Remote Control

We were both in the bedroom. She was dressed. Her shirt buttons were in the wrong holes; while I was undoing them and sorting them out, I realized she was looking disapprovingly at me.

"What's the problem?"

"Those jeans. They're for losers. You should get 501s like Daddy."

On top of everything else, I had the fashion police after me. She went on, "You can't get 501s in my size. That's what Mommy says anyway. She doesn't wear jeans; she's like Aida--she likes dresses and skirts."

In my mind's eye I saw Marsha kneeling by her bed. I turned away for a moment so she couldn't see my face. I sat on the bed and said, "Kelly, do you know your dad's code number for his phone? I don't--I've tried it loads of times-I've pressed one-one-one-one, two-two-two-two, I've pressed them all and I still don't know. Have you got any idea?"

She stared at me for a few moments, then nodded.

"Right! What are the numbers then?"

She didn't say anything. She seemed to be working something out in her mind. Maybe she wondered if she'd be betraying her daddy by telling me.

I pulled the phone from my pocket, turned it on, and said, "Look! What does it say? PIN number! Do you know what numbers your daddy puts in?"

She nodded, and I said, "Come on, you show me then." She pressed the buttons, and I watched her fingers.

"One-nine-nine-oh?" I said.

"Nineteen-ninety, the year I was born," she beamed.

We were in business. I fetched the Yellow Pages from one of the drawers and sat on the edge of the bed.

"What are you looking for?" she asked.

"A restaurant called Good Fellas," I said. I found the address.

"We're going to go there and look for Pat."

I thought about phoning the place and asking about him, but they'd probably just blow me off. In any case, that could trigger a series of events I'd know nothing about until we were both suddenly lifted. It would be better to go there.

I put my glasses on and she giggled. I got her coat and held it for her to put on. As she turned around I noticed she still had the label dangling off her jeans; I ripped that off, then checked that nothing else looked out of place just like any other unfashionable dad taking his daughter out for the day.

I put my jacket on, checked for the mags and phone, and said, "Do you remember Pat?"

"No. Who is she?"

"It's a him; he's a man called Patrick. Maybe you've seen him with Daddy?"

"Is Pat going to take me home?"

"You will be going home soon, Kelly. But only when Daddy is better and if you're a good girl and do what I say."

Her face went moody and sullen.

"Will I be home by Saturday? I'm going to Melissa's party. She's having a sleepover."

I carried on. There was nothing else I could do. I didn't have the skills to coax her out other mood.

"Pat came around to your house. Surely you remember Pat?"

"And I got to buy her a present. I've made her some friend ship bracelets, but I want to get something else."

"Well, we're going to try to find Pat today because he's going to help us get you home. Maybe we'll have time to do your shopping, OK?"

"Where is Pat?"

"I think he might be in the restaurant. But you've got to be really quiet when we get there, OK, and not talk to anyone. If anybody talks to you, I want you just to nod your head or shake it, OK? We've got to be really careful, otherwise they won't tell me where Pat is, and then we might get into trouble."

I knew she'd be all right on the dumb act. She'd done what I'd said by the bins. I felt bad talking about her going home, but I couldn't think of a better way of controlling her behavior and anyway, with any luck I wouldn't be there when she was finally told the truth.

There were a couple of other jobs to do before we left the room. I took the bottom left-hand corner of the blanket on my bed and folded it in a neat, diagonal pleat. Then I took a matchstick from the book I'd picked up in reception and wedged it between the wall and the long, low chest of drawers that the TV rested on. I put a pen mark the size of a pinhead on the wall and covered it with the match head Finally I placed the paper clip in one of the drawers under the TV and turned the volume up a shade.

I had a quick look around the room to make sure we hadn't left anything compromising lying around; I even put the Yellow Pages back in the drawer. The pistol was still in the toilet tank, but there were no problems with that; there was no reason for a cleaner to come in, let alone the cops with a search warrant.

I picked up a couple of apples and candy bars and put them in the pocket of my brand-new three-quarter-length blue coat.

Then I closed the door, checked the do not disturb sign, and off we went.

We took a taxi to Georgetown. It would have conserved funds if we'd taken a bus, but this way meant less exposure to commuters or pedestrians. The driver was Nigerian. The map of the city on the front passenger seat didn't instill much confidence, and he could just about speak English. He used what few words he had to ask me where Georgetown was. It was like a London cabbie not knowing Chelsea. I patiently pointed on the map. By my guess it was about thirty minutes away.

It was spitting with rain, not enough to keep the wipers on but enough to make him give them a flick every minute or so.

Kelly munched on a candy bar and I kept an eye out for other motels. We'd have to move again soon.

We sat in silence for a few minutes until it occurred to me that the driver would expect to hear us talking.

"When I was your age I hadn't been in a taxi," I said.

"I don't think I went in one until I was about fifteen."

Kelly looked at me, still chewing on the candy.

"Didn't you like taxis?"

"No, it's just we didn't have much money. My stepfather couldn't find a job."

She looked puzzled. She looked at me for a long time, then turned her head and looked out the window again.

The traffic was clogging the exit for Key Bridge. Georgetown was just on the other side of the Potomac; it would have been quicker to get out and walk, but it made sense to stay out of sight. By now Kelly's face would have been in the newspapers, maybe even on posters. The police would be putting in a lot of time and effort to find her abductor.

I leaned over the front seat, picked up the map, and directed the driver to the river end of Wisconsin Avenue, the main north-south drag. I remembered Georgetown as almost self-contained, with a genteel and quaint feel to the town houses that had reminded me of San Francisco. The sidewalks were redbrick and uneven, and every car seemed to be a BMW, Volvo, or Mercedes. Every house and store had a prominent sign warning that the property was guarded by a security firm. Try breaking in and you'd have a rapid-response team down on you before you even had time to rip the leads from the back of the VCR.

Wisconsin is a wide street with shops and houses on either side. We found Good Fellas about four blocks up the hill on the right-hand side. As restaurants go it looked like one of the moody, designer-type places: the whole front was black, even down to the smoked-glass windows; the only relief was the gold lettering above the door. It was now nearly lunchtime;

all the staff would have punched in.

We entered through two blackened glass swing doors and were hit by the frosty blast of air-conditioning. We were at one end of a dimly lit hallway that ran the length of the front.

Halfway down was a young receptionist sitting at her desk, looking very upscale and friendly. I was impressed with Pat's taste. The girl smiled as we walked toward her, Kelly's hand in mine.

As we got closer I realized that the smile was a quizzical one. By now she was standing up, and I could see she was dressed very smartly in a white shirt and black pants.

"Excuse me, sir," she said, "we don't.. ."

I held up my hand and smiled.

"That's fine, we haven't come for lunch. I'm trying to find a friend of mine called Patrick. He used to come here a lot, maybe six or seven months ago. Does that ring a bell? As far as I know, he was going out with one of your staff. He's an Englishman, speaks like me."

"I don't know, I've only been here since the beginning of the semester."

Semester? Of course, we were in Georgetown, the university area; every student was also a waiter or waitress.

"Could you maybe call somebody, because it's really important that I make contact with him." I winked conspiratorily and said, "I've brought a friend of his--it's a surprise."

She looked down and smiled warmly.

"Hi, do you want a mint?" Kelly took a small handful.

I went on, "Maybe one of the people in the back might know him?"

While she was thinking about it, a couple of guys in suits came in behind us. Kelly was looking up at them, lumps in her cheeks.

"Hi, little lady," one of them laughed.

"You're a bit young for this, aren't you?"

Kelly shrugged. Not a word.

The receptionist said, "Excuse me a moment," and went off to do her hostess bit, opening the door beyond the desk for somebody else to meet the two diners and take them to their table.

She came back and picked up the phone.

"I'll call."

I looked down and winked at Kelly.

"We've got somebody here with a child, and they're looking for an Englishman called Patrick?" she said, then listened to the response.

She put the phone down.

"Someone'll be here in a minute."

It rang again almost immediately, and she took a reservation.

Kelly and I just stood there. A minute or two later a waitress appeared from the dining room.

"Hi, follow me."

Things were looking up. I got hold of Kelly's hand, and we went through the door to the dining room.

People here obviously liked eating in semidarkness, because all the tables were lit only by candles. Looking around, I noticed that all the waitresses seemed to be wearing snug white T-shirts that exposed their midriffs, with tight shorts and sneakers with little ankle socks.

On the right-hand side against the wall was a bar with over head lighting. The two suits were the only two customers. In the middle of the room I noticed a small raised stage, with spotlights above.

I laughed to myself: nice work. Pat!

Ass or no ass. Slack had always been successful with women. At the time of Gibraltar he was single like me, and rented the house next door. For about a year he'd been having what he called a "relationship," but we all knew better. They'd met at a Medieval Night fancy dress party; at four o'clock the next morning I was woken by the sound of a vehicle screeching up outside his house, then doors slamming and lots of giggling and laughing. We lived in a small subdivision, the sort of houses they threw up in about five minutes all through the eighties, so I could hear his front door crashing and thought, here we go. Then I heard a bit of music, and the toilet flushing, which is always nice at four in the morning.

Then lots more laughing and giggling, and they were at it. At noon the next day I was in the kitchen washing up when a taxi pulled up, and that was when Queen Elizabeth I and one of her ladies-in-waiting came scuttling out of Pat's front door, hair all over the place, looking incredibly embarrassed as they jumped into the cab hoping no one would see them.

When we grilled him, it turned out he was doing it with a mother and daughter combo. We hadn't let him hear the end of it ever since. Now it looked as though he'd got his own back.

One of the girls waved to Kelly.

"Hi, honey!" Beneath her T-shirt was what looked like a dead heat in a zeppelin race.

Kelly was loving it. I held her hand tight. As we followed the girl, Kelly looked up at me and said, "What is this place?"

"It's a kind of bar where people go to relax after work."

"Like TGI Friday's?"

"Sort of."

We came to another set of double doors and went through into a world of bright light and clatter. The kitchens were on the right, full of noisy chaos; on the left, offices. The walls were dirty white plaster with gouge marks from where they'd been knocked by furniture.

Farther down the corridor we came to another room. Our friend led us in and announced, "Here he is!"

This was obviously where all the girls hung out--in some cases, literally. If I'd had to imagine a changing room in a lap-dancing bar, I'd have thought of semmaked girls in front of mirrors with big bulbs around the edges, but this didn't fit the bill at all; it was much more like somebody's living room. It was clean, with three or four couches, a couple of chairs, a few mirrors. There was a no smoking sign that I could smell was observed, and bulletin boards full of university meetings and goings-on.

Everybody went "Hi, how are you!" to Kelly.

I looked at a policewoman wearing a skirt that was very nonregulation length.

"I'm trying to find an Englishman called Pat. He told me he came here a lot."

Kelly was getting dragged away by two of the girls.

"What's your name, honey?" There was nothing I could do to stop it.

I said, "Her name's Josie."

They were all in their fantasy outfits. One held out a Native American outfit, with fringed buckskin sleeves, feathers, the lot. She said to Kelly, "Do you like this?" and started to dress her. Kelly's eyes widened with excitement.

I kept on talking with Washington's finest.

"It's just that there's been a big mess-up on the dates. We were supposed to meet Pat so he and Josie could go on vacation. It's no problem; I'll look after her, but she really wants to see him."

"We haven't seen Pat forever, but Sherry'll know, they used to go out. She's late but she'll be here any minute. If you want to hang out, that's fine. Help yourself to the coffee."

I went over and poured myself a cup and sat down. I watched Kelly giggling. For me, this should have been like dying and going to heaven, but I was tense about Kelly letting something slip.

I could see textbooks lying around. There was one girl on a couch who looked as if she'd come out of a Turkish harem;

she was there with her laptop, tapping away at her thesis.

Twenty minutes later the door burst open and a girl carrying a black sports bag ran in like a thing possessed, out of breath, hair everywhere.

"Sorry I'm late, girls. I wasn't on first, was I?"

She started to take her shoes off, catching her breath.

The policewoman called over, "Sherry, this guy wants to know where Pat is. Have you seen him lately?"

I stood up.

"I've been trying to find him for ages. You know what he's like, he's all over the place."

"Tell me about it." She started to take her jeans off in front of me as casually as if we'd been married ten years.

"He's been away for a while. I saw him about a month ago when he got back." She shot a glance at Kelly and back at me.

"You a friend of his?"

"We go way back."

"I guess he won't mind. I've got his number here, if I can find it."

Dressed now only in her bra and panties, she rummaged through her bag as she talked. She looked up at one of the other girls and said, "What number am I?"

"Four."

"Christ! Can somebody go ahead of me? Can I go number six? I've got no makeup on yet."

There was a grunt from behind the laptop. It seemed the Turkish harem girl was going on fourth now.

Sherry tipped out an Aladdin's cave of a handbag.

"Here we are."

She handed me a restaurant card with an address and telephone number scribbled on the back. I recognized the writing.

"Is this local?" I asked.

"Riverwood? About fifteen minutes by car, over the bridge."

"I'll give him a buzz--thank you!"

"Remind him I'm alive, will you?" She smiled with weary hope.

I went over to Kelly and said, "We've got to go now, Josie!"

She stuck out her lower lip.

"Aww." Maybe it was being in the company of other females, but she looked more relaxed than at any point since we'd driven away from the house.

"Do we have to?" she pleaded with big round eyes that were covered in makeup. So were her lips.

"I'm afraid we must," I said, starting to wipe it off.

The Indian maiden said, "Can't we keep her here? We'll look after her. We'll show her how to dance."

"I'd like that. Nick!"

"Sorry, Josie, you have to be much older to work here, isn't that right, ladies?"

They helped Kelly get all her feathers off. One of them said, "You work real hard at school, honey. Then you can work here with us."

They pointed to a quicker way out, through the service exit at the back. As we were leaving, Kelly looked up and said, "What do they do, anyway?"

"They're dancers."

"They dance in bikinis? With all those feathers? How come?"

"I don't know," I said.

"Some people like watching that sort of thing."

Just as we got to the exit I heard Sherry shout, "Pat's daughter? The lying bastard!" We walked back down the hill, looking for somewhere to sit out of the rain. A place that looked more like a house than a restaurant had a sign calling itself the Georgetown Diner. We went in.

We sat in the three-quarters-empty cafe, me with a coffee, she with a Coke, both deep in thought--me about how to make contact with Pat, she most probably about growing up and going to college, dressed like Pocahontas. Our table was by a rack of greeting cards and local drawings for sale. It was more like an art gallery than a coffee shop.

"We can't just turn up at Pat's address because we might compromise him," I thought aloud to her.

"And I can't phone him because they might have made the connection between us, and there could be a tap on his phone and a trigger on the house."

Kelly nodded knowingly, not understanding a word I was saying but pleased to be part of grown-up stuff instead of being abandoned or dragged around.

"It's so annoying because he's only fifteen minutes away," I went on.

"What can I do?"

She gave a little shrug, then pointed at the rack behind me and said, "Maybe send him a card?"

"Good idea, but it would take too long" Then I had a brainstorm.

"Well done, Kelly!"

She grinned from ear to ear as I got up and bought a birthday card showing a velvet rabbit holding a rose. I asked for a pen and went back to the table. I wrote: "Pat--I'm in deep shit. Kev is dead and Kelly is with me. I need help. IT WAS NOT ME. Call me from a public phone ASAP. Nick." I wrote down the number.

I sealed the envelope and wrote down Pat's address, then asked to borrow the cafe's Yellow Pages. I found what I was looking for; it was on the same street, seemingly within walking distance. We put on our coats and left. It had stopped raining, but the sidewalk was still wet. I checked the street numbers; we had to go downhill toward M Street.

The courier office was next door to a weird and wonderful New Age shop with a windowful of healing crystals that could change your life. I wondered which one they'd suggest if I went in and described my circumstances. Kelly wanted to stay outside and look in the window, but I wanted her with me; people might look twice at a child on her own outside a store and something might register. There was also the risk of someone in the shop identifying her, but it was a question of balance between exposing her and making best use other as cover.

"Can you get this to my friend after four o'clock today?" I said to the guy at the desk.

"We're in real big trouble because we forgot to send his birthday card, aren't we, Josie?"

I paid the fifteen-dollar fee in cash, and they promised to bike it around just after 4 p.m. I needed the intervening two hours to prepare for a meeting.

We went into the Latham Hotel. I'd guessed my accent wouldn't stick out in here, and I was right; the large reception area was full of foreign tourists. I sat Kelly in a corner and went to the information desk.

"I'm looking for a mall that would have a Fun Zone or a Kids Have Fun," I said.

It turned out there were about half a dozen of them in and around the D.C. area; it was just a matter of looking up all the different addresses in the city guide I'd been given. There was one at the Landside Mall, not far from the Roadies Inn. I hailed a taxi; this time the driver knew where he was going.

The idea of Kids Have Fun is that you drop your kids off for a few hours while you go off on your big shopping frenzy. I'd gone once with Marsha to pick up Kelly and Aida from one.

The children get a name tag on their wrist that they can't re move, and the adult is given an ID card that means they're the only person who can collect the child. The girls had been acting up the morning I went, and I remembered that as we approached the center Marsha had grinned at the travel agent's across the way and said, "I always think that's brilliant positioning the number of times I've been tempted to drop the kids off and pop in for a one-way ticket to Rio!"

The mall was shaped like a large cross, with a different department store Sears, Hecht's, JCPenney, Nordstrom at the end of each spur. There were three floors, with escalators moving people up and down from the central hub. The food court was on the third floor. It was as busy as it was massive, and the heat was nearly tropical probably on purpose, to send you to the drink counters.

I spotted Kids Have Fun on the Hecht's spur. I turned to Kelly.

"Hey, do you want to go in there later? There's videos and all sorts of stuff."

"I know. But I want to stay with you."

"Let's go in and have a look anyway." I didn't want to put her in there yet because I didn't even know if we were going to get the phone call or not, but I'd still have to do the recon.

I went up to the desk.

"Do we need to reserve to come in?"

Apparently not; we just had to turn up and fill out a form. I figured that if I did get a phone call at four, I'd have only half an hour at the most to hide her. I had to assume the worst-case scenario, which was that they knew Kev's mobile number and were waiting to intercept it and listen to me giving Pat directions. I wanted Kelly away from that area and safe. Also, I couldn't be sure about Pat. He might call the police when he got the card. Or he could be part of a trap. I had to be careful, but at the same time I was desperate to see him.

I could see her looking around. It didn't look that bad. We walked out.

"You can come with me now, but I have to go on my own later, OK?"

She looked pissed.

"Whyyy?"

"Because I have to do stuff, OK? You can help me now, though."

At last I got a smile.

"Oh, OK-. You won't be long, will you?"

"I'll be back before you know it."

Kelly and I started walking around, doing recon without her realizing it.

"What are we looking for. Nick?"

"A store with cameras and telephones."

We covered the whole mall, eventually finding a store on the first floor. I bought a battery charger for the mobile phone.

Kelly decided not to buy another present for Melissa after all;

she'd just pick up the friendship bracelets from home. I didn't comment.

At five of four I took the phone from my pocket and turned the power on. The battery and signal strength were fine. I was ready.

At ten after four it started ringing. I pressed Receive.

"Hello?"

"It's me."

"Where are you?"

"In a phone booth."

"At five o'clock, I want you to come to the Landmark Mall in Alexandria. I want you to enter via JCPenney, go to the center hub, take the escalator to the third floor, and go straight toward Sears. OK so far?"

There was a pause as it was sinking in.

"OK."

"On the left-hand side there's a restaurant called the Roadhouse.

Go into the Roadhouse and get two coffees. I'll see you there."

"Seeya."

I turned the power off.

Kelly said, "Who was that?"

"Remember I talked about Pat? I'm going to see him later--that's good, isn't it? Anyway, are you ready for Kids Have Fun?"

She was going whether she liked it or not. If Pat were setting me up, this place would soon be swarming with cops.

I filled out the form with the names we were using at the hotel. Kelly was studying the obstacle course with padding and plastic balls to break your fall. There were video areas where a huge variety of films were being shown, a juice dispenser, rest rooms. It looked very well organized. The place was packed. I could see hosts who were playing games with the kids and doing magic tricks. Seeing as she'd been doing nothing but watching children's TV for God knows how many hours, Kelly should be into all that. The downside was the danger of her talking, but I had no choice. I paid my money, plus a twenty-dollar deposit for the magic key to reclaim my child.

I asked her, "Do you want me to stay for a while?"

She was dismissive.

"You can't stay. This is just for kids."

She pointed at a warning sign that said: be careful, parents.

DON'T GO NEAR THE PLAYTHINGS BECAUSE YOU MIGHT TRIP

OVER THEM AND HURT YOURSELF.

I squatted, looking into her eyes.

"Remember, your name's Josie today, not Kelly. It's a big secret,

OK?"

"Yeah, OK." She was too busy looking into the play area.

"I'll be back soon. You know I'll always be back, don't you?"

"Yeah, whatever." She was dragging herself away. Her face was toward me but her eyes were looking the other way. A good sign, I thought, as I headed off.

I took the escalator to the third floor. I got myself tucked in the corner table of a cafe and ordered an espresso and a Danish.

I knew that if Pat was late, he wouldn't move into the rendezvous.

The SOP--standard operating procedure--was that he'd wait an hour. If that didn't happen, it would be the same routine tomorrow. That's the great thing about working with people you know.

I looked at my watch. It was two minutes to five. Looking down the escalators, I could see the JCPenney spur joining the hub. On my floor I could also see the entrance to Sears and the Roadhouse.

At about two minutes past I saw Pat below me, walking in from the direction of JCPenney. He was sauntering along, casual and unhurried, wearing a brown leather bomber jacket, jeans, and running shoes. From this distance he looked unchanged, just a bit thinner on top. I looked forward to laying into him for that.

He'd been at JCPenney right at five; I also knew he would have been putting in his own anti surveillance drills enroute, driving into the parking lot early to check it out, even sitting in his car to time it right. Pat might have his head in the clouds, but when he had to perform, he was shit-hot. At the moment my only worry was not about what was in his head but what might be up his nose.

He walked onto the escalator; I looked away. I wasn't interested in him now; I was watching everywhere else, checking to see if he was being followed. By covering his back I was protecting my own. I had the easy part, being the third party, aware. The biggest problem would be for the surveillance operators who were following him, trying not to get spotted by me.

In an urban environment it's always best to meet people where there's a lot of pedestrian traffic. It looks normal, people meeting people. The downside is that if there is any surveillance on you, they can blend in a lot easier, too. However, it is chaos for them because you can walk in and out of stores, stop at a counter, move on, then turn around and go back to another counter. So if you're going to RV with somebody to talk, go shopping.

Pat came up the last escalator, standing ahead of a group of teenage girls. They got off and turned left into the BaskinRobbins.

Pat went right. There were only four escalators, two up, two down. I couldn't see anyone who looked like an operator.

I watched him go into the Roadhouse. I gave it another five minutes, checked again, made sure the girl saw me throw my three dollars on the table, and left. Once on the Sears spur I got on the right-hand side of the walkway, which gave me a better view of the Roadhouse on the left, and that in turn gave me more time to tune in and look about to see if there were any men in Victoria's Secret looking out of place as they flicked through the ladies' lingerie.

I still couldn't be sure about Pat. But I didn't get nervous about that sort of thing; it was a drill--I'd done it so many times. looked at it technically, in terms of "what ifs?" What if they lift me from the direction of Sears? What if they come out from the stores on each side of me?

"What ifs" stop you freezing like a rabbit in the middle of the road when the lights hit you. They get you out of that initial danger. In this particular case, I'd draw my weapon, move out of the danger area through Sears or the escalators, and make a run for it. I entered the Roadhouse and saw Pat closer up. Age was getting to him. He was only forty, but he looked eligible for some kind of pension.

He was sitting at a twin table on the far left-hand side, with two cappuccinos in front of him. There were about a dozen other people talking, eating, and yelling at their kids. I went over, pulled out the five-dollar bill that I had ready in my pocket, put it on the table, and said, with a big flashy smile, "Follow me, mate."

If he were intending to turn me in, I was just about to find out.

I was sponsoring the RV so he didn't say anything, he just came with me. We went over to the far wall to where the rest room sign was; as we went through the door we came into a long corridor, with the rest rooms at the end on the left-hand side. I'd reconned this already with Kelly. To the right was an other door, which led into Sears. These were shared rest rooms, and that was why I'd chosen them. I opened the door, let Pat through, and followed him into the baby wear department. We took the escalators down, putting in angles and distance. It might not work all the time, but it was the best I could do.

From the perfume counter on the first floor it was straight into the parking lot. Then we started to walk along the side walk toward a string of smaller stores and snack bars.

Not a word had been said. No need; Pat knew what was happening.

We walked into a Sub Zone a very clinical, spotlessly clean franchise selling subs with the world's largest supply of hot fillings. I told Pat to order me a drink and a cheese and meat special. The place was full. That was good; it made life more complicated for anybody looking.

I said, "Sit over there at that table, mate, facing the rest rooms, and I'll be back in a minute."

He stood in line to order.

I went through the door to the rest rooms and on to the far end, where there was a fire escape. I wanted to be sure it hadn't been obstructed by a trash can or anything since I last checked. The fire-escape door was alarmed, so I wasn't going to test it to make sure it would open. I'd done my recon, so I knew what was on the other side and where to run.

Pat was already sitting down with two coffees and an order ticket. I was getting caffeine overload. I was also starting to feel like shit; the heat of the shopping mall and now this place, and the energy expended in this last two days, were taking their toll. But I had to keep on top of that, because this was an operation.

I sat down opposite him in the booth, looking beyond him at the glass storefront. I could see everybody coming in and out, and had a pillar and Pat as cover. I wanted to dominate the area because I needed to see what was going on.

I looked at Pat and decided not to josh him about his hair.

He looked wrecked and wasted. His eyes were no longer clear and sharp but red and clouded. He'd put on weight, and there was an overhang pulling at his T-shirt and flopping over his belt. His face looked puffy; I could only just make out his Adam's apple.

I said, "The reason why we're here is that I've come over on vacation, to see you, and we're shopping."

"Fine."

I still had to test him, in case he was wearing a wire.

"If there's a drama, I'm going to go through there." I pointed toward the rest rooms. I was waiting for him to say, "Oh, what, you're going to go to the bathroom?" for the benefit of anybody who might be listening in. But he didn't.

He just said, "OK." I was as sure as I could be that I was safe.

There was no more time to mess around.

I said, "You OK, mate?"

"So-so. Put it this way: a bit fucking better than you. How did you find me?"

"Sherry, at Good Fellas." I looked at him and he smiled.

"Yeah, good catch. Pat!"

His smile got bigger.

"Anyway, what's the score?"

"I've got every man and his dog after me."

"So it seems." His red eyes twinkled.

I started explaining and was still in full flow when the girl brought over the subs. They were huge, big enough to feed a family.

"What the fuck did you order?" I said.

"We're going to be here all day!"

Pat was hungry, fighting with the hot cheese as it sagged between his mouth and the sub. It made me wonder when he'd last eaten.

I was too busy chatting to eat. I said, "Look, mate, to tell you the truth, all I want to do is get the fuck back to the UK but that's going to be a pain in the ass. I need to know what's going on, I need to know why this is happening. Do you're member Simmonds?"

"Yeah. He still in?"

"Yes. I've been in contact with him. I've even said that if the Firm doesn't help me, I'll open up my security blanket."

Pat's eyes widened.

"Wow, that's big boys' stuff! You really are in heavy shit. What did Simmonds have to say to that?"

His shoulders went into a slow roll as he laughed through a mouthful.

I went on for another fifteen minutes. At the end of it Pat said, "Do you think that PIRA might have dropped Kev?" He had finished his sub and was now picking at mine. He made it clear he wanted a few bites. I pushed it over.

"Who the fuck knows? I don't know, I really don't know. I can't see it myself. Can you make any sense of it?"

"The buzz around D.C. was that there was some American involvement in Gibraltar in 'eighty-eight." He was picking the pickles and tomatoes out of my sub.

"What sort of involvement?"

"I don't know. It's got something to do with the Irish American vote, all that sort of shit. And PIRA gearing up funds from Noraid by getting into the drug market."

I wondered how Pat knew. Maybe that was where he got his supply? The thought made me sad.

My mind ticked over a bit more. Pat just kept on attacking my sub.

"Maybe that's where the connection with Kev comes in," I said.

"DEA, drugs what do you think?"

"Maybe. The Brits have been giving the Americans a hard time for years over Noraid giving money to PIRA, but the Yanks can't fuck around with all those millions of Irish American votes."

I sat back and studied his face.

"Go on."

"I've heard that PIRA buys cocaine and gears it up once they get it out of the US. It's been going the rounds for years there's nothing new in that. But maybe it's a starting point for you. I mean, fucking hell, you're the brainy one, not me."

It made sense; if you've got some money and you're a terrorist organization, of course you're going to buy drugs, sell them, and make a profit. And there was no way the Americans were going to attack Noraid; it would be political suicide but if Noraid could be shown to be linked with drug trafficking, that was something else. Maybe Kev was working against PIRA and got killed by them.

I said, "Do you reckon Kev might have come across some shit? Or maybe he was even part of it, and got fucked over?"

"I haven't got a clue, mate. Stuff like that gives me a headache." He paused.

"So tell me, what do you need?"

I shrugged.

"Cash."

He stopped eating my sub and got out his wallet. He handed me an ATM card and told me his number.

"There's about three thousand dollars in there," he said.

"It's a savings account, so you can draw out as much as you need. What about Kev's girl? What's the score?"

"She's all right, mate. I've got her."

If Pat was setting me up, at least I was sending a message that I was aware of that possibility and taking precautions.

I said, "Thanks very much for this, mate for the ATM card, and just for being here." With friendships like this you didn't have to write a letter every week. I knew that he would help me out, but I didn't want him to think I was taking him for granted.

I said, "Look, I'm not going to get you in trouble. I won't compromise you, but there is something else I need. Is there any chance of you phoning me sometime tonight? I need to sit down and think about what I've got to do."

"About nine-thirty?"

I smiled. Then all of a sudden I had my second brainstorm of the day.

"You don't know any Sinn Fein or PIRA locations in D.C.?"

"No, but I can find out. What are you thinking?"

"I need to see if there's a connection between PIRA and the people who are trying to zap me and who maybe dropped Kev. If I can check who comes in and out of a location, well, it's a start. If it came to anything, maybe I'd go in and have a look around."

Pat demolished the last of my sub.

"Be careful, mate.

Don't get fucked over."

"I won't. Right, I'll stay here I'll give you ten minutes and then I'll leave. The mobile will be switched on from nine twenty-five."

"No drama; we'll talk. Be lucky."

As he got up, he picked at the fragments of cheese and meat at the bottom of the basket. I went back into the mall via Sears, found an ATM, and drew out three hundred dollars.

It was dark outside, but the shopping mall was packed.

There was still a possibility that I was being watched, so I stood off and waited before picking Kelly up. Nothing looked unusual; the only thing I had to be aware of was the security cameras. The quicker I got in and out, the better.

I watched the area for ten minutes, then moved in closer.

Across from the play center was a sporting goods store; I went in and became an instant basketball fan, studying all the shirts that were part of the display near the window. Kids Have Fun was crammed with kids, but I couldn't see Kelly.

I hung around the store a bit, went back to the rack, had another look, and caught sight of her. She was sitting on the floor watching a home-cinema type TV She was there with about a dozen other kids, each with a small carton of juice. It dawned on me that the girl did nothing but eat, drink, and watch TV It was a wonder she didn't look more like Slack Pat.

I went in, presented my identification card, and asked for my daughter. They went through their process of verification, and a few minutes later Kelly appeared with an escort.

I started to put her shoes on.

"Hi, Josie, how's it going?"

She sat there sulking because I'd arrived halfway through a movie. I took that as a good sign; it showed there was a slight trace of normality coming back in. It had been a relief not having her with me for a short while, but at the same time it felt good to have her back. I didn't know quite what to make of that.

We got a taxi but had it drop us off about four blocks short of the hotel and walked in. It was our only secure area.

I opened the door. The TV was still on, telling us how great Toyota cars were. I flicked the light switch, told Kelly to stay where she was, and looked inside.

The beds weren't made and the curtains were closed, so it looked as if the maid had obeyed the sign on the door. She wouldn't have given a damn; it was less for her to clean, and she still got the same money.

More tellingly, the small pleat was still in the blanket. If I'd seen from the doorway that it had been disturbed, I'd have needed to make a very quick decision on whether to just walk away.

We went inside. Using the TV for support, I leaned to the rear of the bureau, looking into the gap between it and the wall. The match was still in place, covering the pinhead-sized pen mark. Even if they'd noticed that they'd dislodged it when checking under the chest of drawers, it was very unlikely that they'd have put it back in exactly the same position. Looking good so far.

"What are you doing, Nick?"

"I'm just checking to see if the plug is in properly. It looked like it was going to fall out."

She didn't say anything, just looked at me as if I'd had a stupidity leak. Still not looking at her, I got on my knees, ready to look at the drawer.

"Do you want some help. Nick?"

"I'd like to hear what's on the TV" She sat down on the bed and went to work on a box of Oreos. This kid was really eating healthy.

There were three drawers in the low chest; I'd slipped the paper clip in the front left side of the middle one. I got the table lamp and shone it up and down, trying to catch the reflection of the paper clip. I did; the drawer hadn't been opened.

I got Kelly sorted out, coat off, shoes in the pockets and hung by the door. I cleaned her bed up a bit, gathering up the food wrappers and brushing away the crumbs.

"Are you hungry?" I said.

She looked at the half-empty box of Oreos.

"I'm sorta stuffed, but I'm sorta still hungry."

"Without a doubt. I'll go and get some food. You can stay here. I'll let you stay up late. But don't tell anybody, it's our little secret!"

She laughed.

"I won't!"

I realized that I was hungry, too. Pat hadn't left me much at Sub Zone "Same routine, OK?" I went through it all over again.

"I'll put up the do not disturb sign, and you don't open the door for anyone. Do you understand?"

"Without a doubt."

I did a double take.

"You making fun of me?"

"Without a doubt."

It wasn't that busy on the street, and the rain had eased. I got more clothes for us both--jackets and coats, jeans and shirts--enough to see us through the next two appearance changes at least.

Once done, I walked over to the burger joint. As I stood in line I thought how weird this all was. One minute I'm at Vauxhall being briefed for a job, the next I'm trying to remember what flavor milk shake to buy for a child. I wondered if she'd approve of the shirts I'd got her.

On the way back I checked my watch. It was 9:20; I'd been longer than I expected. Time to turn on the phone. I waited in a shop doorway out of the drizzle.

It rang right at 9:30. I was excited, but at the same time nervous.

It might be for Kev. I hit the Receive button.

"Hello?"

"Hi, it's me. I've got something for you."

"Great, wait..." I put my finger in my other ear. I didn't want to mishear this.

"Go ahead."

"It's one-twenty-six Ball Street. It's in the old part of Crystal City by the river--between the Pentagon and National Airport. Got that?"

"Yeah." I let it sink into my head. I'd been to the Pentagon before, and had used the domestic airport a couple of times. I had a rough memory of the area.

"Are you going to phone me tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"Same time?"

"Same time. Stay lucky, mate."

"Cheers."

And that was it. I turned off the power and repeated the address to myself to keep it in my head. I wasn't going to write it down. If I got lifted, I needed to be sterile.

On the way back to the hotel, I was feeling quite upbeat.

Up until now I'd been in the wilderness. I didn't exactly know what I was going to do with this new information, but it was a start. I felt more in the driver's seat.

We ate and I watched some television with Kelly, but she looked more interested in talking.

"Hey, Nick, do you watch TV at home?"

"Some."

"What's your favorite show?"

"I don't know. The news, I suppose. We have different programs from you. What's your favorite?"

"Clueless."

"What's that, a detective show?"

"You moron! It's about a girl." She did a very good impression of a Valley girl.

"What does she do?"

"She goes shopping."

By 10:45 she'd fallen asleep. I got out the city guide I'd forgotten to give back at the Latham and looked for Ball Street.

I followed the river south until I saw National Airport. The target really was very close to the Pentagon, on the west bank.

I had a little laugh to myself. If it was a PIRA location, they had a lot of balls; they probably drank at the same bars as the boys from the National Security Council. There was not a lot I could do at the moment. Kelly was lying on her back, imitating a starfish. I covered her with the comforter, moved all the shit off the other bed, and got my head down. A saying from my infantry days, a lifetime ago, roared in my ears: "Whenever there is a lull in battle, sleep.

You never know when you are going to get another chance."

At last I was doing as I'd been told.

* * * When I woke up it seemed like the same cartoon was on. I must have left the TV on all night. I was dying for some coffee.

I got up, wet my hair, and looked out the window. The rain had gotten a bit more intense. I went downstairs and collected enough food and drink for three people--which was just as well, seeing the amount that Kelly ate.

"Wakey wa key I said.

Kelly still wanted to be marine life but woke up yawning, stretching, then curling up into a ball. I went into the bathroom and started to run a bath.

She appeared in the doorway with a towel. She was starting to catch on.

While she was splashing around, I sat on the bed flicking through the news channels. There was nothing about us.

There had been so many other murders in the homicide capital of the USA that we were old hat.

She came out, got dressed, and combed her hair, all without a single reminder from me. I opened an eat-from-the-pack carton ofF root Loops for her and poured in some milk, then headed for the shower.

When I reappeared, all clean and presentable, I said, "We've got to move from here today because the woman wants the room back."

Her face lit up.

"Can we go home now? You said Pat was going to help us go home."

I took her coat off the hanger and slipped her shoes on.

"Really soon, yes we will. But Daddy needs more time to rest. Pat will find out when it's OK," I said.

"But first, we've got to do some stuff. It's really difficult for me to explain to you what's going on just now, Kelly, but it won't be long. I promise you will be home soon."

"Good, because Jenny and Ricky are missing me."

My heart missed a beat. Had I fucked up? Had there been other people in the house?

She must have read my mind.

"They're my teddy bears," she explained. Her face went serious.

"I miss them. And I want to go to Melissa's party."

I started patting the top of her head. She looked at me; she knew she was being patronized. I changed the subject.

"Look, I'll show you where we're going."

I got the map out.

"This is where we are now, and that's where we're heading--just by the river. We'll get a taxi, find a nice hotel, and we'll make sure they've got cable so we can watch movies. If they haven't, maybe we could go to the movies."

"Can we see Jungle 2 Jungle?"

"Sure we can!"

What the fuck was that? Never mind; at least we'd gotten off the subject of family.

After checking out and, to my surprise, being offered a one-night rebate, I went upstairs to collect Kelly and the blue nylon sports bag. I left the USP in the toilet tank. It had only one 9mm magazine; I was carrying three .45s with the Sig.

Leaving the hotel, we turned left and immediately left again. I wanted to get out of sight of the reception desk before somebody thought of asking, "Where's his wife?"

We hailed a cab, and I asked for Pentagon City. The driver was an Asian in his sixties. He had a map on his seat but didn't bother to look at it. We seemed to be heading in the right direction. Kelly had her hat on; I thought of teasing her that she looked like Paddington Bear, but it would have taken too long to explain.

The driver asked where exactly I wanted to be dropped. "The Metro station, please." I didn't have a clue where that was, but it sounded as good a place as any.

I gave the old boy his cash and off he drove. The whole area looked new and high rent, both shopping and residential. There was a Ritz Carlton hotel and, a few minutes away, the Pentagon.

I got my bearings and led Kelly toward the mall. I wanted to visit an ATM to celebrate the start of a new financial day.

We exited and walked across the supermarket parking lot, then on toward the river. It was strange, because for the first time I felt like I was really responsible for Kelly. I still held her hand when we were crossing roads, but now it seemed natural to keep holding it on the sidewalks, too. I had to admit, it felt good to have her with me, but maybe that was only because I knew it looked natural and therefore provided ideal cover.

We walked under the concrete freeway bridge that led to downtown D.C. It was very busy. The traffic sounded like muffled thunder; I told Kelly about the scene in Cabaret in which Sally Bowles goes under the railway bridge to scream when things get too much for her. I didn't tell her that was what I'd been feeling like doing for the last forty-eight hours.

Past the bridge the landscape changed. It was easy to imagine what this area must have looked like maybe fifty or sixty years earlier, because it hadn't been fully developed yet.

It was full of derelict railway-siding buildings, some of which had been taken over as offices, though much of the area was just fenced off into lots or used as car pounds.

I looked left and saw the elevated section of the highway disappear into the distance toward downtown Washington. A concrete wall hid all the supports, and a road ran alongside.

There was no sidewalk, just a thin strip of hard ground, littered with soda cans and cigarette packs. It looked as if people parked up on the shoulders here to avoid the parking charges farther in. There were old, ramshackle buildings everywhere, but the place was still being used. On the right was the dark Street Playhouse, a theater in what had once been a railway warehouse. The tracks were still there, but they were now rusty, and weeds were growing through. From above us came the continuous roar of traffic on the elevated highway.

We passed a scrap-metal yard, then a cement distribution plant where the boats used to come up the Potomac and dump their loads. I then saw something that was so totally out of place it was almost surreal. A late 1960s hotel, the Calypso, was still standing in defiance of progress. It was marooned in the middle of an ocean of chrome, smoked glass, and shiny brick, as if the owners had decided to give the finger to the property developers who were slowly taking over this dying area.

It was a very basic, four-story building, built in the shape of an open square; in the middle was a parking lot crammed with cars and pickups. There were no windows on the outer walls, just air conditioners sticking out of the cinder block.

We turned left; with the highway thundering away above us we walked past the hotel on my right side. We were now parallel with Ball Street, which lay behind it. Kelly hadn't said a word. I was in work mode anyway; if it weren't for the fact that I had hold of her hand, I would probably have forgotten she was with me.

As we got even with the Calypso I wiped the drizzle from my face and peered up into the gloom. On its roof was a massive satellite dish, easily three yards across. It wouldn't have looked out of place on top of the Pentagon. We turned right and right again. We were on Ball Street.

From street numbers on the map I knew that the target was going to be on my left. I kept to the right side for a better perspective.

It was still incredibly noisy; if it wasn't an aircraft taking off from the airport just the other side of the tree line, it was the continuous roar from Highway 1. "Where are we going?"

Kelly had to shout to be heard above it all.

"Down there," I nodded.

"I want to see if we can find a friend's office. And then we can find a nice new hotel to stay in."

"Why do we have to move around all the time?"

I was stumped on that one. I was still looking at the street numbers, not at her.

"Because I get bored easily, especially if the food's no good. That one last night was crap, wasn't it?"

There was a pause, then, "What's crap?"

"It means that it's not very nice."

"It was OK to me."

"It was dirty. Let's go to a decent hotel, that's what I want to do."

"But we can stay at my house."

A jet had just left the runway and was banking hard at what appeared to be rooftop level. We watched for a while, trans fixed; even Kelly was impressed.

As the roar of its engines died down I said, "Come on, let's find that office."

I kept looking forward and left, trying to judge which building it was going to be. There was a hodgepodge of styles old factories and storage units, new two-story office buildings rubbed shoulders with parking lots and truck container dumps. In between the buildings I could just glimpse the trees that lined the Potomac maybe three hundred yards beyond.

We were in the high nineties, so I knew the PIRA office building wouldn't be far away. We walked on until we got to a new-looking, two-story office, all steel frames and exposed pipe work All the fluorescent lights were on inside. I tried to read the nameplates but couldn't make them out in the gloom without squinting hard or going closer, neither of which I wanted to do. One said unicorn but I couldn't make out the others.

It didn't look much like the sort of Sinn Fein or PIRA offices I was used to. Cable Street in Deny, for example, was a row house on a 1920s residential street; the places in west Belfast were much the same. Had Pat got this right? In my mind I'd been expecting some old tenement. Chances were this was just a front--it would be a commercial business;

people working there would be legit.

I focused on the target as we walked past, but didn't look back. You have to take in all the information the first time around.

"Nick?"

"What?"

"My feet are really wet."

I looked down. Her feet were soaked; I'd been concentrating so much on what to do next that I hadn't noticed the puddles we were walking through. I should have bought her a pair of boots at the mall.

We got to a T-intersection. Looking left, I could see that the road led down toward the river. More cars parked up on the shoulders, and even more scrap yards

I looked right. At the end of the street was the elevated highway, and just before that, above the rooftops, I could see the dish on top of the Calypso Hotel. I was feeling good.

A successful recon and somewhere to stay, and all before 11 a.m. We walked into the hotel parking lot. I pointed between a pickup truck and a UPS van.

"Wait under the landing, and keep out of the rain. I'll be back soon."

"Why can't I come with you. Nick? It's dark under here."

I started my puppy-training act.

"No wait ... there. I won't be long." I disappeared before she could argue.

The hotel lobby was just one of the first-floor rooms turned into an office. Checking in was as casual as the layout. The poor Brit family story was understood a lot quicker here.

I Went outside, collected Kelly, and, as we walked along the concrete and cinder block toward our new room on the second floor, I was busy thinking about what I'd have to do next. She suddenly tugged on my hand.

"Double crap!"

"What?"

"You know, like not nice. You said the other one was crap.

This is double crap."

I had to agree. I even thought I could smell vomit.

"No, no, wait till you get in. You see that satellite dish? We can probably get every single program in the world on that. It's not going to be crap at all."

There were two king-size beds in the room, a big TV, and the usual dark, lacquered surfaces and a few bits of furniture a long sideboard that had seen better days, a closet that was just a rail inside an open cupboard in the corner, and one of those things that you rest your suit case on.

I checked the bathroom and saw a little bottle of shampoo.

"See that?" I said.

"Always the sign of a good hotel. I think we're in the Ritz."

I plugged in the telephone and recharger, then it was straight on with the television, flicking through the channels for a kids' program. It was part of the SOPs now.

I pulled Kelly's coat off, gave it a shake, and hung it up, then went over to the air conditioner and pressed a few buttons. I held my coat out, testing the air flow; I wanted the room to get hot. Still waiting for some reaction from the machine, I said, "What's on?"

"Power Rangers."

"Who are they?"

I knew very well what it was all about, but there was no harm in a bit of conversation. I didn't want us to be best buddies, go on vacations together, and share toothbrushes and all that sort of shit far from it. The sooner this was sorted out, the better. But for the relationship to look normal it had to be normal, and I didn't want to get lifted because some busy body thought we didn't belong together.

I said, "Which one do you like?"

"I like Katherine. She's the pink one."

"Why's that, because of the color?"

"Because she's not a moron. She's really cool." Then she told me all about Katherine and how she was a Brit.

"I like that because Daddy comes from England."

I made her change into a new pair of jeans and a sweatshirt.

It took a lifetime. I thought. Fuck parenting, it's not for me.

Every moment of your time is taken up. What is the point, if you just spend all day on butler duty?

She was finally dry and sorted out. Next to the TV was a coffeemaker and packets of milk and sugar, and I got that going. As the machine started to purr and bubble I went to the window. As I looked out past the curtain, left and right of me were the other two sides of the drab, gray concrete square; below was the parking lot, and across the road and higher up was the highway. I realized that my mood matched the view.

Rain was still falling. I could see the plumes of spray be hind the trucks as they rolled along the highway. It wasn't heavy, but it was continuous, the kind that seeps into every thing. I was suddenly aware of Kelly standing next to me.

"I hate this type of weather," I said.

"Always have, ever since I was a teenager and joined the army. Even now, on a really wet and windy winter's day, I'll make myself a cup of tea and sit on a chair by the window and just look out and think of all the poor soldiers sitting in a hole in the middle of nowhere, freezing, soaking wet, wondering what they're doing there."

A wry smile came to my face as the coffee stopped dripping, and I looked down at Kelly. What wouldn't I give to be back on Salisbury Plain, just sitting in a soaking-wet trench, my only worry in the world how to stop being wet, cold, and hungry.

I went and lay on the bed, working out my options. Not that there were that many. Why didn't I just make a run for it? I could steal passports and try my luck at an airport, but the chances of getting away with it were slim. There were less conventional routes back. I'd heard that you could get all the way from Canada to the UK by ferry and land-hopping, a route popular with students. Or I could go south, getting into Belize or Guatemala; I'd spent years in the jungle on that border and knew how to get out. I could go to an island off Belize called San Pedro, a staging post for drug runners on their way to the east coast of Florida. From there I could get farther into the Caribbean, where I'd pick up passage on a boat.

More bizarre still, one of the guys in the Regiment had flown a single-engined Cessna from Canada to the UK-. The tiny fixed-wing aircraft had no special equipment apart from an extra fuel tank in the back. The radio wasn't the right kind;

he'd had to work out the antenna lengths with wire hanging from the aircraft on a brick. He wore a parachute so that if anything went wrong, he'd open the door and leap out. How I'd sort that out I didn't know, but at least I knew it could be done.

However, there was too much risk involved in all these schemes. I didn't want to spend the rest of my days in a state penitentiary, but at the same time I didn't want Kelly and me to be killed in the process of escaping. Simmonds had presented me with the best option. If I turned up in London with what he wanted, I wouldn't exactly be home and dry, but at least I'd be home. I had to stay and tough it out.

It all boiled down to my needing to see who and what was going into and out of the building on Ball Street.

"Kelly? You know what I'm going to say, don't you?"

"Without a doubt," she smiled. I'd obviously been forgiven for drying her hair and putting her into nice dry clothes.

"Ten minutes, all right?"

I closed the door, listened, heard her hook the chain, and hung the sign on the door. Farther to my left was a small open area that housed the Coke and snack machines. I bought a can, then walked back past our room toward the elevator. To the left was the fire escape, a concrete staircase leading up and down. I knew the safety regulations meant that there had to be an exit onto the roof; in the event of a fire down below, the rescue would be by helicopter.

I went as far as I could upstairs. Double fire doors led to the roof; push the bar and they'd open. There was no sign warning that the doors were alarmed, but I had to check. I looked around the doorframe but couldn't see a circuit-break alarm. I pushed the bar and the door opened. No bells.

The roof was flat, its surface covered with lumps of gravel two inches in diameter. I picked up a handful and used it to jam the doors open.

An aircraft was landing at National; I could just see its lights through the drizzle. The satellite dish was on the far corner of the roof. There was also a green aluminum shed, which I guessed was the elevator housing. A three-foot-high wall ran around the edge of the roof, hiding me from the ground, but not from the highway.

I walked across the gravel to the side facing the river.

Looking down at the target building from this angle, I could see the flat roof and its air ducts. It was rectangular and looked quite large. Behind it were a vacant lot and fences that seemed to divide it into new building plots waiting to be sold.

I could just make out the Potomac beyond the tree line and the end of the runway.

I walked back, stepping over a series of thick electric cables. I stopped at the elevator housing. What I wanted now was a power source. I could use batteries to power the surveillance equipment I'd be using, but I couldn't guarantee their life. I tried the door of the elevator housing, but it was locked. I had a quick look at the lock: a pin tumbler. I'd be able to defeat that easily.

Back in the room, I got out the Yellow Pages and looked for addresses of pawn shops.

Then I went into the bathroom, sat on the edge of the bath, and unloaded the .45 ammunition from the magazines into my pocket, easing the springs. It's not something that you have to do every day, but it needs to be done. The majority of weapon stoppages are magazine connected. I didn't know how long it had been left loaded; I might squeeze off the first round and the second one wouldn't feed into the chamber because the magazine spring had stuck. That's why a revolver is sometimes far better, especially if you're going to have a pistol lying about for ages and don't want to service it. A revolver is just a cylinder with six rounds in it, so you could keep it loaded all year and it wouldn't matter--as soon as you pick it up you know the thing will work. I emptied the magazines into my pocket so that I then had the ammunition, magazines, and pistol all on me.

I came out of the bathroom and wrote myself a shopping list of supplies that I was going to need and checked how much money I had. There was enough for today. I could always get more out tomorrow.

I wasn't worried about Kelly. She had loads of food and was half-asleep anyway. I turned up the heat on the air conditioner.

She'd soon be drowsy.

I said, "I'm going to go and get you some coloring books and crayons and all that sort of stuff. Shall I bring back something from Mickey D's?"

"Can I have sweet and sour sauce with the fries? Can I come with you?"

"The weather's terrible. I don't want you catching a cold."

She got up and walked to the door, ready to drop the latch without me having to ask.

I went downstairs and walked to the Metro station. The Washington Metro is fast and quiet, clean and efficient, everything a subway should be. The tunnels are vast and dimly lit, somehow soothing, which is maybe why passengers seem more relaxed than in London or New York and some even exchange eye contact. It's also about the only part of the capital where you won't be asked by a seventeen or seventy-seven-year-old Vietnam vet if you can spare some change.

I got out after seven or eight stops and one transfer. The place I was looking for was just a few blocks away, but it was in a neighborhood I bet didn't feature in anybody's vacation brochure. I was used to the Washington where those who had really had. This was the part of town where those who didn't have had absolutely nothing.

The single-story building was set back from the road and looked more like a supermarket than a pawn shop, with a front that was at least fifty yards long. The whole facade was glass, with bars running vertically. The window displays were piled high with everything from drum kits to surfboards and bedding. Fluorescent-yellow posters promised everything from zero percent interest to the best gold price in town.

Three armed guards controlled the doors and watched me enter.

Looking along one of the aisles to the rear, I saw a long glass showcase that also formed the counter. Behind it were more than a dozen assistants, all wearing similar red polo shirts. It seemed to be the busiest department in the shop.

Then I saw all the handguns and rifles behind the glass. A sign announced that customers were welcome to test fire any weapon on the range out back.

I went to the camera department. In an ideal world, what I was looking for would be something like a security camera, with a long cable connecting the camera itself to a separate control box that also housed the videotape. I could put the camera in position on the roof, leave it where it was, and hide the control box elsewhere, maybe inside the elevator housing.

That way it would be easier for me to get to it to change the tape and--if I couldn't tap into the power lines--the batteries, and all without having to disturb the camera.

Unfortunately I couldn't find anything like that. But I did find something that was almost as good: a Hi-8 VHS camera, the type favored by a lot of freelance TV journalists. Certainly I'd be able to change the lens to give me more distance.

I remembered working in Bosnia and seeing guys running around with Hi-8s glued to their eyes. They all thought they were destined to strike it rich by selling the networks "bang-bang" footage.

I caught the eye of one of the assistants.

"How much for the Hi-8?" I said in my usual bad American accent.

"It's nearly new, hardly out of the packaging. Five hundred dollars."

I smirked.

"So make me an offer," he said.

"Has it got a spare battery and all the attachments for external power?"

"Of course. It's got it all. It's even got its own bag."

"Can I see it working?"

"Of course, of course."

"All right--four hundred, cash."

He did what every plumber and builder throughout the world does when discussing prices: started sucking air through his teeth.

"I'll tell you what: four-fifty."

"Done. I also want a playback machine, but it can't be a

VCR."

"I have exactly what you want. Follow me."

The machine he retrieved from the back of a shelf had a hundred-dollar price tag. It looked about a hundred years old, complete with dust. He said, "I'll tell you what--save the trouble: ninety dollars and it's yours."

I nodded.

"I also want some lenses."

"What kind are you after?"

"At least a two-hundred-millimeter zoom to go on this, preferably Nikon." I worked on the basis of one millimeter of lens for every yard of distance to target. For years I had been stuck in people's roof spaces after breaking into their house and removing one of the tiles so I could take pictures of a target, and I'd learned the hard way that it's a wasted effort unless the result is good ID-able images.

He showed me a 250mm lens.

"How much?"

"One-fifty." He was waiting for me to say it was too much.

"All right, one hundred fifty dollars. Done--if you throw in two four-hour tapes and an extension cord."

He seemed almost upset at the lack of a fight.

"What length?"

More haggling. He was dying for it.

"The longest one you've got."

"Twenty-foot?"

"Done." He was happy now. No doubt he had a forty-foot.

I came across a Wal-Mart a couple of blocks short of the Metro. I ducked inside and wandered around, looking for the items I'd need to set up the camera.

As I moved down the aisles, I found myself doing something I always did, no matter where in the world I was:

looking at cooking ingredients and cans of domestic cleaner and working out which would go with what to make chaos.

Mix this stuff and that stuff, then boil it up and stir in a bit of this, and I'd have an incendiary device. Or boil all that down and scrape off the scum from around the edge of the pot, then add some of this stuff from the bakery counter and boil that up some more until I got just a sediment at the bottom, and I'd have low explosive. Twenty minutes in Safeway would be enough to buy all the ingredients for a bomb powerful enough to blow a car in half, and you'd still have change from a ten-spot.

I didn't need any of that today, however. All I was after was a two-liter plastic bottle of Coke; a pair of scissors; a roll of trash bags; a mini Maglite flashlight with a range of filters; a roll of gaffer tape; and a tool kit with screwdrivers, wrenches, and pliers--twenty-one pieces for five dollars, and an absolute rip-off; they'd last about five minutes, but that was all I'd need. That done, I grabbed some coloring books, crayons, and other bits and pieces to entertain Kelly. I also put a few more dollars in Mr. Oreo's pocket.

I entered the Metro and found a bench. Lights at the edge of the platform flash when a train's approaching; until then most locals sit chatting or reading. There was nothing else to do so I started a connect-the-dots picture in one of the coloring books and waited for the lights.

The rain had stopped at Pentagon City, though it was still overcast and the ground was wet. I decided to do a quick check of the target while I didn't have Kelly.

Cutting across the supermarket parking lot, I headed for the highway tunnel and Ball Street.

I was soon on the same side of the road and even with the building. A small concrete staircase surrounded by dense shrubbery led up to the glass doors at the front. They opened into a reception area, and then another set of doors that probably led into the office complex itself. A security camera was trained on the front doors, looking down from the right-hand corner. The windows were sealed, double-glazed units.

Inside, the building on both floors seemed full of PCs and bulletin boards, the normal office environment.

I couldn't see any external alarm signs, nor any signs saying that the property was guarded. Maybe the alarm was at the rear. If not, whatever detectors there were, were probably connected to a telephone line connected directly to the police or a security firm.

I got to the end of the road, turned right, and headed back to the hotel.

The room was like a sauna. Kelly's hair was sticking up all over the place; she had sleep in her eyes. Her face was creased and had some crumbs stuck on it. By the look of it she'd been halfway through a cookie and fallen asleep.

As I dumped all the supplies on the side she said, "Where have you been?"

"I've bought tons of stuff." I started diving into the bags and dragging things out.

"I've got you some books, some coloring books, some crayons..."

I laid them on the bed and stepped back, waiting for some form of appreciation. Instead, she looked at me as if I were crazy.

"I've done those."

I thought a coloring book was a coloring book. I'd quite enjoyed doing my connect-the-dots.

"Never mind, I've got you some sandwiches and Coke, and you're to drink as much as you can because I need the bottle for something."

"Aren't we going out to get something to eat?"

"There's some cookies in there ..." I pointed at the bag.

"I don't want any more. I hate it in here all the time."

"We've got to stay in the hotel today. Remember, we've got people who are looking for us at the moment, and I don't want them to find us. It won't be for long."

I suddenly thought. Shit what if she knows her home number and starts using the phone? While she was pouring out some Coke with both hands around the bottle that seemed as big as she was, I stretched around the back of the small cupboard between the two beds and pulled out the tele phone jack.

I looked at my watch. It was 4:30; the best part of five hours to go until Pat made contact again.

I wanted to get the camera sorted out. I wanted it working at first light; I might even be able to get in an hour of filming before last light today.

Kelly got up and looked out the window, a bored, caged-up kid.

I poured myself some Coke and asked, "Do you want some more of this before I dump it out?"

She shook her head. I went into the bathroom and poured the remainder down the sink. I ripped the wrapper off and with the scissors I'd just bought I started to make a cut at the top where the bottle started to curve into the neck. I also cut at the base so I was left with a cylinder. I cut a straight line up it and pushed the resulting rectangle of plastic down flat to get rid of the curve. I cut a circle, first by trimming off the corners of the rectangle, then developing the shape. That was me, ready to burgle.

I came back into the room and checked the cords and made the camera ready for use, by battery or power lines.

"What are you doing, Nick?"

I'd been hoping she wasn't going to ask, but I should have known better by now. I had a lie all prepared.

"I'm going to make a film so you can say hello to Mommy, Daddy, and Aida because you said you were bored. Here, say hello."

I put the camera to my eye.

"Hello, Mommy, Daddy, and Aida," she said into the camera.

"We're in a hotel room, waiting to come home. I hope you get well soon. Daddy."

"Tell them about your new clothes," I cut in.

"Oh yes." She walked over to the wall.

"This is my new blue coat. Nick got me a pink one, too. He knew my favorite colors are pink and blue."

"I'm running out of tape, Kelly. Say goodbye."

She waved.

"Bye, Mommy; bye, Daddy; bye, Aida. I love you."

She came skipping over to me.

"Can I see it now?"

Another lie.

"I haven't got the cords to plug in to the TV But I'm seeing Pat soon, so maybe he'll get some for me."

She went back to her glass of Coke a very happy bunny.

She picked up a crayon and opened the coloring book, and was soon engrossed. Good; it meant I was able to put a tape into the camera without her seeing.

I picked up two plastic coffee cups, got the rest of the kit together, put it all in the video bag, and said, "Sorry about this, but..."

She looked at me and shrugged.

I made my way up to the roof. The rain was holding off--the aircraft and traffic noise wasn't.

The first thing I wanted to do was get into the elevator housing; I needed to know whether I could get direct power.

I got out my circle of plastic and put it in the crease of the green door. I pushed and turned it, making it work its way through the twists and turns of the doorframe until it hit against the lock itself. The door was there to keep people out for safety reasons, not to protect something of value, so it was a simple lock to defeat.

Once inside I turned on my mini Maglite, and the first thing I saw was a bank of four power sockets.

I looked up at the ceiling. The shed was made of panels of quarter-inch mild steel bolted onto a frame. I got the wrench and undid two of the bolts enough to lift up a bit of the roof.

Then I got the power cord from the camera, pushed it through the gap, and ran it down against the wall. It didn't look out of place among all the other shit. The small gap I'd created wouldn't let in much rain, so there wouldn't be a flood that somebody had to come up and investigate. I plugged the cord into one of the sockets and hoped I'd remember there was juice coming out the other end when I started to mess around with the camera.

I kept the door open to give me some light while I prepared the camera. I got two trash bags and put one inside the other, then put the camera inside, pushing it against the plastic at the bottom until the lens just burst through. I then took the two plastic coffee cups, split them both down the sides, cut the bottoms off both, put them into one another, and then fitted them over the lens as a hood. That was going to keep off the rain but at the same time let enough light into the lens so the thing could work. I used gaffer tape to keep everything in position.

I got on the roof with the camera and plugged it in. I lay flat and looked through the viewfinder, waiting for it to spark up and show me what the lens could see. I wanted a reasonable close-up of the staircase leading up to the main door.

Once it had jumped into life I used the zoom, got it right on target, and pressed Play. I tested Stop and Rewind, then Play again. It worked. I tucked in the plastic, making sure not to dislodge the camera, pressed Record, and walked away. I went and bought a cartwheel-sized pizza, which we sat down and ate in front of the television, with the cell phone plugged in, charging.

Then it was just a matter of hanging around with indigestion waiting for Pat to call and the four-hour tape to finish. It was dark now, but I wanted it to run the full four hours: one, to check that the system worked, and two, to see what the quality was like at night.

For the first time, both of us were bored. Kelly had had death by TV, death by pizza, death by Mountain Dew and Coke. She wearily picked up one of her new books and said, "Would you read to me?"

I thought, All right, it 'sjtist a collection of stories, it won't take that long to read a couple. I soon discovered it was one continuous adventure, with optional endings to each chapter.

I was reading to her about three kids in a museum. One had gone missing no one knew where when the story just stopped. At the bottom of the page it said, "Do you want to go to p. 16 and follow him through the magic tunnel, or do you want to go and see Madame Edie on p. 56, who might tell you where he is? It's your choice."

"Where do you want to go?" I said.

"Through the tunnel."

Off we went. After about forty-five minutes and changing tack about eight times, I thought we must be getting to the end soon. It took nearly two hours to get through it. At least she had fun.

The room was warm and I still had all my stuff on, ready to go. I kept dozing off, waking up every half hour or so to the sound of The Simpsons or Looney Tunes. One time I woke up and looked down at my jacket. It had come undone, and my pistol was exposed. I looked across at Kelly, but she didn't even give it a second glance; maybe she was used to her dad wearing one.

I opened up a can of Mountain Dew and looked at my watch. It was only 8:15; I'd go and get the first video in about fifteen minutes, put a new tape in, and then wait for Pat's call.

When the time came I said, "I'm just popping out for five minutes to get something to drink--do you want anything?"

She looked quizzical and said, "We've got loads here."

"Yeah, but it's all warm. I'll bring some cold ones."

I went up to the roof. It was damp and drizzling now. I opened up the back of the plastic bag, pressed the Eject button, and quickly exchanged tapes. I was ready for the morning.

I came downstairs, passed our room, and got another couple of sodas. Coca-Cola shares had probably skyrocketed over the last few days.

Clueless came on, the TV series she'd told me she loved. I was amazed as I listened to her imitating all the catch-phrases. She had them down pat: "Loser ... double loser, moron.. . whatever!" Now I knew where a lot other sayings came from.

At last it was just three minutes to go before Pat was due to check in. There was no way I'd tell Pat where we were or that Kelly was actually with me. All I would tell him was what he needed to know, as protection for him as well as for us. I went into the bathroom, closed the door, and listened for Clueless.

Nothing.

Right on time the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"All right, mate? Thanks for the sub!"

We both had a quiet laugh.

"Do you know what floor they're occupying?"

There was a short pause, then, "Second floor."

"OK. Any chance of more money? I need a big wad, mate.

You know I'll square it away when I get back."

"I could get you about ten grand. But you're going to have to wait a day--I won't be able to get it until tomorrow, or possibly the day after. You're welcome to it until you're sorted-and I take it you've got a way out?"

"Yeah," I lied. It was for the best. If he got lifted, he could give only false information, and they'd start combing the airports and docks instead of looking around Washington.

Then I said, "I need more contact in case I manage to find anything out about the building and things start changing rapidly. What about twelve hundred hours, eighteen hundred, and twenty-three hundred--is that OK?"

"All right, mate. Is there anything else?"

"No, mate. Be careful."

"And you. See ya!"

I turned the telephone off, went back into the bedroom, and put it back on the charger. I didn't know if Kelly had heard anything, but she was quiet and seemed uneasy.

I got the playback machine set up, pushed the tape in, and tuned in the television.

Kelly was watching intently.

"We're going to play a game," I said.

"Do you fancy playing? If not, I'll just do it on my own."

"OK." It beat counting cars on the highway.

"I thought you didn't have any cords."

She'd got me on that one.

"I bought some when I went out."

"So why can't we see the video we made?"

I had to think quickly.

"Because I've already mailed it.

Sorry" She looked at me, a little confused.

"We're going to watch this tape of a building," I went on.

"It's got people going in and out of it. Now, there's going to be some famous people going in there, there's going to be people that you know, like friends of Daddy's and Mommy's, and people that I know. So what we've got to do is see how many people we can each recognize. Whoever sees the most is the winner. You want to play?"

"Yeah!"

"You've got to be really quick, because I'm going to fast-forward it. Every time you see somebody moving, you've got to tell me, then I'll stop, rewind, and we'll have a look at it."

I took some of the hotel stationery and a pencil and off we went. I had to use the button on the machine to fast-forward because there was no remote. I sat on the floor under the player by the TV and hit the fast-forward button. Kelly's eyes didn't leave the screen. I was quite pleased with the result.

The quality wasn't bad at all; you could tell the difference between this and a home video, and I'd managed to get full-length pictures of the people covering about two-thirds of the screen.

"Stop, stop, stop!" she shrieked.

I rewound and had a look. Kelly had correctly spotted some movement. There were a few people entering. I didn't recognize any of them. Kelly was sure that man number three was from a pop group called Backstreet Boys.

She got into the game more and more. Everyone seemed to be famous. I logged them all, using the counter.

Two men, one with a long light coat, one with a blue coat.

People think that being a baby spy is all James Bond, sports cars, and casinos. I'd always wished the fuck it was. The reality is sheer hard work, getting information, then sitting down and working out what it is you've gathered--and then interpreting it. Two people walking up a set of stairs means shit. It's interpreting what's going on that's important-identifying them, their body language, what happened before, what you think is going to happen later on. So you log everything, in case at a later date it might be important. Give me a sports car any day.

The screen was slowly getting darker. The ambient street light was helping, but it was quite hard to see faces and we were losing color; I could tell the difference between a man and a woman and their ages, but just barely.

It came to the end of the working day and everything began to close down; people going home were throwing switches and the light dwindled. In the end there were lights only in the reception area and corridors.

I left the tape running at normal speed. What I now wanted to know was whether there was a night watchman around, but I couldn't see anyone.

Kelly was loving it. She'd seen four actors, two of the Spice Girls, and a teacher from her school. Not bad at all. But what if she did recognize somebody? I'd have to take it with a grain of salt; after all, she was only seven. But I'd have nothing to lose in believing her.

"Do you want to do this again tomorrow?"

"Sure. I have more points than you."

"So you do. I tell you what, after all that winning I think you should lie down on the bed and take a nap."

If Kelly or I identified anybody on the tape tomorrow, it would be a bonus for me to take to Simmonds and prove a link. It would also mean that I'd definitely have to CTR close target reconnaissance the building and find out why they were there. I decided to go and have a closer look at the outside, and then I could plan how to make entry.

By 11 p.m. Kelly was sound asleep, still fully clothed. I put the bedspread over her, picked up the key card, and left.

To avoid the office I came out of the hotel via the emergency stairs. I got on the road by the highway, turned right, and walked past the playhouse toward the target. The traffic was quieter now, just peaks of noise instead of a constant roar.

I turned right, then right again. I was on Ball Street. It was the back I really needed to take a look at, but first I wanted to recon the front again. I wanted to see if there was a night watchman in there and get a mental picture of what it looked like inside.

I moved into a doorway across the way. If I was spotted, I'd pretend I was drunk and taking a piss. I was in deep shadow as I looked over at the target. I could see through the two sets of doors into the reception area; the lights were still on, giving a sheen to the wet concrete steps and the leaves of the bushes. I looked upstairs and saw light shining through the windows directly above the main entrance. That meant the corridor lights were on upstairs as well.

I waited around for fifteen minutes, watching for signs of movement. Was security sitting downstairs watching the TV?

Was he upstairs, doing his rounds? I didn't see anything.

Time to look at the rear.

I went back the way I'd come but instead of turning left went right toward the river. It was just a one-lane road with muddy mush on the sides and potholes filled with oily water that glistened in the ambient light. Using the shadows, I passed the scrap-metal yard and crossed over the railway tracks that led to the old cement depot. My footsteps

made more noise than the highway now. Fences divided all the plots, secured with old chains and padlocks. I followed the road farther, looking for a point to turn and get behind the target.

The highway lights weren't strong enough to have any effect at this distance, but I could make out the mist coming from the river. I'd reached a dead end. A fence blocked the old road, and a large, muddy turning circle had been made by cars looking for a parking space and discovering what I just had. I could also see lights from the airport, beyond the woods that sloped down to the Potomac.

There was no alternative but to walk back to the abandoned railway tracks, which years ago would have been a branch of the main line. I looked left, following the tracks;

they ran about two hundred yards to the rear of the target, and to their left were some old, rusted corrugated-iron buildings.

I started climbing over the wire gates where the trains would have gone through to the depot. The padlocked chains rattled under the strain. I got into some shadow and waited.

There were no dogs barking, and the airport was probably closed down this late at night because it was so close to the city; all I could hear was a distant siren.

I carried on along the tracks, and soon the only noises were of my feet and breath.

To my right was the scrap yard enclosed by a fence, with old cars piled on top of each other seven or eight high. After about a hundred yards the ground started to open up and I could see buildings. Fences made it clear what belonged to whom. The area had been cleared and flattened, ready for developers. One of those buildings beyond it was the rear of my target; on the other side I could see street lights on Ball Street and the highway. The drizzle gave them a misty, faded appearance.

I slowed down, had a quick look at the target, then started to walk across the 150 yards of newly leveled ground to a fence that was about 50 yards short of the target building.

Near the fence I found some bushes, stopped, and squatted down. The things that always give you away are shape, shine, shadow, silhouette, spacing, and movement. Forget about them and they'll get you killed.

Still on my haunches, I did nothing but sit and watch for the next few minutes. You have to give your senses a chance to adjust to a new environment. After a while my eyes began to adapt to the light and I could start to make things out. I could see that there were no windows in the back of the building, just a solid brick wall. There was, however, a four-flight steel staircase leading to the ground. This was the fire escape route for both the first and second floors. To the right of it at ground level were the meter boxes for the building's utilities.

I looked at the fire exits. If I had to make entry at some stage to find out what PIRA was up to, that was probably the way I'd go in. It depended whether they had external locks, and there was only one way to find out.

I scanned along the line of the six-foot chain-link fence, looking for a break. I couldn't see one. Grabbing the top edge of the wire, I pulled myself up, got a foot on the top, and clambered over. I crouched down again and stayed still, watching and listening for any reaction.

There was no need to rush; slow movement meant that not only did I reduce noise and the risk of being detected, I could also control my breathing and hear more around me. I used the shadows created by the building and trees, moving from one pool of darkness to the next, all the time keeping eyes on the target and the surrounding area.

Once I got close enough, I stopped at the base of two trees and stood against one of the trunks. Looking at the rear wall, I noticed a motion detector that had been fixed at a height and angle to cover people walking up the fire escape. I had no way of knowing what the detector triggered, whether an alarm, a light, or a camera, or maybe all three. I couldn't see any cameras.

But I could see lights, two of them, one above each fire exit. They weren't on. Were they what the motion detector would trigger? Probably, but why wasn't there also a camera covering the rear so that security could see what had triggered the light? It didn't matter; I'd treat the detector as if it triggered everything.

I noted three wooden pallets to the right of the building by the fence. I could use those.

I looked at the doors. They had sheet steel covering them, together with an extra strip that went over the frame to prevent anyone from tampering with the gap. Close up, I could see that the locks were the pin-tumbler type. Piece of cake; I could defeat them.

A quick check of the utilities boxes and dials showed me that gas, electricity, water, and telephone were all there, all exposed and ready to be played with. I was feeling better about this all the time.

I was still worried about the possibility of a night watch man. In some circumstances, it can actually be a bonus. You can try to get him to come and open the door and hey presto, you've got an unalarmed entry. However, if I had to go in, it would be covertly.

The parking lot was empty, which could be another indication that there was no one inside. I had to confirm it one way or another. I decided to be slightly drunk, walk up to the main entrance, and take a leak; while I was doing that, I could get a better look inside. If there was anybody in the foyer, he might come out and give me grief, or I might see him watching television in the back somewhere.

I followed the same route all the way back and reached Ball Street. I was quite damp now; the drizzle and wet rusty fences had done their work on my clothes.

I walked on the opposite side of the road toward the target.

As I got nearer, I started to cross at an angle that gave me more time to see the target. Head down, conscious of the camera covering the door, I started to stumble up the steps, and about three-quarters of the way up, as soon as I was able to see into the right-hand window, I turned, opened my fly, and started pissing down onto the bushes.

Almost instantly, a man's voice roared, "Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!" and there was an explosion of movement in the shrubbery. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I took my hand straight off my cock and onto the Sig. I tried to stop pissing but I was in full flow. My jeans took the brunt.

I went for the pistol, then realized that maybe I didn't need to pull it out yet. He might be security. Maybe I could talk my way out of this.

"Fuck you! Who do you think you are? You mothermcker!"

I could hear him but still couldn't see anything. There was rustling and all sorts of shit going on, then more "Fuck you! Fuck you!" and I saw him appearing through the bushes.

"Fucking asshole, piss on me, you fuck. I'll show you!

Look at me! You've pissed on me!"

He was in his mid-twenties, wearing old army boots without laces and dirty, greasy black jeans. He had a hooded, parka-type jacket that was in shit shape, grimed with muck and with the elbows hanging out. When he was about ten yards away I could also see he had a straggly excuse for a beard, a big earring in one ear, and long greasy dreadlocks.

He was soaked.

The moment he saw me, his face lit up. To him I was the accidental tourist, lost at the wrong end of town. I could almost see the cogs turning; he thought he'd cracked it here, he was going to get some easy money out of this greenhorn.

"Fuck you, asshole, you owe me a new sleeping bag! Look at my clothes you've pissed all over me, you fucking animal! Give me some money, man!"

He was certainly going for an Oscar.

"Do you know who I am? Fucking piss on me, man, I'll fucking kick your ass!"

I needed to take advantage of this. I went up to the window and started banging hard. If there was security, he should come investigate. I'd just play the innocent needing protection from this madman.

I banged so hard I thought the glass would break, making sure all the time that I had my back to the camera. It sparked up the homeless guy even more because he thought I was panicking.

He started to come up the stairs. I kept on looking inside the building. There were no used ashtrays in sight, no magazines lying open on chairs, no TV on; the furniture was well arranged, the chair by the reception area was neatly under the desk. There was nothing to show that anyone was around.

Nearly on top of me now, I heard, "Fucking asshole!"

I turned, opened my jacket, and put my hand on the pistol.

He saw it and stopped in his tracks.

"Ah, for fuck's sake!

Fucking hell!" He backed off, started to retreat down the stairs, his eyes fixed on the pistol.

"Fucking cops," he muttered.

I had to try hard not to laugh.

"Fucking cops, piss on me every fucking which way!"

I waited for him to disappear. The guy thought he had problems this was the second time in two days that I'd had piss all over me. I felt sorry for him, though; I thought about the amount of time he'd probably spent finding himself a snug little retreat, well concealed from predators and nicely warmed by the air-conditioning outlets and other machinery tucked underneath. Then some dickhead comes and empties his bladder all over the house.

It took me fifteen minutes to get back to the hotel. I opened the door nice and quiet. Kelly was in kid heaven, not having had to take a bath or clean up her mess, just falling asleep surrounded by candy and cookies.

I got undressed, took a shower and shaved, then stuffed the clothes into the hotel laundry bag. The duffel was getting pretty full now with dirty and bloodstained clothes. I was down to my last change. I got dressed again, tucked the pistol into my waistband, put my coat on, and set the alarm for 5:30. I was half-awake anyway when the alarm went. I'd been tossing and turning all night, and now I couldn't really be bothered to get up. People must feel like this when they go to a job they really hate.

I finally got myself to my feet, went over to the window, and opened the curtains. We were just below eye level with the highway and almost in its shadow. Headlights lumbered silently toward me from out of the gloom; in the other lanes, taillights disappeared back into the darkness like slow-moving tracers. It wasn't time yet.

I let the curtain fall and turned down the heat, got the coffee machine gurgling, and went into the bathroom.

As I took a leak I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked like a scarecrow with creases on my face where I'd been lying on some crayons. I took my jacket off, turned the collar in on my polo shirt, and splashed my face in the sink.

I went back to the bedroom. The brew wasn't ready yet, and my mouth felt as if a gorilla had dumped in it. He'd certainly been in the room while we were both asleep, throwing soda cans and food everywhere. I picked up an already opened can of Mountain Dew and took a couple of flat, warm sips.

Until first light, there wasn't that much to do. I was used to this; so much of my life had been hurry up and wait. I put the chair by the window and opened the curtains again. Looking at the highway, I couldn't make out whether it was still raining or if it was just vehicle spray in the headlights that made it look that way.

By the end of a quarter hour I could begin to make out the shape of the cars as well as their headlights. It was time.

There was no need to wake Kelly; the more she slept, the easier my life would be. I checked that I had the key card and moved up to the roof.

Rain danced on the metal roof of the elevator housing. I pulled myself up and lay there getting soaked front and back as I pressed the Play button on the camera and tested the flashing light. I checked to see that I still had the correct site picture and that the lens hadn't misted up. It had. I cursed at myself because I should have put on another plastic bag to keep the moisture from getting in overnight. I started to wipe the moisture off with my cuff and suddenly felt as if I were between two worlds. Behind me roared the early morning traffic, yet to my front, toward the river, I could just about hear birds giving their early morning song. I was almost enjoying it. The moment was soon shattered when the first air craft of the day took off and disappeared into low cloud. Lens dry, I rechecked the camera position, made sure it was recording, and closed the trash bags.

It was now nearly 6 a.m. I went back to the room and my chair by the window, coffee in hand. I smiled as I watched a couple come out of the room next door, hand in hand. Some thing about them didn't quite match up. I made a bet with my self that they'd leave in separate cars.

For the hundredth time, my mind drifted to the telephone call I'd had with Kev. Pat had said that if it was PIRA, there could be a connection with drugs, Gibraltar, and the Americans. My hard drive went into free wheel because something about the Gibraltar job had always puzzled me.

The year 1987 had been PIRA's annus horribilis, and as Detachment operators in Northern Ireland, Euan and I had done our fair share to fuck them over. At the beginning of the year they'd promised their faithful "tangible success in the war of national liberation," but it hadn't taken long for that to turn to rat shit. In February, PIRA fielded twenty-seven Sinn Fein candidates in the Irish general election, but they man aged to scrape only about a thousand votes each. Few people in the South gave a damn about reunification with Northern Ireland; they were far more concerned with other issues like unemployment and the crippling level of taxation. It showed how out of touch PIRA was, and how successful the Anglo Irish accord was proving. Ordinary people really did believe that London and Dublin could work together to bring about a long-term solution to the Troubles.

PIRA couldn't take that lying down and must have decided they needed a morale booster. Their knee-jerk reaction was the murder, on Saturday, April 25, of Lord Justice Maurice Gibson, one of the province's most senior judges. Euan and I saw firsthand the celebrations in some of PIRA's illegal drinking dens that weekend. We even had a few drinks ourselves as we hung around. The players loved what had happened.

Not only had they gotten rid of one of their worst enemies, but recriminations were flying left, right, and center between London and Dublin. The Anglo-Irish accord, which had done so much to undermine PIRA's power base, was itself now in question.

However, barely had the hangovers gone away than PIRA had another disaster. Two weeks later, at Loughall in County Armagh, guys from the Regiment ambushed PIRA's East Tyrone Brigade while they were attempting to bomb a police station. From a force of 1,000 hard-core players in 1980, PIRA's strength had dwindled to fewer than 250, of which maybe 50 were members of active service units. Our successes had further cut this to 40, which meant that the operation at Loughall had wiped out one-fifth of PIRA's hard liners at a stroke. It was their biggest loss in a single action since 1921. If this continued, all of PIRA would soon be riding around in the same taxi.

The massive defeat at Loughall was followed soon afterward by a disastrous showing by Gerry Adams in the British general election. Sinn Fein's vote plummeted, with the Catholic vote switching to the moderate SDLP. Then, on October 31, during Sinn Fein's annual conference in Dublin, French Customs seized a small freighter called the Eksund off the coast of Brittany. On board was an early Christmas present to PIRA from Colonel Gaddafi--hundreds ofAK47s, tons of Semtex, several ground-to-air missiles, and so much ammunition it was a miracle that the ship stayed afloat.

The humiliation was complete. No wonder Gerry Adams and PIRA wanted revenge and some sort of publicity coup to show people like Gaddafi and those Irish Americans who contributed to Noraid that they hadn't completely lost their grip.

On November 8, Remembrance Day, they planted a thirty-pound bomb with a timer at the town memorial in Enniskillen in County Fermanagh, Northern Ireland. Eleven civilians were killed in the explosion, and more than sixty were seriously injured. Outrage at the atrocity was instant and worldwide.

In Dublin, thousands lined up to sign a book of condolence. In Moscow, not a place well known for its compassion, the TASS news agency denounced what it called "barbaric murders." But worst of all for PIRA, even the Irish Americans appeared to have had enough. PIRA had fucked up big-time. It had thought the bombing would be hailed as a victory in its struggle against an occupying power, but all it had done was show it up for what it really was. It might be one thing to kill "legitimate" targets like judges, policemen, and members of the security forces, but murdering innocent civilians while they were honoring their dead at a Remembrance Day service?

That was why Gibraltar had been such a puzzle to me. I could see why Adams and company would be desperate to show their diminishing group of sympathizers that they were still in business, but why risk a repeat of the international backlash they'd suffered after Enniskillen? If they bombed Gibraltar, it wouldn't be only British civilians who might end up killed. At that time of the year, hundreds of foreign tourists pack the squares and streets of the colony, many from the cruise liners that regularly dock in the harbor.

And many of those, PIRA would have known full well, were American. I'd never been able to see a method to their madness.

It suddenly hit me that maybe I'd been looking down the wrong end of the telescope. PIRA were terrorists, but their presence here in Washington proved that they were also businessmen. There was no sectarian divide when it came to money, just normal competition and greed. They got together with Protestant para militaries on a regular basis to talk about their drug, prostitution, and extortion rackets, even to discuss demarcation lines for different taxi firms and sites for slot machines back home. They had the infrastructure, the knowledge, and the weapons to be major players in the world of crime. With cooperation from other terrorist organizations throughout the world, the possibilities were endless. If so, this was some serious shit.

Down in the parking lot the couple was having a long, lingering embrace. What was going on there was some serious shit, too. Then one final kiss and, yep, separate cars.

I wasn't expecting a phone call from Pat until noon and there were still about three hours to wait for the tape to finish recording, so there wasn't much to do apart from watch invaders from Mars and talking shoes who lived in wastebaskets.

I felt uneasy. I needed to do something.

I shook Kelly.

"Kelly, Kelly, wake up."

She moaned, pulling the covers back over her. I spoke gently in her ear.

"I'm going downstairs to buy some stuff, OK?"

I got a very weak yes. She couldn't have cared less. I was beginning to realize she wasn't a morning person.

I used the emergency stairs again and crossed under the highway to the 7-Eleven. Inside, it looked like Fort Knox.

There was a grating in the wall with a cubbyhole behind it and an Asian face glowering out and then turning back to watch a portable TV. The store was too hot and stank of cigarettes and over brewed coffee. Every inch of wall space was plastered with signs informing the local villains cash register

HOLDS ONLY $50----EVERYTHING ELSE DEPOSITED.

I didn't really need to buy anything; we had more stuff in the room than we could eat in a year, but I wanted some time to myself, away from Kelly. I found it tiring just being around her. There was always something that needed doing, checking, or washing, and in any time that was left over I seemed to be nagging her to hurry up and get dressed.

At the magazine rack another friendly sign said, no spitting or reading the merchandise. I picked up a Washington Post and a handful of magazines, some for me and some for Kelly--I didn't even bother looking at what they were--and went and put my money through the small hole in the grille. The man looked disappointed I hadn't forced him to use the machete I was sure he had under the till.

I strolled into the lobby to get breakfast. There were seven or eight people sitting around, eating, and watching a TV mounted on a wall bracket above the table with the food and drink. As I started to load up three paper plates on a tray, above me I could hear an anchorman talking about George Mitchell and his part in the Irish peace process. I listened to a couple of sound bites from Sinn Fein and the British government, both pouring scorn on the other side's statements, both claiming that they were the ones who truly wanted peace.

A woman's voice interrupted my thoughts. She was anchoring the local news, and as I poured some orange juice for Kelly I could feel my skin tingle all over. She was talking about the Browns.

I didn't dare turn around. One of the barbecue pictures could appear on screen at any moment.

The woman told viewers that police had not come up with any new leads, but the kidnapping of seven-year-old Kelly had moved forward with a computer image of the man seen leaving with her. She gave my height, build, and hair color.

There wasn't room to pour any more coffee or juice, and the tray was overflowing with food. But I didn't dare move. It felt as if every pair of eyes in the room was fixed on me. I put a bagel into the toaster and waited, drinking coffee, not looking up or around. I felt I was in a cocoon of silence, apart from the voice of the newscaster. I prayed for her to turn to a new subject. The bagel popped up. Shit. I put some spread on it. I knew people were looking at me; they had to be.

I'd run out of things to do. I took a deep breath, picked up my tray, and turned around. The noise of the room came back.

No one was looking. They were too busy eating, talking, and reading the papers.

Kelly was still asleep. Good. I put her food on the side and started to munch on my Cheerios. I switched the TV on, muted it, and flicked through the channels, looking for local news. There was nothing more about the situation on Hunting Bear Path.

I attacked the newspaper. We were famous well, sort of.

A small piece on page five. No pictures. A police spokesman was reported as saying that they were reluctant to come up with any theories until they had more concrete evidence, but yes, the murders were being treated as drug-related. Luther and his bunch would be pleased about that. Otherwise, there were no new leads. I wasn't the only one in the dark.

I had to try to cut all the conjecture from my mind because it was getting far too confusing. As the policeman said, without information it was pointless spending time and effort trying to think of different scenarios. I determined to focus all my effort into: one, protecting Kelly and myself; two, keeping the video on target to discover if there was a connection between PIRA and Kev's death; three, getting some money from Pat so I could arrange my return to the UK; and four, getting hold ofEuan for help in dealing with Simmonds, or, if I had nothing for him, to help me negotiate with him.

I looked over at Kelly. She was on her back with her arms out in a star shape, dreaming she was Katherine, the pink ranger. I felt sorry for her. She hadn't a clue what had happened to her family. Some poor bastard was going to have to tell her one day, and after that someone would have to look after her. I just hoped it was someone nice; maybe her grand parents, wherever they might be.

At least she was alive. Those boys must be sweating now.

They'd have to assume that Kelly had given me their descriptions and that she'd overheard what all the shouting was about. They had to be desperate to get their hands on us.

I started to wonder how I could get more information out of her but gave up on that one. I was no psychologist; if any thing, I was a candidate for seeing one.

I picked up a bike magazine and by the end had changed loyalties from Ducati to BMW. Then I read in a fishing magazinc how wonderful Lake Tahoe was for men with waders. I was lost in a whole new world of hook sizes and rod materials when all of a sudden there was a knock on the door.

No time to think. I pulled the Sig, checked chamber, and looked at Kelly. I thought: We both might be dead soon.

I put my hand over her mouth and gave her a shake. She woke up scared. I put my fingers to my mouth. It wasn't in a nice manner it was saying: "Shut the fuck up. Don't say a fucking thing."

I called out, "One minute, one minute!" I went through and turned the shower on, came back out, then went up to the door, sounding disorganized.

"Hello, who is it?"

A pause.

"Housekeeping."

I looked through the peephole and saw a woman, black, mid-fifties; she had a cleaning uniform on and a cart be hind her.

I couldn't see anything else, but then, if she had the police or Luther's boys on either side of her, they weren't going to be showing their faces.

I looked at her and tried to interpret what was going on from her eyes. They would soon tell me if there were ten policemen around the corner bristling with body armor and firepower.

I said, "It's OK, not today, thank you, we're sleeping."

I saw her look down and heard, "Sorry, sir, you didn't have your sign out."

"Oh, OK."

"Would you like some towels?"

"Hang on, I'm just coming out of the shower. I'll get some clothes on."

It would be natural to be wanting towels.

I put the weapon in my left hand, undid the lock, and opened the door just a fraction. The weapon was pointing through the door on the left side; if any fucker pushed her to get in, it would be the last thing he did.

I opened the door a little more, held it with my leg, and put my head in the gap. I smiled, "Ah, hiya," the gun pointing at her behind the door. I didn't put my hand out to get the towels; I didn't want someone grabbing it. I said, "I just need two big towels, that'll be fine and have you got some more shampoo?"

She gave me what I wanted. I said, "Thank you," and she smiled back. I closed the door.

Kelly was lying on the bed openmouthed, watching my every move.

I shrugged.

"Don't you just hate it when people do that?" She started laughing. So did I. "They nearly had us that time!" I said.

Her expression changed, and she slowly shook her head.

"I

know you won't ever let them get me."

It was 10:30: another twenty minutes to go before I went up and changed the tapes. I picked up the one we'd been watching the night before, slapped it back into the player, and rewound it for the next session.

This time I only had to smile at her and she jumped up and went to the door, ready to drop the latch.

"While I'm out I want you to take a shower. Will you do that?"

She shrugged.

"Whatever. I get all the good jobs."

I went upstairs to the roof.

The weather was still shitty.

There was still an hour to go before the noon call. We sat down together to watch the latest footage.

I said, "It's really important; we might see somebody we know. Then we can give the tape to Daddy and he can find out who was shouting at him. Anybody you think you might know, like Melissa's dad or the man at the grocery store, or even the men who came to see Daddy, tell me and we can have a closer look, OK?"

I started to fast-forward, stopping the tape whenever there was traffic. I logged what they looked like: male, female, black, white, Asian; and what they were wearing: black on blue, red on blue.

The game wasn't as much fun for Kelly the second time around.

"What about him?" I enthused.

"No."

"That lady?"

"No."

"You sure you've never seen this man?"

"Never!"

At last she spotted somebody she knew. I rewound the tape.

"Who is he?"

"Mr. Mooner on Fox Kids."

"OK, I'll write that down."

Another guy started to walk up the stairs. I stopped the tape and rewound. I said, "Do you know him?"

She shook her head.

I said, "Well, I know somebody who looks exactly like him. A man I used to work with who could never remember where he left things, and one day we hid his false teeth and he had to eat soup all week!" She had a little laugh; it kept her going a bit longer.

At 11:45 we were still going through the tape and logging.

I stopped at two men who were going in together.

"Do you know either of them? Because I don't. I can't think of anybody who even looks like them." I was racking my brains trying to think of another story to keep her interested.

"No, I've never seen them before."

"Oh, all right then. Just a couple more, then we'll do some thing else." I started to fast-forward, saw a figure coming out of the building, rewound, and played it.

She moved to the edge of the bed.

"I know that man," she said.

I pressed Freeze-frame. We were looking at a black guy in his mid-thirties.

"Who is he?"

"He came to see Daddy with the other men."

I tried to sound calm.

"What's his name? Do you know any of their names?" "Can I go home and see Mommy now? You said I could go home tomorrow and now it's tomorrow."

"We have to sort this out first, Kelly. Daddy needs to know their names. He can't remember."

I was trying to do the psychology bit but I knew more about fly-fishing now than I did about child psychology.

She shook her head.

"Daddy knew them though, didn't he?"

"Yeah. They came to see Daddy."

"Can you remember anything else about them? Were they smoking?"

"I don't remember. I don't think so."

"Did any of them have glasses?"

"I think this guy had glasses."

I looked closer at the screen. He wore thin wire frames.

"OK." were they wearing rings or anything?"

"I don't know, I didn't see."

I tried the color of the car, their shoes, their coats. Did they talk to each other using different names? Were they American?

She was starting to get upset, but I had to know.

I said, "Kelly, are you sure this man came to see Daddy the day I found you?"

Her eyes were welling up. I'd gone too far.

"Don't cry." I put my arm around her.

"It's OK. This man came with the other men, yes?"

I felt her nod.

"That's very good, because I can give this information to Daddy when I see him and that will help catch them. You see, you've helped him!"

She looked up at me. There was a slight smile under the tears. If she was right, what we had was one of the people who killed Kev coming out of an office that was fronting for PIRA.

There was still more tape to run. I tried to sound upbeat.

"OK then, let's have a look and see if we can see the other men. They were black, too, weren't they?"

"No, they were white."

"Oh yes, of course."

We went on through the tape. I came out with a possible ID of Nelson Mandela, and she saw Michael Jackson. Apart from that, jack shit.

"Can we go home now and show this to Daddy? Maybe he's better now. You said we could, if we saw anyone."

I was digging myself deeper.

"No, not yet. I have to make sure that this is the man who came to see Daddy. But not long now, not long."

I lay on the bed, pretending to read the fishing magazine.

She knew who they were. My heart was beating loud and slow.

I was trying to keep to my game plan of concentrating only on the matter at hand, but I couldn't. Why would Kev be killed by people who knew him? Had it been Luther and company?

It must have been. What did Kev know, or what was he involved in? Why would he tell me about his problem if he were corrupt? Was the DEA investigating PIRA and drug dealing?

Maybe Kev was, and the murders were carried out by PIRA or the drug dealers because of something he had done or was about to do? But why did they know him?

Conjecture would get me nowhere. It was just a waste of time and effort. Kelly was stretched out beside me, looking at the magazine. It was a strange feeling having her head on my chest. I moved my arm around her to look at my watch. She thought I was going to cuddle her.

It was nearly time for Pat to call. I got up and switched on the mobile phone, then stood by the window, pulling a gap in the curtain, looking at the highway through the rain, deciding on my next move. I tried to think of a good RV It wouldn't be secure to meet again at the shopping mall.

Right on time the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hello, mate." I could hear the traffic going past a phone booth.

"Things are happening," I said.

"I need an RV" "In two hours, is that OK?"

"Two hours. Union Station all right for you?"

"Er... Union yep, no problem." He sounded spaced out.

I'd traveled through it a few times and could remember the layout.

"Come in through the main entrance," I said.

"Go up to the top floor, to the coffee bar facing the stairs. Buy a cup of coffee, sit down, and wait. I'll pick you up there, OK?"

There was a long, worrying pause.

"Is that OK, Pat?"

"I'll be there. See ya." The line went dead.

Union Station is so grand and elegant that it should be in Paris, not here in the home of cinder block and dark wood veneer At most major railway stations in the world you expect to find the seedier side of life, but not at Union. The ticketing, check-in, and baggage-handling areas look like part of a modern airport. There's even a first-class lounge. You don't see the trains because they're behind screens, and in any case you'd be much too distracted by the shopping mall, the food court, the coffee shops, even a multiplex cinema. More important for me, however, I'd remembered it as a big, busy lo cation, and because of the Easter holiday I knew there'd be a big transient population of people from out of town who would know nothing of the events on Hunting Bear Path.

A cab got us to the station early. There was just under an hour to fill, so I made the most of it shopping for items I'd be needing for the reconnaissance of the PIRA office, besides the stuff I'd already bought at Wal-Mart. Now that Kelly had recognized the black guy, the only option was to get in there and have a look around.

I bought a Polaroid camera and six packs of film; a pair of cheap and nasty polyester coveralls, more rolls of gaffer's tape and Scotch tape; heavy-duty scissors that promised I could cut through a shiny new penny with them; a Leatherman, a tool that's a bit like a Swiss Army knife; running shoes; rubber gloves; batteries; Saran Wrap; a plastic bottle of orange juice with a large spout; a box of push pins; a dozen eggs; and a quartz kitchen clock, nine inches in diameter. Kelly looked at it all and raised an eyebrow, but didn't ask.

By 1:40 I had a couple of shopping bags full of gear, as well as the books and time-wasters I'd had to put in her basket to keep her involved.

I remembered the beautiful tiled floor in the entrance hall, but I'd forgotten the cathedral ceilings. In the middle was a rotunda with a newsstand and groups of tables outside.

Above it, reached by a flight of stairs, was a restaurant. It was absolutely perfect for what I needed.

We were greeted at the top by a waitress.

I smiled.

"Table for two, please."

I pointed to a table right at the back.

"Can we have that one?"

We sat down, and I put the bags under the table. I couldn't see the main entrance, but I'd be able to see Pat heading toward the coffee shop because that was farther into the main part of the station and up a level.

The waitress came to take our drink order. I asked for two Cokes and said, "I'm ready to order now, if that's all right?

We'll take a nine-inch pizza."

Kelly looked up.

"Can we have extra mushrooms?"

I nodded at the waitress and she left.

Kelly smiled.

"Mommy and me both like extra mushrooms. Daddy says we're like forest pixies!" She smiled again, wanting a reaction.

"That's nice," I said. This was a conversation that needed nipping in the bud.

Kelly got stuck into her Coke, enjoying being able to watch real people for a change.

Pat was early, wearing the same clothes as a VDM visual distinguishing mark. Either that or the fucker simply hadn't changed. As he walked past and below me, something about him didn't seem right. There was a very slight stagger in his stride, and I knew it hadn't come from drinking too much beer. I feared the worst.

I continued my checks, covering his back to protect my own.

I gave it about five minutes, got up, and said to Kelly, "I have to go to the men's room. I won't be long." On the way out I asked the waitress to keep an eye on Kelly and our bags.

Another set of doors took me into the main ticketing and train area. The place was heaving; half of the USA must have been on the move. Even the air-conditioning was finding it too much: the combination of heat and humidity from the people made it feel like a greenhouse. I joined the packed crowds slowly shuffling up to the top floor.

He was in line at the coffee shop, about three or four people ahead of him. Very hale and hearty, I went over and slapped him on the back.

"Pat! What are you doing here?"

Reciprocating my big smile, he said, "I'm here to meet somebody." His pupils were as big as saucers.

"Me, too. You got time for a Mickey D's?"

"Yeah, yeah, why not?"

We started to walk beyond the coffee shop, following exit signs through automatic doors, and took the escalator up to the multi story parking garage.

Pat was a step or two above. He looked down at me, puzzled.

"What the fuck's a Mickey D's?"

"McDonald's," I said, as if he should have known. But then he didn't have a seven-year-old on his case day and night.

"Come on, Pat, get with the program!"

He started to do a Michael Jackson moon dance

By now we were nearly at the bus station level. I said, "If there's a drama, I'm going to the bus station area, turning right and out an exit."

"Fine. No problem!" He sounded OK but looked like shit.

The cars were on the two levels above. We walked up the bare concrete stairs, stopped at the first level, and got into a position that looked back the way we had come.

I didn't have time to fuck around.

"Two things, mate. I've got a list here I didn't fancy reading to you over the phone." I passed it over.

"I need all that stuff. And the other thing what's the score on the money?"

He was already looking at the small notebook I'd handed him. Either he was amazed at the contents or he couldn't focus. Without looking up he said, "I got some money for you today. But fucking hell, most of it's going to be used up on this stuff. I'll be able to get you some more, probably to morrow or the day after. Fuck me." He shook his head.

"When do you want all this by?" He then started to giggle as if he'd just cracked a joke in his head and wasn't going to share it with me.

"Actually, tonight, mate. You think you can do it, or what?"

I moved my head to get eye-to-eye with him.

The giggle became a laugh until he saw me looking serious. He cleared his throat and tried to switch on.

"I'll do my best, mate. I'll see what I can get on this list."

"I'd really fucking appreciate it," I said.

"Don't let me down. Pat. I really need your help." I hoped the urgency was going to register with him. I was still checking down the stairs.

"Also at the back there" I opened the page for him to make sure he saw it "I've put a casual pickup I need that to happen at 2300 tonight."

Pat was looking at the RV notes. I bent my knees to lower myself and moved his face over so I could get eye-to-eye again.

"Eleven o'clock tonight, mate, eleven o'clock, OK?"

I knew Pat well enough to tell he knew it was serious. He knew he was fucked up and was trying hard to understand everything I said.

I was glad now that I'd put the details down on paper for him. He looked as if he needed all the help he could get.

"What do you drive?" I asked.

"A red Mustang." He pushed his face closer to mine.

"Redder than Satan's balls!" He enjoyed the joke so much he couldn't help laughing.

"Leave via H Street." I pointed away from the rear of the station.

"See you tonight then." He smiled, moving off. From behind I could see a slight veer to the left as he walked.

I waited and checked he wasn't being followed, then went on up toward the parking level, making it look as if I were off to my car. From there I took the elevator back down to the coffee shop.

I went back toward the restaurant, stood off, and watched.

Kelly was still struggling with the pizza.

"What took you so long?" she said through a mouthful of mushrooms.

"They ran out of toilet paper." I laughed as I rejoined her.

She thought about it a moment and did the same. As soon as we got back to the hotel I put the TV on for Kelly and dumped out the shopping bags on my bed. She asked me what I was doing.

"I'm just helping Pat. You can watch the TV if you want.

You hungry?"

"No." She was right; after a pizza the size of a tank mine, it was a stupid question.

I picked up the big red-and-white-framed quartz kitchen clock and sat in the chair by the window. I broke off the frame until I was left with just the hands and clock face with the quartz mechanics behind it. By bending it very gently, I now started to break off the plastic face. When there was just about an inch of jagged remains around the center of the hands, I finally snapped off the hour and second hands. Only the minute hand was left. I put in a new battery.

Kelly was watching.

"Now what are you doing. Nick?"

"It's a trick. Once I've finished I'll show you, OK?"

"OK." She turned back to the TV, but with one eye on me.

I took the egg carton over to the wastebasket and tipped out its contents. I ripped off the top and half of the bottom so that there were just six compartments left. With Scotch tape I fashioned a small sleeve running all the way up the side of the carton, just big enough to accommodate the minute hand. I called over to Kelly, who was humming the theme to a soap.

"Do you want to see what this does?"

She looked intrigued as I slotted the carton onto the minute hand.

The nightstand was about four inches below the level of the TV's controls. I positioned the clock on it so it was directly below the infrared sensor on the set and secured it in place with gaffer tape.

Kelly was taking even more interest.

"What are you doing?"

"See the remote? Use it to turn the sound up."

She did. "Now turn it down. OK." I bet you that in about fifteen minutes you can't turn the sound up." I joined her on the bed.

"Both of us must sit here and not move, OK?"

"OK." She thought I was going to do something to the remote and smiled as she hid it under the pillow.

It was quite nice really, watching TV during some downtime, apart from every minute hearing, "Is it fifteen minutes yet?"

"No, only seven." By now the egg carton, attached to the minute hand, was working its way up toward the base of the TV.

When the egg carton was upright and obscuring the sensor, I said, "Go on then, try to turn the sound up."

She did, and nothing happened.

"Maybe it's the battery?" I teased.

We put a fresh battery into the remote. Still nothing. She couldn't figure it out, and I wasn't going to explain my trick.

"Magic!" I grinned.

I extracted the rest of the gear, drank some of the orange juice and rinsed out the container, made sure that all the electrical equipment had fresh batteries, and prepared everything to be packed.

It was about 10:20, and Kelly was asleep. I'd have to wake her up and tell her I was going because I didn't want her to get up and start worrying. At times I thought she was just a pain in the neck, but I did want to protect her. She looked so innocent playing starfish again. What would happen to her after all this, I wondered--presuming she survived.

I tested everything again, unplugged the mobile and put it in my pocket, and finally checked my weapon and made sure I had some cash. I picked up a half-empty pack of cookies to eat on the way.

Close to her ear, I whispered, "Kelly!"

I got no response. I shook her a bit. She stirred and I said, "I've put the TV on low so you can watch it if you want--I've got to go out for a couple of minutes."

"Yeah."

I didn't know if she understood or not. I preferred telling her this when she was half-asleep.

"Don't put the lock on this time because I'll take the key. I don't want to wake you when I come in, OK?"

I left, and went down in the elevator and onto the road. The highway traffic rumbled above me. At last, no rain, just air that smelled damp.

I turned left and walked in the opposite direction from the usual, just for one last check. I munched on the cookies as I walked past the target. All the same lights were on; nothing had changed. I wondered if the homeless bloke was underneath, waiting with a chain saw for somebody else to piss on him. I quickened my pace to meet Pat on time. I got to the highway and turned right, following the road, with the roar of traffic above me.

The road swung right, and I started to leave the highway behind. Soon there was a vacant lot on both sides, and the sound of traffic receded. I could hear my footsteps again. To my right were more car pounds. How could Washington be in such a financial mess when the city must be making a fortune on towed vehicles? To my left there were the new, jerry built office-cum-workshops. I got to the first one, moved off the road into its shadow, and waited.

It was bizarre to be only a few hundred yards from the Pentagon and possibly right under the nose of the people who'd like to see me dead. It was also quite a thrill. It always had been. Pat had a term for it; he called it "the juice."

I heard an engine coming toward me. I looked around the corner of the building. Just one vehicle. It must be him. I pulled my pistol.

The red Mustang drew up. I was in a semi crouch fire position, aiming at the driver with my Sig until it stopped. It was Pat. I could see his Roman nose silhouetted in the ambient light from the airport.

Pistol still in hand, I walked over to the passenger door and opened it; the interior light didn't come on. I got in and closed the door gently, onto its first click only.

Pat had his hand on the hand brake and slowly released it to move off. From a distance it's very difficult to tell whether a car is stopping if you can't see brake lights. That was why Pat was using the hand brake with no interior light coming on and no noise of a car door shutting, the pickup would have been very hard to clock.

Checking the road behind us, I said, "Turn right at the next intersection."

There was no time to fuck around; he knew it and I knew it.

Pat said, "Everything's in the back, in that duffel." He'd come down from whatever high he'd been on and sounded quite embarrassed.

I leaned over and lifted out the laptop. I said, "Is the sound turned off?" When Windows 95 came up, I didn't want the Microsoft sound playing.

He made a face that let me know I was a dickhead for even asking. We both laughed; it broke the ice.

We came up to the concrete wall. As we passed the hotel I was careful not to turn my head. We turned right under the highway and pulled up at stop lights on the other side.

I said, "Go straight and turn right on Kent."

"No problem."

The area was urban and well lit. He kept checking in his rearview mirror to see if we were being followed. My eyes were fixed on the side mirror. I didn't turn and look now; neither of us wanted to appear aware.

There were a few cars behind us, but they had come from other directions. That wasn't to say they weren't following us.

I looked at Pat. His 9mm semi was snug under his right thigh, and in the foot well under his legs he had a 9mm MP5K, an excellent in-car weapon because of its compact size and rate of fire. He'd clipped on double thirty-round magazines.

"What the fuck did you bring that thing along for?"

"I didn't like the sound of your new best mate, Luther. I didn't want him and his buddies dragging me in for a little chat."

We approached another set of lights.

"Do a right to left switch here, mate. Let's see if we have any groupies."

There were one or two cars behind us. The shape of a vehicle's headlights, once it is up close, helps a lot to ID it. If the same shape is up your ass on three turns in the same direction, it's time to get out the worry beads.

Pat signaled and started to move to the right. All the other cars seemed to want straight ahead or to turn right with us;

nobody was in the left-turn lane. At the last moment Pat signaled left and moved over--nothing that was aggressive or would provoke a bout of road rage, just a change of mind.

We were all held up at the light. I looked at each car in turn.

Just couples or kids cruising--or so it appeared. I'd soon know if I saw them again.

We turned on the green, and nothing followed. It was now time to talk.

Pat started it off.

"Your instructions were shit. You said three buildings; there were four. It's a good thing I know what I'm doing." He was waiting for praise.

"The fact is, I couldn't remember how many. The taxi was driving too fast. I can't count anyway."

We were now just cruising. Pat said, "I've been thinking.

Do you want me to go in as your number two?"

That would be good. It would get the job done quicker and would mean better security and firepower if we were in trouble. But I decided against it; Pat was my only link with the outside world, and I didn't want to compromise that. I told him my reasons and he nodded his acceptance.

"Take us back to the Pentagon City Metro station, will you, mate?"

I started to prepare for the drop-off and got into acting mode again. He put his signals on, everything correct, nothing untoward, nice slow approach and into the curb outside the Metro. I got out, put my head back in through the open window.

"Thanks a lot, mate, see you later." I retrieved the black nylon bag from the backseat. My mind-set was that I'd been playing baseball with him all night and now I was going home; he'd just dropped me off after a drink. I closed the door and tapped the roof a couple of times, and off he drove. I suddenly felt very alone. Had I made the right decision about Pat not coming with me? I made distance and angles before doing a circuit back to the hotel, arriving at about 11:50.

I quickly sorted out and double-checked all the stuff that Pat had given me and packed what I needed into the bag. I emptied my pockets of change and anything else that might rattle or fall out. Then I cut off most of the top end of a trash bag, put in my passport and wallet, wrapped it into a small bundle, and put it into my coat pocket.

Once I'd done that, I jumped up and down one more time to check for noise, picking up the bag and shaking that as well.

"Guess what, Kelly? I'm going to go out again in a minute, but I'll be back very soon. Will you be OK?"

But she was out of it. I left the hotel and walked toward the target. The bag had two handles and a long shoulder strap. I walked toward the river with it slung over my shoulder, following the same route as the previous night. Nothing had changed except that the lights from the highway were a bit brighter tonight without the mist.

At the fenced gate I used the handles of the duffel to put it on my back like a rucksack and climbed over. I'd keep it on my back now; if I was confronted, I could run and still keep the kit, or, as a last resort, draw down on them with the Sig.

I got level with the target building, with the vacant lot and fence in between. There was no sound apart from the hum of the highway. I started to pick my way through the clutter. It was muddy not deep squelching mud, because the ground was quite hard, but I still needed to take my time to get through; I didn't want to slip and make noise, because my pal in the shrubbery might not be the only homeless person around here.

I got to the fence near the PIRA building. Using the bush as cover, I eased the bag off my shoulder and sat on it. The first leg was completed; it was time to stop, look, listen, and take everything in. I needed to be extra careful because I was on my own. Really this was a job for two people, one watching, one doing. I spent a few minutes more just tuning in. Visibility was a bit better tonight because of the stars.

Looking left, the parking lot was still empty; to the right, the pallets were still where I'd seen them.

From my coat pocket I pulled out the trash bag protecting my docs. Right at the base of a bush I dug a shallow hole in the mud with my hands, threw in the bundle, and covered it over. This was my emergency cache, my hidey-hole, as Kelly would say. If I got lifted, I would be sterile, and if I got away, there would always be the chance of coming back and retrieving it.

I wiped the mud off my hands onto a small tuft of grass and started to get myself ready for the job. I gently unzipped the duffel. I got out the pair of navy blue coveralls, probably just like the ones Kev's friends had worn.

The problem with climbing over a high fence with a forty-pound bag is that you can spend more time getting stuck and making noise than actually crossing it.

I pulled the draw string from the center of my coat and put it between my teeth. Moving as near to the steel stake support as I could without breaking cover, I then lifted the bag up to shoulder height. Using my shoulders to support its weight, I tied the handles as near to the top of the fence as I could with a quick-release knot, throwing the free end of the string over the top.

Checking that my weapon was secure, I reached up, put my fingers through the chain links, and started to climb. Once on the other side I again stopped, looked, and listened; only then did I climb back up and haul the bag over the fence. I climbed down once more and then got hold of the free end of the string and pulled. The bag came free from the fence, and I took its weight. Then, squatting, I watched and listened again.

Working alone on a job takes a lot of concentration because you can't look and work at the same time, yet both have to be done. So you do one or the other; you either get on with the job or you get on with looking. Try to do both and you'll fuck up.

I stood up, put the bag on my left shoulder, and gently pulled apart the Velcro of the coveralls so that, if necessary, I could get to my weapon. Taking my time, I moved to the left side of the building.

Before I did anything, I had to defeat the motion detector. I was to the left of it, with my back against the wall. Putting the bag in my left hand, I kept my eyes on the detector high above me and started slowly edging toward it. When I got more or less as far as I estimated I could without getting spotted, I bent down and placed the bag by my feet. Everything I did from now on would happen on the near side of the bag.

Security lights that respond to movement make life much harder for people like me, but only if they cover the whole of the building. I found it strange that there was only one detector, rather than two or three overlapping each other to eliminate dead spots. I was expecting, at any moment, to be nailed by one I hadn't noticed. But whoever had installed the security system had obviously worked on the premise that only the lower fire escape door had to be covered and not the approach routes to it.

It was nearly 1 a.m." which left me just over five hours before first light. Time was against me, but I wasn't going to rush. I went the long way around to collect one of the pallets.

I got both hands in between the slats of wood, heaved it up against my chest, and started to walk slowly. The ground still had a top layer of mud, and my shoes squelched as they made contact. I finally reached the wall, placed the pallet against the brickwork on my side of the bag, and went back for the second one.

I wedged the two pallets together, the bottom of the second jammed into the gap about three rungs down from the top of the first to make a ladder. I stopped, looked, and listened. The pallets had been heavy; I heard nothing apart from the sound of my lungs gagging for air through my dry throat.

I climbed up on the first pallet, and that was fine. I got up onto the second pallet and it, too, seemed stable enough. I started to climb. I'd moved just two rungs when the whole structure buckled and collapsed. I hit the ground like a bag of shit, and the two pallets slammed down onto each other with a resounding thud and clatter. Shit. Shit. Shit.

I was lying on my back, with one of the pallets across my legs. No one came running to investigate, no dogs started barking, no lights came on. Nothing but the noise of the traffic and me swallowing hard, trying to moisten my mouth.

Luckily everything had happened on my side of the bag. I lifted the pallet and crawled from under it, quietly cursing.

This was crap. But what else could I have done bought a ladder at the mall and carried it to the target? I moved to the corner of the building, got down on the tips of my toes and fingers, as if I were going to do a push-up, and stuck my head around toward Ball Street.

I was still annoyed with myself. I could spend all night improvising before I even got into a position to attack this motion detector. Maybe a ladder wasn't such a stupid idea; I should have gotten one and somehow tried to drop it off earlier, then pick it up enroute. But it was too late now.

I stood against the wall and reevaluated. I decided to "react as the situation dictated," which was the Firm's favorite get-out clause. It simply meant they didn't know what to do. A bit like me really.

Fuck it, I was going to get Kelly. All she'd have to do was lean against the pallets; she had to be there only for about fifteen minutes and I'd be done. After that she could stay with me or I could drop her back at the hotel. I'd cross that bridge when I came to it.

I picked up the bag, retraced the route to the high fence, and, staying on the target side, dumped the bag and coveralls.

Then I followed the fence along, looking for an opening to get to Ball Street. There wasn't time to do the job properly and go back all the way around. I finally found a service alley between two buildings that belonged in some film about the mafia in 1950s New York. It took me down to the road. I turned left and walked briskly to the hotel, no more than two minutes away. It was only then I realized that I didn't have the room key because I'd left it in the trash bag. I'd have to wake Kelly.

I knocked gently at first, then a bit harder. Just when I was starting to sweat, I heard "Hi, Nick." A moment or two later, the door opened.

I gave her a look of concern.

"How did you know it was me? You should have waited until I answered." Then I saw the chair and the drag marks on the carpet. I smiled and gave her a pat on the head.

"You looked through the peephole, didn't you, clever girl? Hey, because you're so clever, I've got a job for you. I really, really need your help. Would you like to help me?"

She looked sleepy.

"What do you want me to do?"

"I'll show you when we get there. Will you come with me?"

"I guess so."

I had a brainstorm.

"Do you want to do what your dad does? Because this is what Daddy does for the good guys.

You can tell him all about it soon."

Her face brightened. She was a happy bunny again.

She had to more or less run to keep up with me. We got to the alley and headed down toward the vacant lot. It was dark; she was less than eager. She started dragging her feet.

"Where are we going, Nick?"

"You want to play spies, don't you?" I said in an excited whisper.

"Imagine you are a Power Ranger and you're going on a secret mission."

We reached the empty lot and took the same route toward the chain-link fence. I held her hand, and she kept pace; I hoped she was getting into it.

We got to the bag. I picked up the coveralls and said, "I've got to put these on because they're special spy coveralls." Her face changed when she saw them. I suddenly realized she must have made the connection with the men who'd come to see Kev.

"Your Daddy wears them, too. You'd better be a spy as well; undo your coat." I turned it inside out and told her to put it back on. She liked that.

I picked up the bag and put it over my shoulder. I pointed.

"Now we'll walk really slowly over there."

When we reached the pallets, I put the bag down in the same place as before.

"OK.?" I asked, giving her a thumbs-up.

"OK. "Thumbs-up.

"See that thing up there? If that sees you, it'll go waawaa and there'll be lights and all sorts, and then we've lost. So you must never go to the other side of that bag, OK?" I pointed.

"OK." We gave each other another thumbs-up.

I repositioned the pallets and showed her what I wanted her to do. I could hear her making little grunts. She had started leaning as I'd shown her and probably thought she had to make noises, doing manual work and all.

I unzipped the bag, pulled out the clock and egg carton, and slipped the minute hand into its Scotch tape sleeve. I gently squeezed the tape onto it; it held nice and firm.

Kelly was still pushing, and I told her to rest. At least she was into it. She was watching me as I put the clock and egg carton on the ground and placed two elastic bands around my wrist.

"It's magic, watch me!"

She nodded, probably still trying to work out how I'd stopped the remote from operating the TV "You ready, Kelly?"

"Ready."

"Let's go!"

I climbed up slowly, trying hard to give the least possible weight and movement for Kelly to handle.

Once up, and about an arm's length from one side of the detector, I got my wrist resting on my chest so that I had a good firm support. I turned the egg carton so that its long edge was horizontal to the ground. Then gently, gently, I moved it about six inches below the motion detector, but not going any farther than its front. Once there, I rested my back against the wall and my wrists on my chest. I'd have to stay like that for about fifteen minutes.

I was waiting for the egg carton to move up against the face of the motion detector, the movement so imperceptible that the detector simply wouldn't register it otherwise, it would have triggered every time a spider walked across its face. I just hoped Kelly wouldn't give up. I'd find out soon.

Now and again I looked down and winked at her.

"Good, this, isn't it?" She looked back at me with a big smile or so I assumed, because all I could see was an inside-out coat, a hood, and a cloud of breath.

As we both waited for the minute hand to become vertical, all of a sudden there was a single waa! of a dying police siren.

Shit! Shit!

It was on the road on the other side of the building. It couldn't have anything to do with us. Otherwise why just one unit, and why use the siren anyway?

I couldn't move. If I did, it would trip the device and what for? I hadn't even seen a flashlight yet.

"Nick, Nick, did you hear that?"

"It's OK, Kelly. Just keep on pushing. It's OK, I can hear them."

What could I do? I told myself to stay calm and think.

A shout echoed around the parking lot. It had come from Ball Street, but a bit of a distance away. Other voices joined in. An argument had broken out. I couldn't make out what was being said, but there were car doors being slammed and words exchanged, then the sound of a car starting up. All I could think of was that someone had parked while I fetched Kelly. Possibly one of the couples I'd seen from Pat's car-they'd been busy getting the windows steamed up and had got caught by the police. It sounded plausible; I just made myself believe it.

The egg carton was close to vertical. I held my breath. This wasn't a science; we had a fifty-fifty chance of success, no more. If it spotted us, we'd have to get the fuck out of there PDQ and take our chances.

At last the box obscured the detector. No lights came on.

With my teeth, I pulled the two thin elastic bands off my wrist; I got the first one over the top of the egg carton and around the motion detector, then pulled the back of it tight, twisted it, and wound around another loop of the band. I put the other band around to make it even tighter. The motion detector was defeated.

I slipped the clock off the box and put it in one of the deep pockets at the front of my coveralls. I clambered down and rubbed Kelly's shoulders.

"Good work!"

She gave me a huge smile, still not too sure what it was all about--but hey, this was what Daddy did. The next thing to attack was the alarms, which would mean neutralizing the telephone lines. One of Pat's presents was a disruption device--a black box of computer technology about eight inches by six; coming out of it were six different-colored cables with crocodile grips at the end, a combination of which I'd attach to the telephone line. When the intruder alarm inside the building was tripped, a signal should, in theory, be sent to the monitor station or the police; however, it wouldn't get there because the disruption device would have engaged all the lines.

I got close to Kelly's ear and said, "You can help me even more now." I put the clock back into the bag, and walked past the fire exit doors to the bank of utility boxes.

From the bag I pulled out another item from Pat's shopping list, a six-foot square of thick blackout material, the sort photographers use.

I winked at Kelly.

"More magic," I said, "and I'll need you to tell me if it works." I was talking in a very low tone; at night, whispering can sometimes be heard as far away as normal speech. I came right up to her ear again and said, "We've got to be really quiet, OK? If you want to talk to me, just tap me on the shoulder, and then I'll look at you, and you can talk in my ear. Do you understand?"

She spoke into my ear.

"Yes."

"That's great, because that's what spies do." I put on my rubber gloves.

She stood there with an earnest expression on her face but looking quite stupid with her coat inside out and the hood up.

I said, "I also want you to tap me on the shoulder if you see any of the light coming out, OK?"

"Yeah."

"Even if there's only a little bit of light coming from me, tap me on the shoulder. OK?"

"Yeah."

I went over to the bank of utilities, put the material over my shoulders, turned on the Maglite with a red filter, and got to work. I'd used disruption devices many times. I worked with the flashlight in my mouth, and was soon dribbling. I attached the clips to the telephone line in a variety of combinations; as they bit in, a row of lights came on. The aim was to get all six red lights up; when that happened, the lines were engaged.

Ten minutes was all it took.

I rested the box in between the electric and gas meters. I only hoped there wasn't an audio alarm as well as a telephone warning. I doubted it somehow, seeing as the budget had stretched to only one external detector.

I took off the blanket, wrapped it in a bundle, and handed it to Kelly.

"You've got to hold that for me because I'm going to need it again in a minute. It's fun, this, isn't it?"

"Yes. But I'm cold."

"We'll be inside in a minute and it'll be all nice and warm. Don't you worry about that."

I stopped, looked, listened, then moved over to the door.

The next thing was gaining entry.

The Americans are into pin tumbler locks in a big way.

There are three main ways to defeat them. The first, and easiest, is just to get a duplicate key. The second is called hard keying. You get a titanium key the size of the lock, and the key has a bolt head that you whack with a hammer; the titanium key pushes in and gouges out all the soft steel. You then fit a special bar onto the bolt head pull down, and it rips out the whole of the cylinder. Hard keying was no good for me tonight because I wanted to go in and come out without any body knowing. I'd have to use the third option.

A lock-pick gun is a metal lock-picking device that looks like a small pistol. It has both straight and offset pick options to accommodate different locks and key ways The "trigger" of the gun is spring-loaded; you squeeze it rapidly, and this trigger movement causes the pick to snap upward within the lock and transfers the striking force to the pins that work the lock mechanism. When the pins are properly aligned, you use a separate tension wrench to turn the lock cylinder. Bad news for people with pin tumblers, but a lock-pick gun can open most of them in less than a minute.

With the blanket over me I turned on the Maglite and put it in my mouth. I inserted the tension wrench into the bottom of the keyway opposite the pins and applied light pressure counterclockwise, in the direction I expected the lock to turn.

I then inserted the pick that protruded from the front of me lock-pick gun. Once the gun and tension wrench were in place, I started squeezing the trigger rapidly. I gave it five shots but the lock didn't open, so I increased the tension adjustment and tried again. I could hear it go clink, clink, clink as I squeezed; again I turned the tension adjustment so that the needle would strike the pins with just enough force. One by one I heard the pins drop, and eventually the tumbler turned. I held the small tension wrench in the lock and pulled the door to take the pressure off the lock itself, because I didn't want to have too much torque on the wrench and bust it, leaving the telltale bit of metal stuck inside. I pulled the door and felt it give.

I opened it a fraction, half-expecting the sound of an alarm. Nothing. I grinned at Kelly, who was right up against the wall with me, very excited. I closed the door again to keep the light in.

"When we get in, you mustn't touch anything un less I tell you, OK?" She nodded.

There's a world outside that is full of mud and shit, and there's a world inside that is clean, and if you don't want to be compromised, you don't combine the two. I took off the coveralls, turned them inside out, and deposited them in the bag.

I then took off my shoes and stuck them into the bag. I put on a pair of running shoes, which meant that not only could I move quickly and silently inside but also I wouldn't be leaving a trail of mud everywhere.

I took off Kelly's coat, put it on the right way, and got her to take off her shoes and shove them in the bag.

I had one last check around the area to make sure I hadn't left

anything.

"We're going to go inside now, Kelly. This is going to be the first time a little girl has done spying like this ever ever ever. But you must do what I say, OK?"

She accepted the mission.

I picked up the bag, and we moved over to the left-hand side of the door.

"When I open this, just walk in a couple of steps and give me enough room to come in behind you, OK?"

"OK."

I didn't want to tell her what to do if anything went wrong, because I didn't want to get her frightened. I just wanted to make it sound as if everything I did was going to work.

"After three one, two, three." I opened the door halfway, and she went right in. I followed, closed the door, and put the lock back on. Done: we were inside.

We followed the corridor, looking now for the staircase to the second floor. I had the bag on my left shoulder. Through glass doors at the end of the corridor I could see the front of the building. It was a large, open-office area with everything I'd have expected to see: desks, filing cabinets, and rubber plants with name tags. To the left and right of us there were other offices and a copying room. The air-conditioning was still on.

I found the stairs behind unlocked swing doors on the left of the corridor. Gently so that it didn't squeak, I pulled one of them open and let Kelly through. There was no light in the stairwell. I switched on the Maglite and shined the beam on the stairs. We climbed slowly.

Quiet as we were, the stairwell was an echo chamber, and to Kelly the red light must have made everything look scary.

She said, "Nick, I don't like this!"

"Shhh! It's OK. Don't worry about it your dad and I used to do this all the time." I grabbed her hand, and we carried on.

We got to the door. It would open toward us because it was a fire exit. I put down the bag, put my lips up to Kelly's ear, and went, "Shhh," trying to make it all exciting.

I slowly eased the door open an inch and looked into the corridor. Same as downstairs, the lights were on and every thing seemed deserted. I listened, opened the door more to let Kelly through, and pointed where I wanted her to go and stand. She was a lot happier to be in the light.

I put the bag down next to her.

"Wait there a minute." I turned right, past the rest rooms and an area that housed the Coke, water, and coffee machines. Next was another photo copy room. I went to the fire-escape door, pulled it toward me, undid the latch, and checked that it would open. I already knew there was nothing on the other side to obstruct it because I'd just been fucking around below it. If there was a drama, we had an escape route.

I picked up the bag again, and we started to walk along the corridor toward the front of the building. We came to the same sort of glass doors as on the floor below, which opened up into the open area. I could see all the workstations, and around the edge there were other offices, all glass-fronted.

Obviously the managers liked to keep an eye on everyone.

The windows that fronted the office block were maybe fifty feet away. Light from the street and the corridor gave the whole area an eerie glow. To the right was another glass door that led into another corridor.

I knew what I was looking for, but I didn't know where I'd find it; all I knew was that it certainly wouldn't be in this part of the building.

I looked down and smiled at Kelly. She was as happy as a clam, just as her dad would have been. Keeping well away from the windows, we walked to the other side of the open area toward the glass door.

There was all the normal office stuff: a bulletin board with targets to be reached, pictures of the salesman of the year, and a thank-you card from somebody who'd just had a baby. Most desks had a small frame with pictures of the family, and everywhere I looked there were motivational posters, shit like: WINNERS NEVER QUIT, QUITTERS NEVER WIN, Or YOU

CANNOT DISCOVER NEW OCEANS UNTIL YOU HAVE THE

courage to lose sight of the shore. I had to stop and read them. The only one I'd seen before was of a big pen of sheep all closed up together, and it said, either lead, follow, or get out of the way. It was on the wall of the HQ of the SAS, and had been there for years. It seemed to me to be the only one you needed.

We went through the glass doors. The corridor was about ten feet wide, with plain white walls and not a poster or potted plant in sight--just a large fire extinguisher near the door. The sudden brightness of the lighting made me close my eyes until they adjusted. There were no more doors, but about thirty feet farther down was a T-intersection. I could see offices. We walked down to them; I put down the bag and motioned Kelly to stay with it.

"Remember, don't touch a thing."

The handle on the door of each office was a large metal knob with a pin-tumbler lock in the middle. I tested each one, pulling the handle toward me so as not to make any noise, then gently trying to turn it. There were seven offices in this corridor area; all of them were locked. That was nothing special in itself; it just meant that I'd have to use the lock-pick gun on each one in turn.

I went back to the bag. Kelly was standing beside it, desperate for a job. I said, "Kelly, you've really got to help me now. I want you to stand where I tell you, and you've got to tell me if anyone's coming, all right? I've got to do exactly what I did outside and I still need your help, OK?"

I was getting nod after nod. I kept going: "It's really important;

it's the most important job tonight. And we've both got to be really, really quiet, OK?"

Another nod. I moved her into position.

"I want you to stand on the corner here. Your job is also to look after that bag, because there's a lot of important stuff in it. If you see anything, just tap me on the shoulder like before."

She nodded, and I got out the lock-pick gun.

I got to the first door and started to squeeze. I opened it with the tension wrench and popped my head in, made sure I couldn't see any windows, and turned on the light. It was basically just one office, quite large, about twenty feet by fifteen, a couple of telephones, a picture of the worker's wife, a couple of filing cabinets, very basic furniture. Nothing resembling what I was looking for. I didn't check the filing cabinets--the first look is nothing more than a once-over;

you don't want to spend ages in one location only to find out that what you want is sitting on a desk in the room next door.

I didn't relock the door because I might have to go back in.

I looked at Kelly, still at her post; I stuck my thumb up and she grinned. She had a big job to do.

I went into office number two. Exactly the same, normal office shit: the year planner with different-colored bits of tape on it, signs stating that there was a strict no-smoking policy, and individual mugs of coffee. People's offices are a reflection of themselves; that's why on a job like this it's so important that nothing be left out of place. They would notice immediately.

I continued down the corridor and went to number three.

The same. Four: the same. I was starting to feel I was on a wild-goose chase.

Now for the other three offices; I crossed over the T, and as I passed Kelly she tried to look even more hard at work. I gave her another thumbs-up and went to number five.

It was a much bigger office. There were two couches facing each other with a coffee table in between and a neat arrangement of magazines; a wooden liquor cabinet, smart wooden filing cabinets, framed diplomas and all sorts of things on the wall. But nothing that looked like what I was looking for.

However, behind a large desk and leather swing chair, there was another door. I got the lock-pick gun working. Inside, I found filing cabinets, a fantastically expensive-looking leather-topped desk, and a swivel chair. On the desk was a PC. It wasn't connected to another computer, nor was it connected to a phone line. There wasn't even a telephone in the room.

This could be where the key point was.

It could be a fiber-optic cable that's controlling fixed Scud launching sites in northern Iraq, or it could be just one small component in the control room of a nuclear power station, but a key point has to be protected. If it's damaged, everything else is inoperable. It might not take a hundred pounds of explosives to destroy a target; if you can identify the key point, then sometimes one blow from a two-pound hammer will do the trick. I quickly checked the remaining two offices and confirmed that this was the one I should be concentrating on.

I went back to the bag and got out the Polaroid camera.

Kelly was still working on her gold star for best spy. I smiled:

"I think I've found it, Kelly!"

She smiled back. She didn't have a clue what I was talking about.

I took pictures of the outer office, of what the desktop looked like, a couple of panoramic shots of the area, the coffee table in detail, including the way the magazines were lying; the way that the stuff was set on the table, a picture of all the drawers. In all I took eight shots of the inside of the first office. I now knew exactly what it had looked like when I entered, so when we left I could make sure it looked exactly the same.

I laid the Polaroids in a row on the floor against the wall by the door, just inside the office. The trash from the prints went straight into my pockets.

Waiting for the photographs to develop, I put my head around the door to check on Kelly.

I picked up the bag and brought Kelly with me into the bigger office. I said, "I want you to tell me when those pictures are all developed. Make sure you don't touch a thing, but it's really important I know when those pictures are ready.

Your daddy used to do this job."

"Really?"

I closed the door behind us and jammed two wedges in place.

I remembered a job I'd once done with Kev. We'd been sent to plan the insertion of a visual and audio device into an arms dealer's house in Vancouver. This guy was selling nuclear detonators on the black market and we were assigned to recon the house, come back to the UK, and plan how to put the devices in so that a listening station set up in a nearby hotel room could find out what was happening.

Once we got into the house we took photographs of all the bits and pieces that were needed to plan and prepare our technical attack. After a while we were just bored; it wasn't that hard a job. We went into the bedroom, wedged the door, and started going through his wife's closets. She was very young, and Danish; looking at the two of them in their pictures in the living room, I'd been sure she loved her fifty-eight-year-old grossly overweight husband: there was no way it was his millions of dollars she was interested in. It was then that Kev opened a drawer and discovered untold amounts of kinky underwear.

The rest of the night was spent taking pictures of each other with her panties over our heads. In fact, more time and effort, planning and preparation went into getting her underwear out than into most of the rest of the job. It was while we were tittering in the darkroom back at the embassy that Kev had suddenly broken out in a cold sweat, convinced he'd left a pair of panties on the bed. If he had, there was nothing we could do about it--except imagine the overweight arms dealer finding a pair of frillies on his pillow and thinking all his Christmases had come at once.

I told Kelly to stay where she was, moved into the second office, and started taking more pictures. The cleaning service hadn't been in here. The other offices had empty wastebaskets, but these two offices hadn't been touched; they obviously did these themselves, but not every day. Even more indication that this was a secure area. As I moved around this small room I saw a shredder beside the filing cabinet, and that confirmed it. What was being kept secret, however, I didn't yet know. I put the pictures of the second room on the floor and went back into the main office.

Looking over Kelly's shoulder, I asked, "How's it going?"

"One's nearly ready, look!"

"Great. What Daddy does also is collect the other pictures."

I pointed to the ones next door on the carpet.

"But one at a time, and put them in a nice long line just here." I showed her that I wanted them against the wall.

"Can you manage that?"

"Yeah, sure." She walked off.

I went back next door and had a quick look at the PC. It was on but asleep. Kelly was walking in and out, carrying one picture at a time as if it were a bomb.

I pressed the Return key on the keyboard; I didn't want to touch the mouse because maybe it was positioned as a telltale. The screen came alive with Windows 95 and the Microsoft sound which pleased me, because I'd have been struggling with any other system.

I went back to Kelly, who was still staring at the pictures in the other office.

"Look," she said, "some more are ready!"

I nodded as I delved into the bag for the disk with the sniffer program. I was not as good with computers as the sixteen-year-olds who hack into the USAF computer defense system, but I knew how to use one of these. All you have to do is insert a floppy and off it goes, rooting into passwords, infiltrating programs. There is nothing that they can't get into.

I got up and turned toward the back office.

"Won't be long," I said.

"Come and tell me when they're ready to look at."

Eyes glued to the pictures, she just nodded. As I walked back in, I looked at the tracks our feet had brushed in the carpet. I'd have to smooth it out again once we had finished.

I put the disk in and started it. The wonderful thing about this particular program was that you had to answer just two questions. There was a wup! sound and the first one came up.

Do you want to proceed with XI 222? (Y)es or (N)o.

I pressed the Y key. Off it went again, whirring and clicking.

A progress bar came up as the machine clicked away. The next stage would take a few minutes.

I looked at the filing cabinet; it was going to be a piece of cake to get into. I went to the bag and retrieved what Pat would have called the "surreptitious entry kit" but which to me was just the pick and rakes wallet. It was a small, black leather case that contained a general assortment of tools designed for the efficient opening of most pin-tumbler, wafer, lever, and double-sided locks. Among the sixty pieces were full, half, and three-quarter rakes; diamond-tip picks and single, double, and half-double ball picks; light, medium, and heavyweight tension wrenches of various lengths and styles; hook-and saw-type broken-key extractors, probes, feeler pick, needle pick, and double-ball rake. Don't leave home without it.

The progress bar was showing it was just halfway through a process, so I started on the filing cabinets with a feeler pick.

It was a standard lock and opened easily. The contents meant nothing to me. They seemed to be spreadsheets and documents with itemized bills and invoices.

I looked at the screen. It was nearly at the end of the progress bar.

The guy who'd produced the sniffer program was a wild-partying, Ecstasy-taking eighteen-year-old whiz kid who was so into body piercing he had half of British Steel hanging out of his face. He had a shaved head--but that was only after we'd been taking the piss out of his close-cropped effort with a star dyed onto the top. The government had been spending hundreds of thousands of pounds trying to develop ways to get into computer programs only to discover, after he had got arrested on some unrelated charge, that this eighteen-year-old had come up with the greatest sniffer program ever written. His weekly unemployment suddenly started looking like a check from the National Lottery.

Wup! The progress bar was complete. Up came a little box that said: Password: SoOSshltime! Full marks to them for originality; normally it was something like a spouse's nickname, a family member's date of birth, or a license plate.

Then up came Do you wish to proceed? (Y)es or (N)o.

Fucking right I did. I hit the Y key and was into the machine.