dead, and whoever had done it was so blase they'd just thrown the baseball bat down and left it there.

There was blood all over the glass coffee table and the thick shag pile carpet. Some was even splattered on the patio windows. But strangely, apart from that, there wasn't much sign of a struggle. I had to make sure Marsha and the kids weren't still here, tied up in another room or held down by some fucker with a gun to their heads. I was going to have to clear the house.

If only room clearing were as easy as Don Johnson made it look in Miami Vice: run up to the door, get right up against the doorframe, jump out into the middle of it, pistol poised, and win the day. A doorway naturally draws fire, so if you stand in one, you're presenting yourself as a target. If there's a guy waiting for you there with a shotgun, you're dead.

The first room I had to clear was the kitchen; it was the nearest, plus there was sound there.

I was on the opposite side of the living room from the kitchen door. I started to move along the outside wall of the room. I stepped over Kev, not bothering to look at him.

The pistol was out in front of me; it had to be ready to fire as soon as I saw a target. Where your eyes go, the pistol goes.

I mentally divided the room into sections. The first was from the couch halfway across the living room, a distance of about twenty feet; I got there and froze by a big TV stereo setup, which gave me a bit of cover while I cleared the door that led back to the hallway. It was still open.

There was nothing in the hallway. As I moved through, I closed the door behind me. I approached the one to the kitchen. The handle was on the right-hand side; I couldn't see the hinges, so it had to open inward. I moved across to the hinged side and listened. Just above the sound of my breath and that of my heart thumping, I could hear some bonehead going on about "Injured at work? Fight for compensation through our expert attorneys--and remember, no win, no fee."

My pistol arm wasn't completely stretched out but the weapon was still facing forward. I leaned over to the handle, turned it, gave the door a push, and moved back. Then I opened it a bit more from the hinge side to see if there was any reaction from inside the kitchen.

I could hear more of the radio and also a washing machine-turning, stopping, turning. But nothing happened.

With the door now open just a few more inches I could see a small part of the kitchen. I moved forward and pushed the door fully open. Still no reaction. Using the doorframe and wall as cover, I edged around slowly.

As the angle between me and the frame increased, I gradually saw more of the room. I took my time so I could take in the information in stages. If I had to react, being two yards away from the doorframe would not affect my shooting, and if it did, I shouldn't be in this business anyway. Using my right thumb, I pushed the laser sight button. A small dot of brilliant red light appeared on the kitchen wall.

I leaned my body over to present as small a target as possible.

If anyone was in the kitchen, all they'd see was a very nervous bit of head, and that would be what they'd have to react to, not the full Don Johnson.

The room was like the Marie Celeste. Food was still on the side in the middle of preparation. Kev had said Marsha was going to cook something special. There were vegetables and opened packs of meat. I closed the door behind me. The radio was now playing some soft rock and the washing machine was on spin. The table was half-set--and that really upset me.

Kev and Marsha were very strict on the kids' chores; the sight of the half-set table made me feel sick inside because it heightened the chances of the kids being either dead or upstairs with some fucker who had a 9mm stuck in one of their mouths.

I moved slowly to the other end of the room and locked the door to the garage. I didn't want to clear the bottom of the house only for the guys to come in behind me.

I was starting to sweat big-time. Were Marsha and the kids still in the house, or had they made a run for it? I couldn't just leave. The fuckers who'd done that to Kev would be capable of anything. I was starting to feel my stomach churn. What the fuck was I going to find upstairs?

I went out into the hallway again. As I moved, I had my pistol pointing up the stairs, which were now opposite me.

The last room uncleared downstairs was Kev's study. I put my ear to the door and listened. I couldn't hear anything. I did the same drill and entered.

It was a small room, just enough space for some filing cabinets, a desk, and a chair. Shelves on the wall facing the desk were full of books and photographs of Kev shooting, Kev running, that sort of stuff. Everything was now on the floor; the filing cabinets were open and paper strewn everywhere.

The only thing not ripped apart was Kev's PC. That was lying on its side on the desk, the screen still showing the British army screensaver I'd sent him for a laugh. The printer and scanner were on the floor beside the desk, but that was where they had always been.

I went back out and looked at the stairs. They were going to be a problem. They went up one flight, then turned back on themselves just before hitting the landing. That meant that I'd have to be a bit ofaHoudini to cover my ass getting up there.

I wouldn't use the laser now; I didn't want to announce my movements.

I put my foot on the bottom step and started to move up.

Fortunately, Kev's stair carpet was a thick shag pile, which helped keep the noise down, but still it was like treading on ice, testing each step gently for creaks, always placing my feet to the inside edge, slowly and precisely.

Once I got level with the landing, I pointed my pistol up above my head and, using the wall as support, moved up the stairs backward, step by step.

A couple of steps; wait, listen. A couple more steps; wait, and listen.

There was only one of me, and I had only thirteen rounds to play with, maybe fourteen, if the round in the chamber was on top of a full magazine. These guys might have semi 5 automatic weapons for all I knew, or even fully automatic. If they did and were there, it would not be a good day out.

The washing machine was on its final thundering spin. Still soft rock on the radio. Nothing else.

Adrenaline takes over. Despite the air-conditioning, I was drenched with sweat. It was starting to get in my eyes; I had to wipe it with my left hand, one eye at a time.

The girls' room was facing me. From memory there were bunk beds and the world's biggest shrine to Pocahontas-T-shirts and posters, sheets and bedspreads, and even a doll whose back you pressed and she sang something about colors.

I stopped and prepared for the worst.

I reached for the handle and started to clear the room.

Nothing. No one.

For once the room was even clean and tidy. There were piles of teddy bears and toys on the beds. The theme was still Pocahontas, but Toy Story was obviously a close second.

I gradually came out into the hallway, treating it as if it were a new room because I didn't know what might have gone on in the half-minute since I'd left it.

I slowly moved to the next bedroom with my back nearly touching the wall, pistol forward, eyes watching forward and rear, thinking: What if--what do I do if they appear from that doorway? What if... what if?

As I got nearer to Kev and Marsha's room, I could see that the door was slightly ajar. I couldn't actually see anything inside yet, but as I moved nearer I started to smell something. A faint, metallic tang, and I could smell shit as well. I felt sick. I knew that I'd have to go in.

As I inched around the doorframe I got my first glimpse of Marsha She was kneeling by the bed, her top half spreadeagled on the mattress. The bedspread was covered with blood.

I sank to my knees in the hallway. I felt myself going into shock. I couldn't believe this was true. This was not happening to this family. Why kill Marsha? It should have been Kev they were after. All I wanted to do was throw my hand in and sit down and cry. But I knew the kids had been in the house. They might still be here.

I got a grip of myself and started to move. I went in, forcing myself to ignore Marsha. The room was clear.

The next job was the master bathroom. I went in, and what I saw made me lose it, totally fucking lose it. Bang, I went back against the wall and slumped onto the floor.

Blood was everywhere. I got it all over my shirt and hands;

I sat in a pool of it, soaking the seat of my pants.

Aida was lying on the floor between the bath and the toilet.

Her five-year-old head had been nearly severed from her shoulders. There was just three inches of flesh left intact; I could see the vertebrae still holding on.

Turning my head away and looking out of the bathroom, I could now see more of Marsha. I had to hold back my scream. Her dress was hanging normally, but her tights had been torn, her panties were pulled down, and she had soiled herself, probably at the point of death. All I saw at this distance of about fifteen feet was somebody that I really cared for, even loved maybe, on her knees, her blood splattered all over the bed. And she'd had the same done to her as Aida.

I was taking deep breaths and wiping my eyes. I knew I still had another two rooms to clear another bathroom and the large storeroom above the garage. I couldn't give up now because I might wind up getting dropped myself.

I cleared the other rooms and half-collapsed, half-sat on the landing. I could see my bloody footprints all over the carpet.

Stop, calm down, and think.

What next? Kelly. Where the fuck was Kelly?

Then I remembered the hiding place. Because of the threats to Kev, both kids knew where they had to go and hide in the event of a crisis.

The thought brought me to my senses. If that was where Kelly was hiding, she was safe for the time being. Better to leave her there while I did the other stuff I had to do.

I got up and started to move down the stairs, making sure that, as I moved, I had my pistol pointed. As I descended I could see the blood I had left on the wall and carpet where I'd sat. I was almost willing the attackers to appear. I wanted to see the fuckers.

I got a cloth and a trash bag from the kitchen-and started to run around the house wiping door handles and any surfaces where I might have left fingerprints. Then I went over to the patio sliding doors and closed the curtains. I didn't want any body to discover this mess before I was well out of it, hope fully on a plane back to London.

I took a quick look at Kev and knew I was back in control.

He was now just a dead body.

I went back upstairs, washed the blood off my hands and face, and got a clean shirt and a pair of jeans and running shoes from Kev's closet. His clothes didn't fit me, but they would do for now. I bundled my own bloodstained stuff into the trash bag that I'd take with me. Kev had shown me the "hidey-hole," as he called it, built under an open staircase that led up to a little makeshift loft stacked with ladders. The kids knew they had to hide there if ever Kev or Marsha shouted the word "Disneyland!" and they were never ever to come out until Daddy or Mommy came and got them.

I headed to the garage. Pushing the door slightly, I could see the rear of the large metal doors to the right. The garage could easily have taken three extra vehicles besides Kev's company car.

"Fucking thing," I remembered Kev saying, "all the luxury and mod cons of the late nineties, in a car that looks like a nineteen-sixties fridge."

The kids' bikes were hanging from frames on the wall, together with all the other clutter that families accumulate in garages. I could see the red laser dot on the far wall.

I moved in and cleared through. There was no one here.

I went back to the area of the staircase. Chances were she wasn't going to come out unless her mom and dad came for her, but as I moved I started to call out very gently, "Kelly! It's Nick! Hello, Kelly, where are you?"

All the time the pistol was pointing forward, ready to take on any threat.

Moving slowly toward the boxes, I said, "Oh well, since you're not here I'll go. But I think I'll have one more look, and I bet you might be hiding underneath the staircase in those boxes. I'll just have a look... I bet you're in there ..."

There was a pile of large boxes. One had contained a freezer, another a washing machine. Kev had made a sort of cave with them under the staircase and kept a few toys there.

I eased the pistol down my waistband. I didn't want her to see a gun. She'd probably seen and heard enough already.

I put my mouth against a little gap between the boxes.

"Kelly, it's me. Nick. Don't be scared, I'm going to crawl toward you. You'll see my head in a minute, and I want to see a big smile..."

I got down on my hands and knees and kept talking gently as I moved boxes and squeezed through the gap, inching toward the back wall. I wanted to do it nice and slowly. I didn't know how she was going to react.

"I'm going to put my head around the corner now, Kelly."

I took a deep breath and moved my head around the back of the box, smiling away but ready for the worst.

She was there, facing me, eyes wide with terror, sitting curled up in a fetal position, rocking her body backward and forward, holding her hands over her ears.

"Hello, Kelly," I said very softly.

She must have recognized me, but didn't reply. She just kept on rocking, staring at me with wide, scared eyes.

"Mommy and Daddy can't come and get you out at the moment, but you can come with me. Daddy told me it would be OK. Are you going to come with me, Kelly?"

Still no reply. I crawled right into the cave until I was curled up beside her. She'd been crying; strands of light brown hair were stuck to her face. I tried to move them away from her mouth. Her eyes were red and swollen.

"You're in a bit of a mess there," I said.

"Do you want me to clean you up? Come on, let's go and get you sorted out, shall we?" I got hold of her rigid hand and gently guided her out into the garage.

She was dressed in jeans, a denim shirt, running shoes, and a blue nylon fleece. Her hair was straight and just above her shoulders, a bit shorter than I remembered it; she was quite lanky for a seven-year-old, with long, skinny legs. I picked her up in my arms and held her tight as I carried her into the kitchen. I knew the other doors were closed; she wouldn't see her dad.

I sat her down on a chair at the table. "Mommy and Daddy b said they had to go away for a while but asked me to look after you until they come back, OK?"

She was trembling so much I couldn't tell if her head was nodding or shaking.

I went to the fridge and opened it, hoping to find some comfort food. I found the world's largest Easter egg.

"Mmm, yum do you want some chocolate?"

I'd had a good relationship with Kelly. She was a great kid, and that wasn't just because she was my pal's daughter. I smiled warmly, but she just stared at the table.

I broke off a few pieces and put them on one of the side plates that she'd probably been setting earlier with Aida. I found the Off switch on the radio; I'd had enough relaxing soft rock for one day.

As I looked at Kelly again I suddenly realized I'd fucked up. What was I going to do with her? I couldn't just leave her here: her family was lying dead all over the house. But more important, she knew me. When the police arrived she'd be able to say, "Nick Stone was here." They'd soon find out that Nick Stone was one of Daddy's friends; the house was littered with photographs with me in them. And if they did arrest the grinning drunk in the barbecue shots, they'd find that for some strange reason he wasn't Nick Stone at all he was Mrs. Stamford's little boy.

Kev's jacket was hanging over one of the chairs. I said, "Let's wrap you up in your dad's coat; that'll keep you nice and warm." At least she'd have something other dad's; with luck it would cheer her up.

There was just a little bit of whimpering in reply. She was almost in rigor mortis with shock, though at least she had turned her head to look at me now. This was where normally I would have let Marsha take over, because a child's mind was far too complicated for me to work out. But I couldn't do that today.

I wrapped the coat around her and said, "Here you are; get this around you. Look, it's your dad's! Don't tell him, eh, ha ha ha!" I felt something solid in one of the pockets and checked.

"Oh good, look, we can phone him up later."

I looked out the window no movement. I picked up the trash bag, grabbed Kelly's hand, then realized that to reach the front door I'd have to come out of the kitchen and into the hallway.

"Just sit there a second," I said.

"I've got to do something."

I had a quick look to make sure the doors were closed. I thought again about fingerprints, but if I'd missed a set, there was nothing I could do about it now. My only thought was to get out of the area and keep Kelly away from the cops until I'd sorted things out.

I went back and got her and checked the front of the house again for movement. She seemed to be finding it hard to walk.

I had to grip Kev's coat by the collar, half-dragging her toward the car.

I put her in the front passenger seat and smiled.

"There you go; that's nice and warm. Better look after your dad's coat for him. Keep it nice for when you see him."

Then I threw the trash bag in the back, settled into the driver's seat, put my seat belt on, and turned on the ignition.

We drove off at a really sensible pace, nothing outrageous, nothing likely to be noticed.

We'd gone only a few hundred yards when I thought of something; I looked across at her and said, "Kelly, put your seat belt on. Do you know how to do that?"

She didn't move, didn't even look at me. I had to do it for her.

I tried to make small talk.

"It's a nice day today, isn't it? Yep, you'll stay with me a while; we'll get everything sorted out."

Silence.

My mind switched back to the matter in hand. What was I going to do? Whatever I decided, I knew it was no good where we were at the moment. We needed to lose ourselves in a crowd. I headed for Tyson's Corner.

I turned to Kelly and smiled, trying to be the happy-go-lucky Uncle Nick, but it just wasn't happening. She was staring anxiously out the window as if she was being wrenched away from all her familiar landmarks and seeing them for the last time.

"It's OK, Kelly." I tried to stroke her hair.

She jerked her head away.

Fuck it, just let her get on with it; with luck I'd be able to drop her off somewhere before too long.

I turned my thoughts to Kev. He'd said he had a bit of a problem with my "friends over the water." Could it have been PIRA that'd killed him? What the hell for? It was highly unlikely that PIRA would start messing about like that, not in America. It was too professional to bite the hand that was feeding it.

Other things weren't adding up. Why wasn't there a struggle? Both Marsha and Kev knew where the weapons were. Why weren't they used? Why was the front door ajar?

There was no way that would have happened. People didn't just wander in off the street into Kev's house; they had to be invited in.

I felt a rush of anger. If the family had been killed in a car crash, that would have been one thing. If the killers had come in and maybe shot them, I'd be upset, but, at the end of the day, if you live by the sword, you must be prepared to die by the sword. But not like this. They'd been hacked up for no reason that I could see.

I forced myself to think rationally. There was no way I could phone the police and explain my version. Although I'd been lifted off, I was still operating in another country without its consent. Getting caught would be a big no-no. The operation here would be seen as a sign of betrayal and would create distrust between the two security

communities. There was no way the Firm would back me up; that would defeat the whole purpose of deniable ops. I was on my own.

Looking at my passenger, I knew I had a problem. As we drove toward Tyson's Corner I realized what I had to do. I saw a Best Western hotel on the left and an open-plan mall on the right. I had to dump the car, because that was one of the connections between me and the house. I needed somewhere to leave it that wasn't isolated, somewhere without video cameras.

As well as the shopping mall and its massive parking lots, on the outskirts was a drive-thru Burger King with its own parking.

It was all very well abandoning a vehicle in the middle of hundreds of others in a parking lot during shopping hours.

But at night, it might be the only car left there and was going to stick out, and it would be checked out by police patrols.

What I was after was an area that was really busy, day and night. Streets or multilevel parking garages were out, because nine times out of ten they have video cameras to stop muggings and car theft. Many multi story parking lots have a camera that takes a picture of the license plate and driver as you enter. At any major junction and along most major thoroughfares, there are traffic video cameras. If my car had been found outside Kev's house, the first thing they'd do was study the traffic videos and parking lot photography.

"Shall we get a burger and some shakes?" I suggested.

"Do you like milk shakes? I tell you what, I'll park and maybe we'll even go shopping."

Again it would be no good driving into the Burger King parking lot, stepping out, and then walking a few hundred yards to the shopping mall that isn't normal behavior. It might stick in people's minds and be recalled at a later date, so I wanted to make the two of us look as natural as possible.

"Strawberry, chocolate, or vanilla which one do you want?"

No reply.

"Strawberry? Go on, I'm going to have a strawberry."

Nothing.

I parked. The place was pretty full. I cupped my hand under her chin and gently turned her face so that she was looking at my big smile.

"Milk shake?"

There was a faint movement of her head, or maybe it was a nod of appreciation. Not much, but at least it was a reaction.

I carried on with the bullshit.

"You just sit here then; I'll get out, I'll lock the car, go and get the milk shakes. And then I tell you what, we'll go into the shopping mall. How about that?"

She looked away.

I continued as if she'd given me a positive response. I got out of the car and locked her in. I still had the pistol tucked down in my waistband, concealed by Kev's jacket.

I went into the Burger King, got two different flavor milk shakes, and came straight back to the car.

"Here we go then, chocolate or vanilla?"

She kept her hands by her sides.

"I tell you what, I'll have the vanilla; I know you like chocolate."

I put the shake in her lap. It was too cold for her legs; as soon as she lifted it up I said, "Come on, then, let's go to the shops. You can bring that with you."

I got her out, closed the door, and locked up. I did nothing about our fingerprints; no matter how hard I tried, I'd never get rid of them all, so what was the point? I opened the trunk, pulled out the bag with the bits and pieces I'd bought at Shannon, and threw in the trash bag full of bloodstained clothing.

It looked like rain. We walked toward the shopping mall; I kept on talking to her because the situation felt so awkward.

What else do you do, walking along with a kid who doesn't belong to you and doesn't want to be with you?

I tried to hold her hand but she refused. I couldn't make an issue of it with people around. I gripped the shoulder of the jacket again.

There was everything in the shopping center from a computer discount warehouse to an army surplus store, all housed in long one-story units that were like islands in a sea of parking lot.

We went into a clothing store, and I bought myself some jeans and another shirt. I'd change as soon as I'd had a shower and got Aida's blood off my back and legs.

At an ATM I drew out three hundred dollars, the maximum allowed on my credit card.

We came back out to the parking lot but didn't return to the car. I kept a firm grip on her as we walked toward the hotel across the road. As we got nearer I could see that the Best Western was in fact farther away than I first thought, separated from the main drag by a row of single-story office buildings. Our view was of the rear of the hotel.

Looking each way, it was obvious that the junctions that would lead us around to the front of the hotel were miles away. I decided to take a shortcut. The traffic was heavy, and the road system hadn't been designed for people on foot. I gripped Kelly's hand as we dodged to the median strip and waited for another gap. I looked up at the sky: it was very overcast; rain couldn't be far away.

Drivers, who had probably never seen pedestrians before, beeped furiously, but we made it to the other side and scrambled over small railings onto the sidewalk. More or less directly in front of us was a gap between two office buildings. We went through and crossed a short stretch of vacant ground that brought us into the hotel parking lot. As we walked past the lines of vehicles I memorized the sequence of letters and numbers for a Virginia plate.

The Best Western was a large four-story rectangle, the architecture very 1980s. Every elevation was concrete, painted the world's weirdest off-yellow. As we walked up to the reception area, I tried to look inside. I didn't want them to see us coming from the direction of the parking lot, because it would be odd to walk all that way without first checking that they had a room, and then unloading our bags. I hoped Kelly would stay silent when we were inside; I just wanted to do the business and walk out again as if we were going to see Mommy back in the car.

Inside the lobby I got hold of Kelly and whispered, "You just sit there. I'm going to get us a room." I gave her a tourist brochure that was lying on one of the chairs, but she ignored it.

In one corner, by the coffee machine and cream, was a large TV. A baseball game was on. I went over to the receptionist, a woman in her mid-forties who thought she was still twenty-four, who was watching the screen, probably fantasizing about her chances with one of the pitchers.

All smiles, I said, "I need a family room just for one night, please."

"Certainly, sir," she said, an honors graduate from Best Western's charm school.

"If you'd like to fill out this card."

As I started to scribble I said, "How much is a room, anyway?" "That's sixty-four dollars, plus tax."

I raised an eyebrow to make it look as if that was a lot of money to a family man like myself.

"I know," she smiled.

"I'm sorry about that."

She took my credit card and I filled in the form with crap.

I'd been doing this for donkey's years, lying on hotel forms, looking relaxed as I wrote but in fact scanning about four questions ahead. I filled in a car registration, too, and for number of occupants put two adults and a child.

She handed back my card.

"There you are, Mr. Stamford, it's room two-twenty-four. Where's your car?"

"Just around the corner." I pointed vaguely to the rear of the hotel.

"OK, if you park by the stairs where you see the Coke and ice machines, turn left at the top of the stairs, and you'll see room two-twenty-four on the left-hand side. You have a nice day now!"

I could have described the room even before I ran the key card through the lock and opened the door. A TV, two double beds, a couple of chairs, and the typical hotel designer's obsession with dark wood veneers.

I wanted to get Kelly settled quickly so I could use the phone. I pressed the remote and flicked through the channels, hoping to find Nickelodeon. Eventually I found some cartoons.

"I remember this one; it's good--shall we watch it?"

She sat on the bed, staring at me. The expression on her face said she didn't like this outing too much, and I could understand that.

"Kelly," I said, "I'm going to leave you for just a couple of minutes, because I've got to make a phone call. I'll get a drink while I'm out. What would you like. Coke? Mountain Dew?

Or do you want some candy?"

There was no reaction, so I just went on.

"I'm going to lock the door, and you're not to answer it for anybody. Nobody at all, OK? I'll use the key to get back in again. You sit there and enjoy yourself and I'll just be about five minutes, OK?"

Still there was no reaction. I hung the do not disturb sign on the door handle, made sure I had the key card, and left.

I was heading for a phone booth I'd seen in the street because I didn't want her to hear the telephone conversation I was about to have. I didn't know much about kids, but I knew that when I was seven nothing had gone unnoticed in my house. On the off chance that it wasn't PIN-protected, I took Kev's mobile from his jacket pocket. I pressed the Power button and it demanded a PIN number. I tried two basic ones the usual factory default, four zeros, and then 1234.

Nothing. I couldn't try anymore; with some phones you can try me wrong PIN only three times and then it automatically cuts out and you need to go back to the dealer to get it rectified. I turned off the power and put it back in my pocket. I'd ask Kelly about it later.

I turned left through the parking lot and headed for the phone booths out on the street. I spent a few moments sorting out in my mind what I wanted to say, and then I dialed London.

In veiled speech I said, "I've just finished work and I'm in Washington to visit an old friend. I used to work with him ten years ago. He's now working here for the US government." I outlined the problem and said that Kelly and I both needed help.

Veiled speech is not some magical code; all you're trying to do is intimate what is going on, yet at the same time throw off a casual listener. You're not going to fool any professional eavesdroppers that's what codes and onetime pads and all the rest of it are for. But all London needed to know was that I was in deep shit; I had Kev's child, and needed sorting out. ASAP.

"Fine, I'll pass that message on. Have you a contact number?"

"No. I'll call back in an hour."

"OK, goodbye."

These women never ceased to amaze me. They never ever got worked up about anything. It must be hard work being their husbands on a Saturday night.

I put down the phone and felt a bit better as I strolled over to a gas station. I knew the Firm would work everything out.

They might have to call in some big-time favors in the US to detach me from this shit, but what are friends for? They'd pull out all the stops, not so much to get me off the hook, as to make sure their operation was covered up.

I was trying to look on the bright side, which was more than the weather was doing. It had started to drizzle when I left the hotel, and that had now turned to light rain. With luck the Firm would pick up both of us tonight. Kelly would be taken care of, and I would be whisked back to the UK for another interview without coffee and cookies.

I bought some food and drink at the gas station to keep us out of the public eye in restaurants, and a few goodies to pass the time, then crossed the road and went back to the hotel. At the Coke machine I went up the stairs, turned left, and knocked on our door.

As I opened it I said, "I've got loads of things--I've got candy, sandwiches, chips--and I've even got you a Goose-bumps book to read."

I figured it was better to buy stuff to occupy her mind rather than try to cuddle or console her. I'd have felt really uncomfortable with that anyway.

She was lying on the bed exactly where I'd left her, staring in the direction of the television set, but not really watching, her eyes glazed over.

As I put everything down on the other bed I said, "Right, I reckon what you need now is a nice hot bath. I've even bought some Buzz Lightyear bubble bath."

It would give her something to do, and maybe relax her out of the catatonic state she was in. Apart from that, when I handed her over to the Firm I wanted them to see that I'd made an effort and that she was all nice and clean. After all, she was my friend's kid.

I turned the taps on and called back into the room, "Come on then, get undressed."

She didn't reply. I went back into the bedroom, sat at the end of the bed, and started undressing her. I thought she might resist, but instead she sat placidly as I pulled off her shirt.

"You do your jeans," I said. She was only seven, but I felt awkward about taking those off.

"Come on, undo your buttons." In the end, I had to. She was miles away.

I carried her into the bathroom. Good old Buzz Lightyear had done his job; the bubbles were halfway to the ceiling. I tested the water, lifted her into the bath, and she sat down without a word.

"There's loads of soap and shampoo," I said.

"Do you want me to help you wash your hair?"

She sat stock-still in the water. I gave her the soap, which she just stared at.

It was nearly time to call London again. At least I wouldn't have to go to a phone booth for this one; she'd be out of earshot in the bath. Just in case, I kept the TV on.

There was some weird and wonderful cartoon on: three characters in jeans, half man, half shark, who said things like "Fin-tastic!" and "Shark time!" Apparently they didn't kick ass, they kicked dorsal. The Street Sharks. The opening credits finished and I dialed London.

Immediately I heard "PIN number, please?"

I gave it. She went, "One moment."

A few seconds later the phone went dead.

That was strange. I dialed again, gave my PIN number, and again got cut off.

What the fuck was going on? I tried to reason with my self, tried to tell myself that this was just a fuck-up. But really, inside, I knew the truth. It had to be deliberate. Either that, or maybe, just maybe, the phone line was down. No good thinking about it. Take action.

I went into the bathroom.

"The phone's not working," I said.

"I'll just go down to the one on the corner. Is there anything else we need from the store? I tell you what, we'll go down there later on, the two of us, together."

Her gaze didn't leave the tiles at the end of the bath.

I lifted her out and put a towel around her.

"You're a big girl now. You can dry yourself." I took the hairbrush from the bag and dragged Kelly into the bedroom.

"Once you've done that, brush your hair, and make sure you're all dry and dressed when I come back. We might have to go somewhere.

Don't open the door for anyone, OK?"

There was no answer. I pulled out the phone jack and left. I was feeling apprehensive as I walked across the parking lot. I'd done nothing wrong, so why were they cutting me off? Was the Firm going to stitch me up? I started to go through all the scenarios in my head. Did they think I was the killer? Were they cutting away now as a prelude to denying everything?

I got to the phone, dialed, and the same thing happened. I slowly put down the receiver. A low wall made up part of the entrance to the hotel; I went and sat down. I needed to think hard. It didn't take long to decide that there was only one option, and that was to phone the embassy. I'd be breaking every rule in the book. I wouldn't even bother going through all the protocol; I dialed 411 and got the number. I got straight through.

"Hello, British Embassy. How may I help you?"

"I want to talk to LOSO."

"Excuse me?"

"LOSO. Liaison officer, special operations."

"I'm sorry, we don't have an extension number for that name."

"Get hold of the defense attache and tell him there's some body on the phone who wants to speak to LOSO. It's really important. I need to speak to him now."

"Hold on a moment." She put me on hold and I waited.

Another woman came on the line.

"Hello, how may I help you?"

"I want to talk to LOSO."

"I'm sorry, we have no one of that appointment."

"Then put me through to the DA."

"Sorry, the defense attache is not here. Can I help you?

Would you like to give me a name and contact number?"

I said, "Listen, this is the news. I want LOSO or the DA to pass this on. I've tried to phone in on my PIN number. My PIN number's two-four-two-two, and I'm getting blanked off.

I'm in a really bad situation at the moment and I need some help. Tell LOSO or the DA that if I don't make contact with London, I'm going to expose what I've got in my security blanket. I will call back in three hours' time."

The woman said, "Excuse me, could you repeat that?"

"No, you're recording the message will be understood.

All you've got to do is pass that on to the DA or LOSO, I don't give a fuck which one. Tell them I'll call London on the PIN line in three hours' time."

I put the phone down. The message would get to them.

Chances were the DA or LOSO was listening anyway.

Some of the operations I'd been on had been so dirty that no one would want them exposed, but that could cut two ways: it also meant that someone like me would be expendable if things weren't working too well. I'd always operated on the basis that if you were involved in deniable operations for the intelligence services and hadn't prepared an out for the day they decided to shaft you, then you deserved every thing you got. The head honcho knew that Ks had security blankets, but everybody denied it the operators denied it, the Firm denied it. I'd always been sure that the Firm put as much effort into trying to find where the blackmail kit was hidden as they did into the operations themselves.

I'd committed myself now. It was a card I could play only once. No way would I be living an easy existence after this. I was finished with the Secret Intelligence Service and would probably have to spend the rest of my life in a remote mountain village in Sri Lanka, looking over my shoulder.

What if the Firm decided to admit to the Americans that there'd been an op they'd forgotten to mention? Would they take the rap on the knuckles, then say, "This man killed one of your officers"? No, it didn't work that way. The Firm wouldn't know if my blanket was a bluff or not, or, if used, how much damage it could do in the hands of the press.

They'd have to take it as real; they'd have to help. They had no choice. We'd get lifted by the Firm, I'd be flown back to the UK, and then I'd take up basket weaving until they forgot about me.

Kelly was lying on the bed with a towel wrapped around her when I got back to the room. The cartoon had finished, and there was some sort of hard-hitting news-type voice on, but I didn't pay much attention to it. I was more interested in getting a response from this little girl. It seemed that I was fast running out of friends; she might be just seven years old but I wanted to feel she was on my side.

I said, "We've got to hang around for another hour or two, and then somebody's coming to..."

And then it hit me. The no-nonsense. New England female voice was saying, "... brutal murders and a possible kidnap..." I switched my attention to the screen.

She was black and in her mid-thirties. Her face was on camera, with Kev's house in the background and the Windstar still in the drive. Police were milling around two ambulances with flashing lights.

I grabbed the remote and hit the Off button.

"Kelly, naughty girl." I grinned.

"You haven't cleaned your neck. Just you go and do it right this minute!"

I nearly threw her into the bathroom.

"And don't come out until I tell you to!"

I hit the On button and kept the volume low.

The woman said,"... neighbors report seeing a white man in his late thirties, around five-foot-ten to six feet tall, medium build, with short brown hair. He arrived at the house in a white Dodge with Virginia plates at approximately two forty-five today. We now have Lieutenant Davies from the Fairfax County Police Department..."

A balding detective was standing beside her.

"We can confirm that there was a male fitting that description, and we're appealing for more witnesses. We need to know the whereabouts of the Browns' seven-year-old daughter, Kelly."

A picture came up on the screen of Kelly standing in the garden with Aida, with a spoken description. The broadcast cut back to a studio shot of the two anchors saying that the family was a victim of what appeared to be drug-related murders. A family portrait appeared on the screen.

"Kevin Brown was a member of the Drug Enforcement Administration ..."

The anchors expanded the piece into a discussion about the drug problem in the D.C. area.

There was no sound of splashing water from the bathroom.

Kelly would be out again any minute. I started flicking channels. Nothing more on the murders. I switched back to children's TV and went into the bathroom.

I hadn't heard any splashing because Kelly wasn't washing.

She was on the floor, under the sink, in the same fetal position I'd found her in at Kev's, hands over her ears to block out the news she'd just heard on the TV.

I wanted to pick her up and comfort her. The only thing was, I didn't know how. I decided to appear unaffected by her condition.

"Hello, Kelly." I smiled.

"What are you doing down there?"

Her eyes were shut so tight I could see the creases in her face. I picked her up in my arms and started to walk back into the bedroom.

"Hey, you look sleepy. Do you want to watch TV or just go to bed?" It sounded like crap to me but I just didn't know what else to say or do. Best pretend it hadn't happened.

I took the towel off to get her dressed.

"Come on, let's get some clothes on and your hair combed." I was really fighting for words now.

She just sat there. Then, as I started to pull her shirt on, she said quietly, "Mommy and Daddy are dead, aren't they?"

Getting her arms into the shirt suddenly became very interesting

"What makes you say that? I told you, I'm just looking after you for a while."

"So I'm going to see Mommy and Daddy again?"

I didn't have the words to use, or the guts to tell her.

"Yes, of course you will. It's just that they had to go away really quickly. I told you, it was too late to pick you up, but they asked me to look after you. As soon as they come back I'll take you to Mommy and Daddy and Aida. I didn't know it was going to take this long; I thought it was going to be only a couple of hours. But they will be back soon."

There was a slight pause as she worked through it all. I got her panties and placed her feet in them and pulled them up.

"Why didn't they want to take me. Nick?" She sounded sad at the thought.

I moved over to the chair and picked up her jeans. I didn't want her to see my eyes.

"It isn't that they didn't want to take you, but there was a mistake made, and that's why they asked me to look after you."

"Just like Home Alone I turned around and saw that she was smiling. I had to think about that one.

"Yeah, that's right, just like Home Alone. They left you by mistake!" I remembered watching it on a flight.

Shitty film but good booby traps. I busied myself with her jeans again.

"So when are we going to see them?"

I couldn't spend all day picking up two bits of clothing. I did a half turn and walked back toward the bed.

"That won't be for a while yet, but when I spoke to them just now they wanted me to tell you that they love you, and they're missing you, and to do everything I say and be a good girl."

There was a beaming smile on her face. I wished I had the courage to tell her the truth.

I said, "Kelly, you must do what I say, do you understand that?"

"Yeah, I understand."

She nodded, and I saw a little child needing affection.

I gave her my best attempt at a smile. I looked into her eyes.

"Come on, cheer up. Let's watch TV" We both went back to watch the Power Rangers, with a can of Mountain Dew. I couldn't take my mind off the news broadcast. Kelly's photograph had been on the TV. The receptionist the clothing store clerk, anyone might remember her. Surely the embassy had called London by now, surely every fucker knew what was going on because it was splashed all over the news. No need to wait three hours before making the call.

I'd have to go to the outside phone again because I didn't want Kelly to hear. I put Kev's jacket on, slipped the TV remote control into a pocket, told her where I was going, and left.

As I came to the stairs by the Coke machine I looked down.

Two cars had pulled up outside the reception lobby. Both were empty, but their doors were still open as if the occupants had piled out in a hurry.

I looked again. Besides a normal radio antenna each vehicle had a two-foot antenna on the back. One of the cars was a white Ford Taurus, the other a blue Chevy Caprice.

There was no time to think, just to turn around and run toward the rear fire exit like a man possessed. Now wasn't the time to worry about how they'd found us. As I ran, the options started to race through my mind. The obvious one was to leave Kelly where she was and let them pick her up. She was a millstone around my neck. On my own, I could get away.

So why did I stop running? I wasn't too sure; instinct told me that she had to come with me.

I doubled back and burst into the room.

"Kelly, we've got to go! Come on, get up!"

She'd been drifting off to sleep. There was a look of horror on her face because of my change of tone.

"We've got to go!"

Grabbing her coat, I picked her up in my arms and started toward the door. I snatched up her shoes and stuffed them into my pockets. She made a sound, half-frightened, half-protesting.

"Just hold on!" I said. Her legs were wrapped around my waist.

I came out onto the landing. I closed the door behind us, and it locked automatically. They'd have to break it down. I did a quick check down the corridor, not bothering to look below to see what was happening. I'd know soon enough if they were behind us.

I turned left and ran to the end of the corridor, turned left again, and there was the fire exit. I pushed the bar and it opened. We came out onto an open concrete staircase at the rear of the hotel, facing the shopping mall about a quarter of a mile away. Kelly started to cry.

There was no time to be nice. I got hold other head so that her face came right up to mine.

"People have come to take you away, do you understand that?" I knew it would frighten her, and that it would probably fuck up her mind even more, but I didn't care about that.

"I'm trying to save you. Shut up and do what I say!"

I squeezed her cheek hard and shook her face.

"Do you understand me, Kelly? Shut up, and hold me very tight."

I buried her face in my shoulder and lunged down the concrete stairs, looking for my escape route. Ahead of us lay about forty yards of rough grass, and beyond that a six-foot chain-link fence that looked old and rusty. On the other side of that was the rear of the long row of office buildings that faced the main road. Some were brick, some were plaster, all different styles built over the last thirty years. The rear administration area was strewn with clutter and large Dumpsters.

There was a pathway running across the empty ground, and it went through at a point where a whole section of the chain-link fence had crumpled or been pulled down. Maybe the hotel and office workers used it as a shortcut.

Carrying Kelly was like having a rucksack on the wrong way. That was going to be no good if I had to run fast, so I threw her around onto my back, linking my hands under her butt so I was carrying her piggyback. I got to the bottom of the stairs and stopped and listened. No sound of them shouting or breaking down the door yet. The urge was just to run for it across the grassy dirt toward the gap in the fence, but it was important to do this correctly.

Still with Kelly on my back, not bothering to tell her what was happening, I got onto my hands and knees. I lowered myself to within about a foot of the floor and slowly stuck my head around the corner. There was a chance that once I'd seen what was happening, I'd choose a different route.

The two cars had pulled up to the bottom of the staircase by the Coke machine. The fuckers were obviously upstairs. I didn't know how many of them there were.

I realized that the ground was in fact dead ground to them now, and started running. The rain had been light but constant, and the ground was muddy. It was reasonably well looked after, littered only here and there with bits of paper, old soft drink cans, and burger wrappers. I kept heading for the gap in the chain-link fence.

Kelly was weighing me down; I was taking short, quick strides and not bending my knees too much, just enough to take her weight, bending forward from the hips. She made in voluntary grunts in time with the running movements as the wind was knocked out of her.

We reached the broken section of fence, which was buried in the mud. I heard the screech of tires, then the sound of protesting suspension and body work. I didn't bother looking around, just dug deep to try to lengthen my stride.

Once through, we were faced with the rear of the office buildings. I couldn't see the alleyway we'd come through earlier. I turned left, looking for any other route through to the main drag. There had to be one somewhere.

Now on asphalt, I could make good speed, but Kelly started slipping. I shouted, "Hold on!" and felt her tense up more.

"Harder, Kelly, harder!"

It wasn't working. With my left hand I got hold of both her wrists and pulled them down in front of me toward my waist.

She was nice and tight on me now, and I could use my right hand to pump myself forward. My priority was to make good speed and distance. They would be out and running soon. I needed that alleyway.

It's a strange thing when people are being chased. Subconsciously they try to get as much distance as they can between themselves and their pursuers, and, whether it's in an urban environment or a rural one, they think that means going in a straight line. In fact, what you need to do is put in as many angles as possible, especially in a city or a town. If you come to an intersection with four options, it makes the chasers' job more difficult: they have a larger area to cover and have to split forces. A hare being chased in a field doesn't run in a straight line; it takes a big jump, changes direction, and off it goes again the pursuers are gaining momentum in a straight line and all of a sudden they have to change direction, too, which means slowing down, reevaluating their position. I was going to be that hare. As soon as I got to the end of the alleyway I was going to hang a left or a right, I didn't even know which yet, and run as fast as I could until I found other options.

I found the alley. No time to think if it was the right decision just make one. I could hear shouting behind me, maybe 100 to 150 yards away. But it wasn't directed at me.

They were too professional for that. They knew it wouldn't have any effect. I heard the cars turning around. They'd be trying to cut me off. I ran.

By now I was out of breath, with this seven-year-old on my back. My mouth was dry, and I was breaking into a sweat.

Kelly's head was banging onto the back of mine, and I was holding her so tight her chin was digging into my neck; it was starting to hurt her and she was crying.

"Stop, stop. Nick!"

I wasn't listening. I reached the end of the alley and ran into a totally different world.

In front of me was a narrow road that ran the length of the office buildings, and on the other side of it a grass embankment that went downhill to the main drag. Beyond that lay parking lots and the malls. Traffic noise drowned out Kelly's cries. The flow of vehicles was fast in both directions, despite the wet road. Most had their headlights on, and their wipers on intermittent. I stopped.

We must have looked a sight, a man with a shoeless child on his back, puffing and panting down the grass slope, the child moaning as her head banged on the back of his. I climbed the railings at the side of the main drag; now we were playing chicken with the traffic. Cars sounded their horns or braked sharply to avoid us. It seemed my new name was fuck, nut, or jerk. I didn't acknowledge anybody, even the ones who'd saved our lives by braking; I just kept on running.

Kelly was screaming. The traffic scared her as much as the running. All her young life she'd probably been warned about playing near the road, and here she was on a grown-up's back, cars and trucks swerving all around her.

Crossing the railings at the far side, I was also starting to worry. Kelly was slowing me down, without a doubt, and I still had quite a distance to run to get to safety. I ducked and weaved through the parking lot, using the height of the pickups and minivans to block us from their view.

At the far right of the mall I could see a computer super store, Comp USA and that was where I headed. There's always a good chance that a large store on a corner site will have more than one entrance. I expected there to be one on the other side, maybe at the rear, so even if they saw me going in, they'd have problems.

I knew the store would be hard for them to deal with, because I'd had to do this sort of thing myself in Northern Ireland.

If a player went into a shopping center, we would send only one guy in with him, then rush to seal up all the exits. It was hard enough when we knew a target, let alone having to find and identify him. If he was doing anti surveillance drills, he could go up an elevator, leave by one exit, go back in through another and up an elevator two floors, down one floor, then wander out into a parking lot, and he's gone. If these boys were professional, they'd start sealing the exits as soon as they saw where I'd gone. I;had to be quick.

We went in through the wide automatic doors. The store had aisles and aisles of office equipment, computers, and software. I went past the checkout counters without taking a cart, still with Kelly on my back. The place was packed. I was standing there drenched with sweat, chest heaving up and down as I fought for breath. Kelly was crying. People started looking at us.

Kelly moaned, "I want to get down now!"

"No, let's just get out of here."

I took a look behind and could see two men coming across the parking lot. In their suits they looked very much like plainclothes police, and they were running purposefully toward the store; they'd be heading to block off the exits. I had to put in some angles, had to get that confusion going.

I ran down a couple of aisles crammed with CD ROM games, turned right, and ran along the exterior wall, looking for an exit. Fuck it, there wasn't one. The warehouse seemed to be one big sealed unit. I couldn't go back out the way I'd come in, but if I didn't find another exit, I was going to spend the rest of the day running around the shop in circles.

One of the young assistants looked at me, turned away, and went trotting down the aisle, obviously looking for the manager or a security guard. Seconds later two men in shirtsleeves with name badges started to approach us.

"Yes, excuse me? Can we help you?" all very polite, but in fact meaning " What the fuck are you doing in our store? " There was no time to answer. I ran toward the rear of the store, looking for loading bays, emergency doors, open windows, anything. At last I saw the sign I was hoping to see:

fire exit. I ran at it, pushed it open, and the alarm went off.

We were outside. We were on a platform, obviously used for deliveries, where trucks could back in and unload.

I ran down the four or five metal stairs and hit the ground.

As I started to run to the left I shouted at Kelly to hold tight.

The rear of the shopping mall was deserted, just a long stretch of administration areas, with Dumpsters, bins, and even a trailer detached from its truck and being used as a storeroom. There were piles of cardboard boxes and bulging trash bags everywhere, a day's worth of garbage. Beyond the blacktop was a chain-link fence surrounding the whole area, and probably about fifteen feet high. Then vacant ground with trees and bushes. On the other side of that, I guessed, would be more parking and more stores.

I felt like a trapped rat. I had only two exits now, the access roads at either end of the long line of stores. I couldn't get over the fence with Kelly on my back; if I tried to throw her over, she'd break her legs. I started to run to the left, along the rear of the stores, heading toward one of the access roads. It was no good they'd had too much time to react; the road would be sealed.

I had to make a decision quickly. I moved toward one of the collection areas of Dumpsters bagged-up garbage, and card board boxes.

I lifted her from my back and positioned her in among it all, throwing boxes over the top of her and moving others to fill in the gaps on each side.

She looked at me and started to cry.

I said, "Disneyland, Kelly! Disneyland!"

She stared at me, tears rolling down her cheeks, and I threw a couple of boxes over the top.

"I'll be back, I promise."

As I ran I looked at the trailer that was right up against the fence. It was a huge thing, the height of a truck. Without fifty pounds of young girl on my back, running toward it was like floating on air. At last I was in control. I felt as if I'd lost a ball and chain.

I sprinted like a maniac, using the cover of the bins and Dumpsters. I suddenly spotted the trunk of a car jutting out from one of the loading bays. It was a mid-1980s model, not one of the cars that had been chasing me. I'd check the ignition for keys, and if I was out of luck, I'd cross the open ground to the container.

A truck was parked up near another loading bay. I started to run past it. A guy was running full tilt the other way, and we smashed our heads together. We both went down.

"Shit!" I looked at him through blurred eyes. He had a suit on. There was no way I was going to take a chance. I staggered to my feet and charged at him, banging him up against the car. He tried to wrap himself around me.

As I was pushing into him I could feel with the side of my face that his body was solid. This fucker had covert body armor on.

I pinned him up against the car, moved back a step, and pulled my weapon, flicking on the laser sight with my thumb.

Then, dazed, I sank back to my knees. I was seeing stars and my head was spinning; he was probably in exactly the same state. He looked down at me, confused, trying to make a decision. I aimed the sight onto his face.

"Don't do it," I said.

"Don't waste your life on this, it's not worth it. Get your hands up now!"

As his hands moved I could see he was wearing a wedding ring.

"Think about your family. It's not worth dying over this.

Number one, you're wrong, it wasn't me. Number two, I'll kill you. Put your hands on your head."

My head was clearing. What the fuck was I going to do now? Their cars would be here soon.

"Stay on your knees," I said.

"Turn right. Move to the back of the vehicle."

I got up off the ground and stumbled behind him. My eyes were still smarting as if I'd been hit with CS gas.

We were between the loading bay and the car. He knew the score and hopefully was thinking of his wife and kids. I switched my pistol into my left hand, moved into him, and quickly jabbed the pistol muzzle into his armpit, twisting it into the material of his jacket. I felt his body tense and heard a little grunt.

"I'll explain the facts of life to you," I said.

"This weapon is screwed into your clothes. I've got my finger on the trigger and the safety catch is off. If you fuck around, you'll kill yourself. Understand?"

He didn't react.

I said, "Come on, this isn't difficult. Do you understand me?"

"Yes" "Place your hands on your head."

With my right hand I took his weapon. Mine had only one magazine. He was carrying a Sig .45 in a pancake holster over his right kidney, and three magazines on his belt. The Sig is an approved weapon of the

FBI.

He was in his mid-thirties, straight off the set ofBaywatch:

blond, tanned, fit, good-looking, square-jawed. I could smell soap and baby lotion. This guy wanted to keep his skin soft. Or maybe he had a baby. Who cared? If he moved he'd be dead.

There was a white wire behind his ear, linked to an earpiece.

"Who are you?" I said. Not that it made any difference whether he was FBI or D.C. police.

No reply.

"Listen, whatever you think, I did not kill that family. I did not kill them--do you understand?"

Nothing. I knew I wouldn't get Baywatch man to talk. In any event, there wasn't any time to waste trying.

I took the radio, and the cash from his wallet. Then, with the pistol still in his armpit, I whispered loudly over my shoulder, "Stay where you are, Kelly! Don't worry, I'm coming!" I gripped him harder.

"Kelly, I said we're going to go in a minute!" If they thought Kelly was still with me when I legged it, maybe they'd move on and search a fresh area.

I turned back to him and said, "I'm going to untwist this now. Don't fuck with me--it's not worth it." I gradually released my pistol, making sure I could fire at any moment. I was behind him, with the weapon now pointing at his head.

He knew that.

I said, "You know what I've got to do next, don't you?"

There was a slight nod of acceptance.

I picked up an iron support from a pile of discarded shelving and gave him the good news where his neck met his shoulder. That sent him right down. For good measure I gave him a few kicks to the head and balls. At the end of the day, he wasn't going to be more pissed off with me because of this kicking; he probably already wanted to kill me. But I had to keep him from raising the alarm. A professional like this would be expecting it anyway; if the roles were reversed, it would be him doing the honors. It would certainly fuck him up for about ten minutes, and that was all I needed.

I came out from behind the car, had a quick look around.

Nobody in sight. I ran toward the trailer; there was a large trash can beside it that I could use as a springboard. I jumped, threw myself upward, and got my arms onto the roof. I scrambled up. From there it was just a fifteen-foot drop to freedom.

A sign pointed the way to Maylords Boardwalk. I turned left and ran along the grass embankment, past the trash cans, and into another parking area. I went straight toward the boardwalk because it promised cover. I was looking for a rest room, and with luck there would also be an exit to the other side of the mall.

The boardwalk seemed to be a minimall with mainly shoe and greeting card boutiques. I found the block of conveniences by the coffee shop about a third of the way down the arcade. Looking farther down, I could see there was another exit to the boardwalk. I went into the men's room.

Two guys had just finished pissing and were now washing their hands. I went straight into one of the stalls and sat there while I waited to calm down.

I put the earpiece in my ear and switched the radio on. I didn't get much at all, it was broken up, but that meant nothing. I was probably in a dead spot.

I used toilet paper to wipe the blood and mud off my shoes and pants, and cleaned myself up as much as possible. When I was sure the other two had gone, I went out to the sinks, pressed the faucet, and washed my hands and face. I still wasn't getting anything but fuzz on the earpiece.

I headed for the coffee shop, bought a cappuccino, and sat down about three tables back. From there I could watch both exits to the boardwalk. I didn't look out of place with the wire in my ear because so many store detectives and security guards wore them.

They sparked up on the net. They were talking freely as if the radio were secure, not using codes. There was a jack on the radio for the key gun--the device that sends the chosen encryption codes to the radio. Once this has been done to two or more sets, they can talk together securely. Everybody else would just hear fuzz.

I listened to some of them checking around the back, where the boy had been dropped, and others in places that I couldn't identify. What I couldn't hear was a base station, a central control. I started to wonder about that. Then I thought, Why was it these guys and not uniformed police had turned up at the hotel? I was supposed to be a kidnapping murderer;

in situations like this I'd expect to see heavily armed SWAT teams leaping from Chevy vans. I realized it was this that had made me run back for Kelly without even knowing it. I should have checked the boy I'd dropped for any ID. Never mind, it was too late now.

How did they find me so quickly at the Best Western? Had my call to London been traced to our room? Impossible: too quick. Was it my credit card when I checked in? Unlikelier still. Only the Firm would have known the details of my cover documents, and they wouldn't have turned me in because they'd be too worried about the Americans finding out about their deniable ops. So it must have been the receptionist--she must have watched the news and recognized Kelly's photograph.

But even then, it didn't add up somehow. I started to feel very uneasy.

These boys weren't a Mickey Mouse group. When I bumped into Baywatch man, he'd been wearing a double-breasted jacket and it was open. But it was only now, thinking about it, that I realized that in fact it hadn't been open at first.

There had been a Velcro fastening.

I heard more radio traffic. They'd found him. Baywatch man's name was Luther, but whoever the boss was on the ground, he didn't really care too much about Luther's condition.

He just wanted to know if he was able to talk.

"Yeah, he's OK."

"Is he alone?"

"Yeah, he's alone."

"Did he see the target?"

"No, he says he didn't see the target but they're still together."

"Does he know what direction they went?"

There was a pause.

"No."

I imagined Luther sitting on the ground with his head against the car, getting patched up and feeling pretty pissed off at me. In the background I could hear him mumbling in formation. He sounded almost drunk.

The sender said, "No idea of the direction. And one more thing he's armed. He had a sidearm with him and he's also taken Luther's ... Wait..."

I heard a click, then whoever was with Luther came back on the net; his voice was very agitated.

"We've got a problem he's got the radio! He's got the radio!"

The boss came back on: "Fuck! Everybody, all stations, cut com ms Close down now! Out."

The earpiece went dead. They were going to turn the radios off and refill with a new code. Luther's radio was obsolete. What I wouldn't have given now for a key gun. Luther said he hadn't seen the target, so it was Kelly they were after, not me. My face burned with anger. These were the people who'd killed Kev, they had to be. This chase was nothing to do with law enforcement; this was about people who wanted to finish the job. Maybe they thought Kelly had seen them.

By now I had finished my coffee and the waitress had whisked the cup away. I was starting to be a pain in the ass here; other people were waiting for my table. I went back into the rest rooms. The TV remote control was still in my pocket.

That went into the trash can, along with the useless radio.

What about Kelly? What did I have to gain by going back?

What if they'd found her, disposed other, and were waiting for me to pick her up? That was what I would have done. I could think of lots of reasons why I shouldn't go back.

Shit.

I walked back toward the mall exit. Looking left across the dead ground, I could just about see the roofofCompUSA.

The parking lot was still full, and it was raining harder now. I turned up the collar of Kev's jacket and looked toward the main drag. I could see a Wendy's like a desert island in the middle of the parking lot. It was coffee time again. I checked the route ahead for any sign of my new friends and again used tall vehicles as cover.

I took my burger and coffee over to a window seat. I couldn't see the rear of the buildings, but I could see the nearer of the two access roads, the one I'd been running toward when I met Luther. Better than nothing. The Wendy's had a play station, which was great cover; kids screamed around in a tub of multicolored tennis balls while their parents sat it out, just like me. I tried not to think of Kelly hiding among the Dumpsters, scared, wet, cold, and hungry.

I sat and stared out the window at the rain. I remembered the times I'd been bad as a child and got a spanking from my stepfather and been put in the shed for the night. I'd been terrified of the rain beating down on the clear plastic roof; I'd sat there curled up, thinking that if the rain could get me, then so could the bogeymen. As a soldier and as a K I had been shot at, beaten up, imprisoned; I'd always been scared, but nothing like those times as a child. I thought of Kelly abandoned in her makeshift hiding place, rain beating down on the cardboard. Then I cut it from my mind. She'd get over it. I shouldn't let it concern me; I'd done worse things.

Still looking out the window, I saw the white Taurus come out from behind the mall onto the access road, stop at the intersection and turn with the flow of traffic. It was four up by the looks of things, all suits, though in the rain it was hard to be certain. Four up was a good indication that they were lifting off: if they were taking Luther to the hospital, there'd be three at most inside, one driving, one looking after the casualty The others would have stayed behind. I was beginning to feel a decision coming on.

I'd have to change my appearance, and I'd have to do it on the cheap I had about five hundred dollars in total, and would be needing every cent.

I finished my coffee and went back to the boardwalk. I found a clothing store and bought a thin cotton raincoat that folded up to about the size of a handkerchief. I also bought a Kangol hat, the sort it was fashionable to wear the wrong way so the brim was hanging down the back of your neck and the logo was in front.

I then went to an Hour Eyes and bought a pair of display glasses with thick rims. Glasses really change the shape of your face. Whenever I'd needed an appearance change on a job, a haircut and glasses had always done the trick. Wearing a different color and giving yourself a different shape was the minimum required.

I went back to the rest rooms to sort myself out. I ripped out the inside of the raincoat pocket with my teeth. My newly acquired Sig .45 was down the front of my jeans, with the mags in my pockets. If the shit hit the fan, I could draw the weapon and fire through the coat.

I wanted to use the last three-quarters of an hour of day light re conning the garbage area. The lift-off might have been a ploy; I wanted to assure myself that nobody was lying in wait. The idea would be to do a complete 360 degrees around the target area, but before that I wanted to go back and give the hotel another look; I wanted to see if there were any police cars outside, to confirm whether it had been an official lift. If Luther and his friends were after a murder suspect, the cops should be up there by now, dusting for prints and taking statements.

I put on my disguise and looked in the mirror at the world's hippest dude well, nearly. If people looked closely, they would think I was the oldest swinger in town. I turned the cap around with the brim now forward, and off I went. I walked straight across the parking lot, crossed the main drag at the intersection, and worked my way back to the Best Western along the roads. I saw nothing. Everything looked perfectly normal; not a police car in sight.

As I walked back I thought about the state that Kev, Marsha, and Aida had been left in. Why hack them to bits? Luther and his friends weren't dope heads they were pros; they did nothing without a reason. They must have wanted it to appear drug related to cover their asses. Given the number of attempts on Kev's life in the past, it would have been perfectly plausible for the police to assume that one of them had finally succeeded, and that the perpetrators had then gone overboard and slain the whole family as a warning to others. But I knew that wasn't the explanation. They had killed Marsha because they'd have had to assume that Kev had passed on whatever he knew, and then they'd had to kill Aida simply because they didn't want witnesses. Kelly owed her life to their having not seen her. It was probably only after the news reports that they realized they hadn't finished the job, that there might be a witness after all.

The way they'd butchered Aida brought back to me a story about the American "hearts and minds" program in Vietnam.

In one region they'd injected the children of a village against smallpox. The Viet Cong came along a week later and cut each child's arm off. It worked: no more hearts and minds programs for them. Sometimes the end justifies the means. I had a sort of respect for Luther and company, but I knew I mustn't fuck around with these people they were too much like me.

Rush hour was now in full swing; it would be dark soon.

The stores were still open and the area was packed with people. It was great for me; it made me just another sucker.

As I walked I had my head down against the rain. I reached the Wendy's parking lot. This time I was nearer the fence;

wiping my new glasses, I looked across the low ground as the rear of the mall came into view.

There was a loud hiss of brakes as a truck backed up to a loading bay. Three other trucks were already parked along side the car where I'd met Luther. But again, just as at the hotel, there were no police investigating the crime scene.

Maybe they didn't like the weather.

Only the bays that were in use were lit. The group of bins where I'd hidden Kelly was pretty much in shadow. One was being filled with the old metal shelving I'd used on Luther.

Even from where I was, I could hear the loud crash and clatter. Kelly must be petrified down there.

No need for a 360; I'd seen enough. As I looked forward deciding where to go now, I watched a bus pull up by a shelter, take on passengers, and drive off again. Maybe that was our way out of here.

But if they'd found Kelly and set an ambush, where was I going to run? I had to work out an escape route. Hijacking cars doesn't work so well in a built-up area it attracts too much attention. Better to use the crowds and confusion. I picked three possible routes.

Hanging around increased the chance of getting busted, so I decided to lift off from the area for a while. I continued on to the stores. I thought I'd get some stuff for Kelly; she'd be needing an appearance change, too. She'd been on the news;

she was famous now.

I bought her a nice big floppy hat. I wanted to tuck her hair up out of the way and hide her face as best I could. I also bought her a thinly padded pink three-quarter-length coat to cover those skinny legs, and a completely new set of clothes to fit a nine-year-old. She was tall for her age, so I thought I'd better get the larger size. Almost as an afterthought, I bought myself some new jeans and a T-shirt.

With a handful of shopping bags I retraced the route along the fence. As I walked away from the stores, their lights still reflected on the wet asphalt of the parking lot. The traffic was slow on the main drag, windshield wipers on full speed.

As I got to the fence I looked left. There was no change.

I kept on walking. As I got level with the stores, the access road started to rise up to meet me. The fence stopped. I turned left down a slippery grass embankment and onto the road that led to the back of the stores. I followed the fence again as I dropped down into the vacant lot.

The rain had turned the dust into mush. I now had the fence to my left and the loading bays to the right. I kept on walking, fighting the temptation just to run to Kelly, grab her, and get the hell out of there. That's what gets people caught or killed.

My eyes must have looked as if I were plugged into the power lines. They were darting everywhere, getting as much information into my head as possible. I wanted to see this am bush before it was sprung. I was committed now. If push came to shove, I'd fucking shove.

What if Kelly wasn't there? I'd call 911 and say I'd seen that girl from the news wandering around the area. Hopefully the cops would get her before Luther's pals did. That was if they hadn't already. I'd then have to take my chances when the Nick Stone manhunt began. Whoever had her would then have my name.

I got to within about twenty yards of the bins, still walking at the same steady pace. I didn't even look around now, because that took time and effort.

I came up to the bins and started to lift away the boxes.

"Kelly, it's me! Kelly! See, I told you I'd come back."

The cardboard was soaking wet, coming apart in my hands. As I pulled the last of it away, I could see she was more or less exactly in the position I'd left her. Curled up, sitting on some dry cardboard. My mind flashed back to how she'd looked when I'd found her in the garage. At least she wasn't rocking, with her hands clamped over her ears. She was dry;

maybe the bogeyman had got in, but at least the rain hadn't.

I stood her up and put her new coat around her shoulders.

"I hope you like pink," I said.

"I got this for you, too." I put the hat on her head to preserve whatever was left of her body heat.

She put her arms around me. I hadn't been expecting it;

I didn't know how to react. I just kept talking to her. She cuddled me harder.

I readjusted the hat.

"There, that'll keep you nice and dry. Now let's go and get you a bath and something to eat, shall we?"

I had the bags in my left arm. She gripped my left sleeve as we walked. It was awkward, but I needed to keep my right hand free to draw my pistol. The bus was about half full with shoppers and bulging shopping bags. Kelly was cuddled up beside me in the window seat. Her hat was doing its job; her hair was tucked up, and the dropped brim covered her face. I was feeling good. I'd saved her from Luther and his buddies. I'd done the right thing.

We were on our way to Alexandria, an area I knew to be south of downtown D.C. but within the Beltway; we were going there because that was what had been on the destination sign of the first bus to arrive.

Everyone was fed up and wet, and the bus was well misted up. I leaned across and used my sleeve to wipe away the condensation, but it didn't help much. I looked toward the front, where the windshield wipers were working overtime.

The priority was a hotel; we'd have to check into one within the next hour or so, because the later in the day I left it, the more unusual it would look.

"Nick?"

I didn't want to look at her because I knew what she was going to ask.

"Yes?"

"Why were those men chasing you? Did you do something wrong?"

I could feel her looking at me under her hat.

"I don't know who they are, Kelly. I just don't know." Eyes still fixed on the clear patch of windshield, I said, "You hungry?"

In the corner of my eye, I could see her hat moving up and down.

"Not long now. What do you want McDonald's?

Wendy's?"

She nodded for both, then mumbled something. I was still looking out the window.

"What's that?"

"Mickey D's."

"Mickey D's?"

"McDonald's! You're so out of it!" "Ah, OK that's what we'll get."

I went back to my thoughts. I would only use cash from now on; I had to assume the worst, which was that we'd been traced through my credit card. Despite that, I'd still call London again. Deep down, I guessed that they'd probably already consigned my records to the shredder, but what did I have to lose?

We drove past a place called the Roadies Inn. It fit the bill. I didn't have a clue where we were, but that didn't matter; I'd sort that out later. I signaled the driver that we wanted the next stop.

When the Roadies Inn had been built in the 1960s it probably looked like a million dollars. Now even the grass outside looked faded, and on the red neon vacancy sign the V and the N were flickering. Perfect.

I peered through the screen door to the lobby. A woman in her twenties was behind the reception desk, smoking, and watching a TV that was on the far wall. I only hoped we hadn't had star billing on the news. Looking past her into the back office, I saw a bald, overweight man, probably late fifties, working at a desk.

"I want you to wait just here, Kelly." I pointed to the wall of the hotel under the upstairs landing that acted as a patio.

She didn't like it.

"I won't be long," I said, starting to walk backward toward the doors.

"Just wait there; I'll be right back." By now I was at the door. I pointed at her as if I were training a puppy.

"Stay, OK?"

The desk clerk was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Her hair was the blondest I'd ever seen, apart from the roots. She glanced away from the TV and said on autopilot, "Hello, can I help you?"

"I'm looking for a room for maybe three or four nights."

"Sure, for how many?"

"Two adults and a child."

"Sure, one moment," and she ran her finger down the register.

The news was on. I turned and watched, but there was nothing about the murders. Maybe we were already old news.

I hoped so.

"Can I have your card?"

I pulled a face.

"Ah, that's where we have a problem. We're on a fly-drive vacation, and we've had our bags stolen. We've been to see the police and I'm waiting for replacement cards, but I'm just running on cash at the moment. I understand you have to have it for the record, but maybe if I pay in advance, and you disconnect the room phone?"

She was starting to nod her head, but her expression was still the wrong side of sympathetic.

"We're really stuck." I played the wet and sorrowful Brit abroad.

"We've got to go to the British consulate tomorrow and sort out our passports." I brought out some twenty-dollar bills.

It seemed to take a while for it all to sink in.

"I'm so sorry to hear about that." She paused, waiting for more chemicals to interact in her brain.

"I'll get the manager."

She went into the office, and I watched her talking to the bald guy at his desk. From their body language I got the impression he was her father. I felt a drop of sweat roll down my spine. If they refused us a room, we were stranded maybe miles from the next motel and would need to start ordering taxis and raising our profile.

Hurry up! I turned and looked outside but couldn't see Kelly. Fuck, I hoped Mr. Honest Citizen wasn't about to storm in demanding to know who'd left a little girl all alone outside in the rain. I quickly walked to the door and stuck my head outside. She was still there, standing where I'd asked her to.

I came back to the reception desk just as Dad appeared from the back office. The woman was on the telephone, taking a reservation.

"Just making sure our car isn't blocking the way." I grinned.

"I hear you have a problem?" Dad had a vacant smile on his face. I knew we were OK.

"Yes." I sighed. "We've been to the police and contacted the credit card companies. We're just waiting for it to get sorted out. Until then, all I've got is cash. I'll pay for the next three days in advance."

"That's no problem."

I was sure it wasn't. There was no way our little cash transaction would be finding its way onto the books. What some people call white trash, Kev used to call "salt of the earth";

they might take a while to understand things, but money is money in any language.

He smiled.

"We'll keep the telephone on for you."

I played the thankful Brit and checked in, then Kelly and I bounded up two flights of concrete and cinder-block stairs.

Kelly hesitated outside the room, then looked at me and said, "Nick, I want to see Mommy. When can I go home?"

Shit, not that again. I wished more than anything that she could go and see Mommy. It would be one less problem.

"Not long now, Kelly," I said.

"I'll get some food in a minute,

OK?"

"OK."

Once inside, I lay down on the bed and thought out the priorities.

"Nick?"

"Yes?" I was looking at the ceiling.

"Can I watch TV?"

Thank God for that.

I reached over to the remote and quickly checked the channels, making sure I wasn't going to catch us both on the news.

I found Nickelodeon and stuck with it.

I'd made a decision.

"I'm going out now to buy us something to eat," I said, my mind on the one option that hadn't yet been closed.

"You stay here, the same as before. I'll put the do not disturb sign on the door, and you make sure that you don't open it for anybody. Do you understand?"

She nodded.

The phone booth was next to a Korean grocery store. It was still drizzling; I could hear the noise of tires on wet asphalt as I crossed the road.

I pushed in a couple of quarters and dialed.

I got "Good evening, British Embassy. How may I help you?"

"I'd like to speak to the defense attache, please."

"May I say who's calling?"

"My name is Stamford." Fuck it, I had nothing to lose.

"Thank you, one moment please."

Almost immediately, a no-nonsense voice came on the line: "Stamford?"

"Yes."

"Wait."

There was a long continuous tone; I was starting to think I'd been cut off again. Then, thirty seconds later, I heard Simmonds.

My call must have been patched through to London.

Unflappable as ever, he said, "It seems you're in a spot of trouble."

"Trouble's not the word."

In veiled speech I told him everything that had happened since my last call. Simmonds listened without interruption, then said, "There's not really a lot I can do. Obviously, you understand the situation I'm in?" I could tell he was pissed off with me big-time.

"You were told to return immediately.

You disobeyed an order. You should not have gone to see him, you know that." He was still cool about it all, but under the veneer I knew he was boiling.

I could just picture him behind his desk in his crumpled shirt and baggy cords, with the family photo and maybe Easter eggs for his family on his desk, next to a pile of red-hot faxes from Washington that had to be attended to.

"It's got nothing on the situation I can put you in," I said.

"I've got stuff that would make your lot look not very British at all. I'll blow it to whoever wants to listen. It's not a bluff. I need help to get out of this shit and I want it now."

There was a pause: the patient parent waiting for a child to stop its tantrum.

He said, "Your position is pretty delicate, I'm afraid. There is nothing I can do unless you have some form of proof that you're not implicated. I suggest you make every effort to discover what has happened and why, then we can talk and I might be able to help. How does that sound to you? You can carry out your threat, but I wouldn't recommend it."

I could feel his hand tighten around my balls. Whether they complied or called my bluff, I'd be spending the rest of my life on the run. The Firm does not like being strong-armed.

"I've got no choice really, have I?"

"I'm glad you see it like that. Bring what you find."

The phone went dead.

My mind racing, I wandered into the shop. I bought a bottle of hair color one wash in, twelve washes out and a hair-trimmer gadget. I also bought a full range of washing and shaving supplies because we couldn't look like a couple of scruffies at large in D.C. Then I filled the basket with bottles of Coca-Cola and some apples and candy.

I couldn't find a Mickey D's and ended up in a Burger King. I bought two meal deals, then went back to the hotel.

I knocked on the door as I opened it.

"Guess what I've got burgers, fries, apple pies, hot chocolate, coffee for me.. ."

By the wall next to the window was a little circular table and PVC chairs. The shopping bags went on the bed; I dumped the burgers on the table with a flourish, like a re turning hunter. Ripping the bags open to make a tablecloth, I tipped the fries out, opened the ketchup, and we both dived in. She must have been starving.

I waited until she had a mouthful of burger.

"Listen, Kelly, you know how grown-up girls are always dyeing their hair and cutting it and all sorts of stuff ? I thought you might like to try it."

She couldn't have looked less interested.

"What do you fancy, a really dark brown?"

She shrugged.

I wanted to get it done before she understood too much of what was happening. The moment she'd finished her hot apple pie, I led her to the bathroom and got her to take off her shirt. I tested the shower temperature and leaned her over the sink, quickly wetting her hair, then toweled and brushed it. I got the trimmer going but I wasn't entirely sure what I was doing. I realized it was for beards, really, and by the time I'd got the hang of it her hair looked like shit. The more I tried to sort it, the shorter it was getting. Soon it was up around her collar.

As I studied the bottle of dye, trying to read the instructions, she said, "Nick?"

I was still reading the bottle and hoping I wasn't about to turn her hair into a ginger fuzz ball

"What?"

"Do you know those guys who were chasing you?"

I was the one who should have been asking questions.

"No, I don't, Kelly, but I will find out." I thought about it, put the hair dye down. I was standing behind her; both of us were looking at each other in the mirror. Her light blue eyes were now not so red around the edges. That only made my brown ones even more dark and tired-looking. I looked at her a while longer. Finally, I said, "Kelly, why did you go to the hidey-hole?"

She said nothing. I could see in her eyes that she was starting to question my hairdressing skills.

"Did Daddy shout "Disneyland'?"

"No."

"Then why did you go?" Already this was getting too in tense for me. I needed to do something. I picked up the dye.

"Because of the noise."

I started to comb the dye in.

"Oh, what noise was that?"

She looked at me in the mirror.

"I was in the kitchen but I heard a bad noise in the living room and I went and looked."

"What did you see?"

"Daddy was shouting at the men and they were hitting him."

"Did they see you?"

"I don't know, I didn't go in the room. I just wanted to shout to Mommy to come and help Daddy."

"And what did you do?"

Her eyes went down.

"I couldn't help him." When she looked up again, I saw her face was burning with shame. Her bottom lip started to wobble.

"I ran to the hidey-hole. I wanted to go to Mommy but she was upstairs with Aida, and Daddy was shouting at the men."

"You ran to the hidey-hole?"

"Yes."

"Did you stay there?"

"Yeah."

"Did Mommy come and call for you?"

"No. You did."

"So you didn't see Mommy and Aida?"

"No."

The picture of the two of them dead flashed into my mind.

I put my arms around her as she sobbed. I said, "Kelly, you couldn't have helped Daddy. Those men were too big and strong. Probably I couldn't have helped him, and I'm a grown-up. It's not your fault Daddy got hurt. But he is OK and wants me to look after you until he is better. Mommy and Aida had to go with Daddy. There just wasn't any time to get you."

I let her cry a bit, then asked, "Did you see any of the men who were chasing us today?"

She shook her head.

"Did the men who were with Daddy have suits on?"

"I think so, but they had like painting clothes over them."

I guessed what she meant.

"The sort Daddy would wear to paint the house?" I did the actions of putting on a pair of overalls.

She nodded.

"So do you mean they had suits on underneath, but had the painting things on top?"

She nodded again.

I knew it; these boys were good they were players. They hadn't wanted to get nasty red stuff all over their nice suits.

I asked her how many men came out and what they looked like. She was confused and scared. Her lip started to quiver again.

"Can I go home soon?" She was fighting back the tears.

"Yes, very soon, very soon. When Daddy is better. Until then, I'm looking after you. Come on, Kelly, let's make you look like a big girl."

After a rinse I combed her wet hair and got her dressed right away in her new clothes. If we had to move, I needed her dressed, so I told her that the only things she could keep off were her hat, coat, and shoes.

She inspected herself in the mirror. The new clothes were much too big and her hair was--well, she didn't seem too sure.

We watched Nickelodeon, and eventually she fell asleep. I lay staring at the ceiling, going through the options, or rather, trying to kid myself that I had some.

What about Slack Pat? He would certainly help if he could, as long as he hadn't turned into some drugged-up New Age hippie. But the only way I could think of contacting him was through the restaurant he used to rave about. The way he described it, he practically lived there. The problem was, I couldn't remember the name of it, just that it was on a hill at the edge of Georgetown.

What about Euan? He was no good yet because he'd still be operating in Northern Ireland, and there was no way I could make contact with him until he was back in England.

I looked over at Kelly. That was how she would have to live now, always dressed, ready to run at a moment's notice. I put the comforter over her.

I piled all the trash together and put it in the wastebasket, made sure the sign was still on the door and her shoes were in her pockets. I checked chamber in both weapons--the 9mm in Kev's jacket and the Sig in my waistband. No doubt Kelly was going to be in all of tomorrow's papers, but at least if the shit hit the fan we were ready to go. I knew my escape route and would not hesitate to shoot my way out.

I got my new clothes out of the bag and took them into the bathroom. I shaved, then undressed. I stank; Kev's things were stained with blood from Aida or Marsha, I couldn't remember which. The sweat had thinned it, spreading it right up the back and shoulders of his shirt and the inside of his jeans. Everything went into a plastic laundry bag, which I'd throw away in the morning. I had a long, hot shower and washed my hair. Then I got dressed, checked the door lock, and lay on the bed.

I woke up at about 5:30 in the morning after a terrible night's sleep. I wasn't sure if all the bad stuff was a dream. The only good result was that I remembered the name of Slack Pat's restaurant.

I thought again about money. I definitely couldn't use credit cards because I had to assume they'd either been frozen or would be used as a trace. It was cash or nothing--not easy in the West nowadays. Pat, if I got to him, would fund me, but I knew I'd have to take advantage of any spare time to get hold of more. Kelly was snoring big-time. I picked up the key card, gently closed the door behind me, checked that the sign was up, and went looking for a fire extinguisher. As I passed the open door to the chambermaid's storeroom I spotted half a dozen wedge-shaped door stops on a shelf. I helped myself to a couple.

I found the fire extinguisher on the wall by the elevators. I quickly unscrewed the top of it and removed the carbon dioxide cylinder, a nine-inch black steel tube. I put it in my jacket and walked back to the room.

I put the three spare magazines for the Sig .45 in the left-hand pocket of Kev's jacket and decided I was going to keep the USP in the room. I hid it in the toilet tank. A weapon can stand getting wet in the short term. I just didn't want her to find it and start putting holes in herself.

I dozed some more, woke up, and dozed again. By 7 a.m. I was bored and hungry. Breakfast was included in the room price, but to get it I'd have to go downstairs to the lobby.

Kelly started to stir. I said, "Good morning. Do you fancy something to eat?"

She was all yaw ny sitting up and looking like a scarecrow because she'd gone to sleep with wet hair. Immediately I put the TV on for her, because I didn't really know what to say.

She looked down at her clothes, trying to work it out.

"You fell asleep," I laughed.

"I couldn't even undress you last night. Hey, it's like camping, isn't it?"

She liked that.

"Yeah." She smiled, still sleepy "Shall I go and get you some breakfast?"

She didn't look up, just nodded at the television.

"Remember, you must do this every time; you never ever open the door. I'll come back using the key. Don't even open the curtains, because the cleaning ladies will think it's OK to come in, and we don't want to talk to anyone, do we? I'll leave the do not disturb sign, OK?"

She nodded. I wasn't sure how much of it had gone in. I picked up the tray the ice bucket was on, put on my glasses, and went down to reception.

It was already fairly crowded: people with RVs who couldn't be bothered to sleep in them, and salesmen looking clean, fresh, and straight out of the "appearance counts" section of the manual.

The breakfast area was made up of two or three tables by the coffeepots under the TV. I took three packets of cereal, bagels and muffins, some apples, then two cups of coffee and an orange juice.

The desk clerk had just finished her shift and came over.

"I

hope everything goes OK. with your passports and all." She smiled, helping herself to a bagel.

"I'm sure it'll be fine. We're just going to concentrate on having a good vacation."

"If you need any help, you just come and ask."

"Thanks." I walked over to the desk and picked up a complimentary USA Today. I also helped myself to a book of Roadies Inn matches from a whole bowl of them and a paper clip that was in a big ashtray full of elastic bands and office supplies, and went back to the room.

Ten minutes later Kelly was munching on her cereal, glued to Nickelodeon. I said, "I'm going out for about an hour. I've got to do stuff. While I'm away, I want you to wash up and be all nice and clean for when I get back, and have your hair brushed. Are you going to be all right on your own, with your big-girl haircut?"

She shrugged.

"Whatever."

"What are your favorite colors?"

"My favorite colors are pink and blue."

"Well, we've got the pink." I pointed at the coat hanging up with her shoes sticking out of the pockets. That had been a bit of luck.

"Now I've got to get you something blue."

I gave my glasses a quick clean with toilet paper, put them back in their case and into Kev's jacket, then put my long black raincoat over the top, checking the pocket for the cylinder. I checked my pockets and took out the loose change.

I wanted to cut down on noise, and always felt better anyway with as little as possible dragging around my clothes.

I got my Kangol hat in my hand, and I was all ready to go.

"I won't be long. Remember, let no one in. I'll be back before you know it."

It had stopped raining, but the sky was still gray and the ground wet. The road was choked with cars heading into downtown D.C. It's a people town; the sidewalks were busy, too.

I walked briskly to keep pace with the office workers, each with their "Got to get up, got to get going" expression, looking all the time for the ideal place to make some money quickly and get back to the hotel before Kelly started panicking.

It was too early for a shopping mall, since they didn't open until tenish. And I wasn't in an area with a lot of hotels--they were all farther downtown. There were fast-food outlets but with normally just one way in and out, and too much rest room traffic, they wouldn't be a good choice. A service station would do, as long as it had an outside bathroom that could be opened only with a key obtained from the cashier.

I'd been wandering around for maybe twenty minutes. I walked through a couple of gas stations that were busy enough, but they were modern, with inside rest rooms.

Eventually I found what I was looking for, an outdoor rest room with a sign on the door that said key at desk. I checked to make sure that the door was locked, then I walked on.

I was looking for two things now: somewhere natural to watch the pumps from, and my escape route. Farther up, on the other side of the road, was a run of lawyers' offices, credit unions, insurance brokers, in wonderful 1930s brick detached houses; in between were what looked like well-used alleys. I crossed over, walked down one, and came out onto the parallel street; turning right, I followed the road to an intersection, turned left, then right again up another alley. The whole area was perfect for angles and distance. I made my way back to the gas station by a different route.

There was a bus stop across the street, about a hundred yards away. I strolled along to it, stood in a doorway, and waited; it had to look natural, I had to have a reason to be doing what I was doing. There were two or three people waiting, then the line got gradually longer, a bus came, and we were back to two or three again. I looked at the destination sign of each bus as it approached, looked fed up that it wasn't the one I wanted, and got back in the doorway.

People don't carry much cash with them nowadays, especially here in the land of the credit card. The ideal target would be a tourist they tend to carry more cash and traveler's checks but there weren't likely to be many in this part of town.

Over a period of about thirty minutes there'd been four or five possibles going in to fill up their cars, but unfortunately it seemed that none of them was in need of a shit. I thought about Kelly; I hoped she was sticking to the script.

A white guy in his late twenties drove up to the pumps in a new Camaro. It carried thirty-day plates while waiting for the new registration. He was wearing a baggy track suit that was red, blue, green, orange, and six other colors, and the world's most flamboyant basketball shoes to match. His hair was shaved at the sides, with the rest pointing skyward. The sound system was booming out bass that I could almost feel vibrating from across the street.

He filled up and went in to pay. When he came out he was carrying what looked like a small length of two-by-four. He turned left toward the rest room. This was my boy.

I stepped out of the doorway, turned my collar up, and headed across the road. He was putting his wallet into his track top and zipping up. I'd already checked the garage surveillance cameras; they wouldn't be a problem: they were focused on the pumps to catch drive-aways, not on the far end of the building to catch toilet paper thieves.

As I left the doorway I was a man who needed a piss and couldn't wait any longer for his bus to arrive. It was unlikely to register with anybody at the bus stop; first thing in the morning people are brooding about the day's work ahead, or about their mortgages or kids or the wife's headache the night before. They're not going to worry too much about a guy going into a toilet. I walked toward the door with just enough spring in my step to look like the man with the world's fullest bladder and went in.

The room was about twelve by twelve, fairly clean, reeking of bleach. Dead ahead were two urinals, with a sink and a wall-mounted paper-towel dispenser. My boy was in one of the two stalls to the right.

I could hear the sound of zippers being undone, the rustle of a general sorting out, and a little cough. I closed the door behind me and jammed in the two door stops with my shoe.

No one would be getting in or out of here unless I wanted them to.

I stood at the urinal and made it look as if I were taking a leak. My hands were in front of me, but holding the steel cylinder. I'd keep my back to him until he came out to wash his hands. I stood there for three or four minutes. I heard him pissing.

It stopped, then nothing. This character was taking too long. I swung my head to the right as if to look out of the small, barred window but carried on with the motions of pissing in case for some reason he could see me and was being hesitant about leaving the stall.

Then, casually looking right behind me, I saw something really bizarre. Through the gap between the bottom of the door and the floor I could see one foot, which seemed to be his right, on the ground and facing the toilet. His tracksuit pants weren't bunched around his ankles. I thought. Weird position, but there you go. Then I noticed that the door was open an inch. He hadn't locked it.

I wasn't going to stop and figure it out. Clenching my right fist around the cylinder, and with my left hand out to protect myself, I started quickly but quietly toward the door. At the last minute I took a deep breath, dropped my shoulder, and barged in.

He banged up against the wall, screaming, "What the fuck!

What the fuck!" His hands went out to try to keep himself from falling and the door held; his bulk was blocking it.

I had to barge in again. The hard and fast rule of mugging is to be exactly that: hard and fast. Putting all my weight be hind the door, I had him pinned up against the wall. He was a big boy; I had to be careful, I could get fucked over here. I grabbed a handful of his gelled hair with my left hand and pulled his head over to the left, exposing the right side of his neck.

You don't just use your arm to hit somebody. I needed to get as much weight as I could behind the cylinder, the same as a boxer using his hips and the top half of his body to power the swing. I brought the cylinder up in my right and swung my whole body around as if throwing a downward right hook and cracked him just below the ear. The idea was just to take him down, not kill him or give him brain damage for the rest of his days; if I'd wanted to do that, I'd have cracked him over the head a few times. As it was, it wouldn't be his best day out, but tough shit--wrong place, wrong time.

It had been a good hit. He groaned and went down. He was fucked, and without a doubt he would have had star bursts in his eyes, that crackling and popping sensation you get when you go down semiconscious. He'd just want to curl up and get under the comforter and hide. That was why I'd used the cylinder instead of a gun. You can't predict people's reactions to a pistol. He might have been an undercover cop with a gun himself, he might have been some kind of heroic, take-a-chance citizen. Not that it mattered now. The old ways are the best.

He'd banged his head on the tank and smashed his nose;

blood was pouring down his chin. There was a high-pitched, childlike moan coming from him. He was in shitty shape but he'd live. I gave him another one for good measure; I wanted him down and well out. He stopped making a noise.

I put my left hand on his head and held it facing away from me. I didn't want him to be able to ID me. With my right hand I got under his belly and twisted his tracksuit top around toward me, unzipped it, and pulled out his wallet. Then I started to feel down his pockets in case he had another big wad stashed away there. My fingers closed around a plastic bag that filled the ball of my hand. I pulled out what looked like enough white powder to send the guy's entire neighborhood into orbit, all in neat little plastic wallets ready for sale.

No good to me; I left it on the floor, It was then that I realized what he'd been up to while I was at the urinal. Wrapped tight around his left arm was a rubber tube, and there was blood dripping from a small puncture wound. He must have had his left leg up on the toilet seat to support his arm while he was shooting up. I saw the hypodermic on the floor.

As I stood up, my pants felt wet and I looked down. He'd had the last laugh. I'd made him lose control of his bodily functions and he'd pissed himself. And I'd been kneeling in it.

I picked up the key from the floor. That, too, was covered in piss. He was starting to come around a bit; there were a few moans and groans. I got hold of his head and banged it against the toilet to give him the message to stay where he was for a while.

I stepped back from the stall. There was no time to try to clean my jeans. I went to the main door, retrieved the door stops put them in my pocket, came out, and locked the door behind me. I tossed the key into some shrubbery.

I was out of breath and a bit of sweat dripped down the side of my face, but I had to make myself look calm and casual. If another customer happened to come around the corner to use the toilet, I'd say it was out of order.

As I crossed the street I glanced left and behind me.

Nothing. I wouldn't look back again. I'd soon know if something was going on because I'd hear all the screaming and shouting, or the sound of people running toward me. Then I'd have to react--but at the end of the day, I was the one with the big fucking gun.

I passed the bus stop and carried on toward the first alley.

After two more turns I took my coat off, wrapped it around the cylinder, and folded the whole lot up. I took the cap off and folded that into the coat as well. I kept on walking, found a trash can, and got rid of my bundle. I was a new man, or I would be as soon as I put on my glasses.

Once on the road again, I got out the wallet as if I were checking whether I had my credit card. I opened it up and found that I was a family man; there was a very nice picture of me, my wife, and two kids--the family of Lance White. I didn't think Mrs. White would be too pleased with the state of me when I got home.

There was about $240 in the billfold; White had either just been to an ATM or done some early-morning deals. There were also a couple of credit cards, but I wouldn't keep them;

it would be time-consuming to sell them, and if I tried to use them it could only be in the next hour or so but why run the risk of the police doing a trace and ending up with my description from a sales clerk? The rest of the stuff was shit, bits of paper with phone numbers on them. Probably his client list. As I passed another trash can I dumped everything except the cash.

I now had just under $400 in my pocket, enough for the next few days in case I couldn't contact Pat or he didn't come up with the goods.

The piss on my pants was starting to dry up a bit as I walked, but it stank something awful. It was time for a change of clothes.

I reached the Burger King and all the other shops near the hotel. I was in and out of a discount shop in about fifteen minutes, with a duffel containing a new coat, jeans, sweat shirt, and underwear, all bought with cash. Kelly had also got a complete new set of clothes, down to underpants and undershirts.

I had a quick look at my watch on the way up to the room.

I'd been gone about two hours and fifteen minutes, a bit longer than I'd said I'd be.

Before I even got to the door I could see it was ajar. I looked down and saw a pillow keeping it open. I could hear the TV.

Pulling my pistol, I went against the wall, the weapon pointing toward the gap. I felt disbelief, then shock. I felt emptiness in my stomach, and then I felt sick. I moved into the room. Nothing.

I checked on the other side of the bed in case she might be hiding there. Maybe she was playing some game with me.

"Kelly! Are you in there?" My voice was serious, and she'd have known it.

No reply. My heart was pumping so hard my chest hurt. If they had her, why hadn't they jumped me by now?

I felt sweat slide down the side of my face. I started to panic, thinking about her in her house, her father being beaten, scared, screaming for her mommy. I understood that feeling of desperation when you want someone to take all the scary things away.

I forced myself to stop, calm down, think about what I was going to do. I came out onto the patio again and turned left.

I'd come from the right and hadn't seen anything that way. I broke into a run, calling, "Kelly! Kelly!" in a loud semi shout

I turned the corner, and there she was.

She was just leaving the Coke machine, wrestling with the pull tab on a can. The "look at me, aren't I a big girl?" smile soon changed when she saw me, weapon in hand, looking as serious as cancer.

For one moment I was going to read her the riot act, but I bit my lip.

She was looking suddenly sad and sorry for herself. Getting herself a can of Coke was the first thing she'd done all on her own since our adventure had begun, and I'd ruined it by coming back so soon. Leading her back to the room, I kept looking around the open square to make sure we hadn't been seen.