Deep Black

18

The Metro rolled smoothly beneath Washington with me and twenty-odd other people in the carriage. It sounded like Beardilocks had come a long way since the concrete factory. He’d moved on, but had I? Zina and the other poor fuckers who’d been dropped by Mladic’s crew hadn’t, that was for sure.

I’d never admitted this to Ezra, but I still felt guilty when I thought about that day. What if I’d called in the fast jets earlier? Maybe Sarajevo had only made the decision not to attack a minute or two before I eventually pressed the button. Maybe if I hadn’t delayed the Paveway would have been dropped. Some of the Muslims would have got killed, but more would have survived. Zina might have been one of them.

Fuck it, as I kept telling Ezra, it was all history. And talking of history, Beardilocks might be spreading the good news for now, but he’d soon be dead as well. Look what happened to Gandhi. I hoped Jerry got the shot: it might be the last one anyone took of him.

I got off at Georgetown and took the escalator to the heart of Fortress America. There seemed to be barriers and policemen whichever way you turned. The Brit shop near the mall was normally five minutes’ walk, but today it took at least ten. I stocked up on Yorkshire tea, a couple of party-size jars of Branston, bread and the last four bricks of Cracker Barrel Cheddar, then headed straight back to the station.

I got out at Crystal City. The sinking feeling was back in the pit of my stomach. I knew what the rest of the day held, and the next. Long hours in front of the TV, cuddling a jar of Branston and a mug of monkey, working out when I was actually going to buy the bike and when to get on the thing and fuck off. George was going to let me use the apartment, but only until he had the wrong yoghurt for breakfast and decided to chuck me out. I needed to go soon.

My cell rang. Only three people knew the number, and I wasn’t expecting a call from any of them. I put down the carrier and flapped about in my jacket pocket to drag it out and check the screen: number withheld.

It might be George, changing his mind and telling me to get out of the building. Maybe Ezra wanted to change our next appointment. That would be an interesting call. No, he’d have been told by now that I’d binned George and, in turn, him. So maybe he was checking that I hadn’t swallowed the pharmacy and wasn’t about to jump off the Arlington Memorial Bridge. I just hoped it wasn’t Jerry.

‘Nick?’ It was a woman’s voice.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Renee. Jerry’s wife?’

This was much worse. ‘Hi – how have you been since an hour ago?’

She laughed slightly awkwardly, then went serious on me. ‘Jerry doesn’t know I’m calling. He’s painting the kitchen. Can we meet? I need to talk.’

‘What about?’

‘I’ll tell you when I see you. I’m going to Costco now, at Crystal City. You know where it is?’

I could virtually spit at it from my apartment. ‘No, but I’ll take the Metro.’

She gave me directions from the station but I wasn’t listening. The only thing I was thinking about was that I’d said yes without realizing it. ‘It’ll take me about forty minutes to get down there. So meet in an hour? I’ll wait outside for you. It’s really important to me.’

‘OK.’

‘Thank you, Nick. Thank you . . .’

I put the cell back in my pocket, and headed for the flat. What the fuck was that all about? I supposed I’d find out soon enough.

I got to Costco early and sat on a bench outside the entrance by the vending machines. The Pentagon was walking distance away, so the whole place was crawling with people in freshly starched and pressed camouflage BDUs, grocery basket in hand instead of an M16. It felt like the world’s biggest Naafi.

I hadn’t seen her arrive, but about twenty-five minutes later Renee was walking towards me. Chloë was slumped in a front-loading harness, surrounded by her mum’s hairy nylon coat.

I stood up. ‘Hello.’

‘No problems getting here?’

‘None at all.’

Chloë was sound asleep, her head to one side and dribbling. Weren’t babies’ heads supposed to be supported? Fuck, what was happening to me? I was turning into a German grandmother.

‘Nick, I haven’t got long. Do you mind if we shop and talk? I don’t want Jerry getting worried up because I’m late back.’

She collected a trolley and we went inside. Chloë’s head lolled from side to side but she didn’t wake. Renee didn’t know the layout of the aisles yet, but was soon throwing in nappies, baby lotion, bags of fruit. She didn’t really have a shopping plan. It was just kit-in-the-trolley stuff. I knew it well.

‘Jerry told me he asked you to go with him to Baghdad next week.’

‘He sounds pretty excited about this guy. But I can’t go.’

She threw in a six-pack of tuna. ‘He’s got it into his head that this could be the last chance he ever gets to take a great picture. It’s like he sees the Washington Post as the end of the line.’

We moved along the aisle.

‘Problem is, Nick, I want him to stay here and paint the apartment and do family stuff with me and Chloë, but at the same time I don’t want him to feel I’m standing in his way.’ She looked up and smiled about her predicament.

I was feeling uncomfortable. This should have been just between the two of them. It was their problem, not mine.

‘I know he appears the cool guy, but he’s incredibly vulnerable. This Nuhanovic thing has got him not seeing straight. I can’t stop myself thinking about Chloë being an orphan. I wake up at night and—’ The trolley was filling. She sniffed. She was on the verge of tears. ‘I love him for it, but—’ She stopped and stared straight ahead. ‘I had this thought, you see . . .’

‘What’s that?’

‘Go with him.’

I looked her in the eye, focusing beyond the tears. ‘I don’t know what he’s told you, but I’m not really in that line of work any more.’

She smiled knowingly as one dropped on to Chloë’s hat. ‘Oh, c’mon, Jerry’s told me a million times about the man who saved his life in Bosnia, and I’m pretty sure advertising isn’t the business he’s just got out of.’

‘I don’t do that other stuff any more.’

‘I’ll beg if you want me to . . .’

I lifted a hand.

She touched my arm. ‘I’m sorry, Nick. Unfair of me, I know. But I’m going out of my mind here. When you turned up today I thought, well, maybe . . .’

She stroked Chloë’s head as her eyes searched mine. ‘I believe him: this will be the last job. But I want him back safely.’