Firefight

TWENTY

Will awoke gradually. The first thing he noticed was the pain.

His left shoulder throbbed and pulsated; the rest of his body ached and his head had the woolly stuffiness that instantly told him he had been sedated. There was something on his face and as he forced his bleary eyes open he realised it was an oxygen mask. It was uncomfortable and water vapour from his breath had condensed on the inside. Fumbling to take it off, he noticed a dressing on his shoulder, fresh and white and taped down on to his skin with sticking plaster. Each of his hands had intravenous tubes injected into the skin and on either side of his bed there were clear bags of colourless liquid being drip-fed into his system.

The curtains in his room were closed and he noticed in his half-awake state that there was carpet on the floor. That meant it was a private room. A private hospital. But where? With difficulty he pushed himself up on to his elbows, but he soon collapsed heavily back down on to the bed and closed his eyes again.

'How are you feeling, Will?' a voice asked.

Will forced his eyes open again. He hadn't noticed anyone else in the room and he didn't like the surprise. The voice was familiar, but for the moment his mind was too muddled for him to be able to place it. 'Who's that?' he breathed with difficulty.

A pause, and then he became aware of a figure standing over his bedside. He opened his eyes and squinted them into focus. A face appeared — thick black hair and square glasses.

'Pankhurst,' Will said, weakly. 'Where the hell am I?

'Hospital,' Pankhurst stated, before repeating his question. 'How do you feel?'

'Like shit.'

'Then you feel better than you look. It's been touch and go for you. Priestley's house looked like a bloodbath, Will, and our guys seemed to think that a lot of the blood was yours.'

'Ahmed hit me.'

'Obviously. But you hit him better. Assuming, that is, that the chap with half a face was indeed Faisal Ahmed.'

'Yeah,' Will replied. 'That was him.' He groaned as a wave of pain passed through his wound.

'Then congratulations,' Pankhurst replied, blandly. 'You got what you wanted. Does that make you feel a bit better?'

For some reason it wasn't a question Will felt inclined to answer. His face screwed up again as another wave of pain hit him.

'You have a self-administered morphine drip attached to you,' Pankhurst pointed out. He fumbled by Will's bedside and showed him the handheld pump. 'I wouldn't recommend using it, though.' He placed the pump just out of Will's reach.

Will looked up at the DG's blurry face. 'Why the hell not?' he asked, suddenly desperate for the morphine now he knew it was there.

Pankhurst took a couple of steps backwards.

'Because you need to get out of here as quickly as possible. We managed to scrape you up from Priestley's house without the CIA knowing where we were taking you, but we're not going to be able to keep them in the dark for long. They'll track you down any moment and I can promise you that they're going to want some answers.'

'About what?'Will asked. His throat was desperately dry and his mouth had an unpleasant taste in it.

'About Priestley, Will,' Pankhurst replied, like a patient teacher explaining something to a child. 'About how he died.'

'Ahmed shot him,' Will said.

'We know that, Will. And you shot Ahmed. But things don't stack up at the scene. For example, why did Ahmed have two guns — one in his hand and one on the floor?'

'I—' Will hesitated as he desperately tried to kick his slow-moving brain into gear.

But Pankhurst interrupted him. 'Be quiet, Will, and listen to me. You've got what you wanted. You've played it out as far as it can go. But the game stops here. I don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to know that there's more to Priestley's death than meets the eye. Nor do the Americans. They've just lost one of their top men and they're going to want to get to the bottom of it. That means coming after you. I can help you, Will, but not until you tell me what the hell this is all about.'

Will breathed in sharply through his teeth. The pain in his shoulder was agonising, but he tried to put it from his mind. Pankhurst was right. If the Americans suspected something, they'd be coming after him. He didn't know if he could trust the DG of MI5, but right now he was the lesser of two evils.

'Have you ever heard of Operation Firefight?' he asked.

Pankhurst stared at him blankly.

'Then you'd better listen carefully.'

And then he told him.

Pankhurst's face was expressionless as the extent of Priestley's deceit unfolded. He said nothing, simply letting Will explain, in detail, what he knew. When he had finished, Pankhurst remained silent for a while. He stepped over to the window of the room, pulled back the curtain an inch or two and glanced outside.

When he turned around again he had the air of a man who had made a decision.

'A lot of things suddenly make more sense than they did ten minutes ago,' he said, quietly.

'I'm glad you think so,' Will commented.

'Trouble is, with Faisal dead, there's no way you can prove what you just told me.'

'For fuck's sake,' Will whispered. 'Why would I make it up?'

'Oh, don't worry, Will. I believe you — for what it's worth.

But you've got to see that this is too politically sensitive to go any further up the chain. You understand that, don't you?'

Will said nothing.

'Everyone's going to deny it, Will. Everyone's going to pretend it never happened. You're going to be the wild card, though. You're going to be the one they'll want to silence. And they're going to come to me, Will, sooner than you think — put pressure on me to hand you over. If they do that, I'm not going to be able to say no. Not if you're still around. You need to get out of here. You need to disappear. And soon.'

There was a silence as Pankhurst's words sunk in.

'How long have I been out?'

'Forty-eight hours.'

'And where are we?'

'Just off Great Portland Street. We kept you out of the public hospitals as a safety measure. I have to go now, Will. They can't know you've tipped me off. I'll keep them off your tracks for as long as I can, but they won't be relying on me in order to learn your location.' He approached the bed again and looked down at Will, whose eyesight was clearing now. The DG's face appeared sharper. 'You've done a good job, Will, but now you're on your own. If the Americans think I'm involved in what went on there it could have repercussions that nobody wants, so I can't have any more face-to-face contact with you. I hope you understand. But if you need anything — any help from Five — get in touch discreetly and we'll see what we can do.'

Will nodded his head, weakly. 'Thank you, sir.'

'Thank you,Will,' the DG said quietly. Will watched as he turned and swiftly left the room.

Will lay in silence for a few minutes, trying to make sense of what Pankhurst had just said. He knew nobody could nail Priestley's death on him, but Pankhurst was right — the Americans would put two and two together about him killing Priestley and they'd want some answers. Answers he didn't want to give. He pushed himself on to his elbows once more, this time managing to stay up, even though it felt as though it took up all his energy. Slowly he heaved his legs over the side of the bed, then sat still for a moment while he allowed a moment of nausea to pass.

The intravenous needles were taped on to his skin. He fumbled at the sticking plaster and managed to pull it off before pulling out the needles as slowly as his shaking hands could manage. A small amount of blood seeped from the punctures in his flesh, but he barely noticed it against the altogether more overwhelming pain of the bullet wound. Will pushed himself up on to his feet and took a couple of shaky steps before being forced to stop and hold on tight to the foot of the bed, his legs like jelly.

As he stood there, the door opened and a nurse walked in. She was young, with pretty blonde hair and grey-blue eyes that looked aghast at Will when she saw him out of bed. 'What are you doing?' she gasped, stepping forward and putting her small hands against Will's naked arms. They felt warm on his skin. 'You have to get back into bed,' she urged him. 'You're not well enough to be up and about.'

Will gritted his teeth against the pain, then brushed her aside. 'I'm discharging myself,' he growled. Looking around, he saw some clothes draped over a chair. He staggered towards it and started to dress, wincing painfully as he pulled a shirt over his wound.

'But the doctors—'

'Fuck the doctors,' Will growled, impatiently, before immediately regretting it. The poor girl was only doing her job. He turned round to look at her and saw an expression of thin-lipped disapproval on her attractive face.

'I'm going to find one,' she stated, sternly. 'You need a clean dressing. Now stay there.' She spun on her heel and left the room.

Will continued to dress, the adrenaline surge created by the sudden urgency doing a great deal to clear his head.

Once he was dressed, he looked around. By his bedside there was a clear plastic bag with his personal belongings — a wallet, a watch and Faisal Ahmed's mobile phone. It was the sight of the phone that brought everything flooding back to him. Ahmed's final minutes. His plea to Will to take care of his sister. His last, reckless moment of madness. Will had expected to feel elated that Ahmed was dead, but he didn't. He didn't really feel anything. Just a pain in the shoulder and an urgent need to get the hell out of there before anyone else caught up with him.

He opened the door and looked both ways down the corridor. There was a glass-fronted nurse's station opposite, but it was empty, and about halfway down the corridor was a trolley full of clean linen. To Will's relief there were no people. He didn't know which way was the exit, so at random he turned right into the corridor and followed his nose. He hadn't got far, however, when he heard voices approaching, so he opened the nearest door and hid.

The room in which he found himself was a medical store cupboard, neatly packed with hundreds of small boxes and bottles of medicine. It had a clean, antiseptic smell — the smell of fresh bandages — and Will thanked his good luck. He found a stash of sterilised swabs and antiseptic lotion; then he scanned through the drugs until he located the one thing he was sure he was going to need. Orally administered morphine would make it possible to cope with the pain when he was out of there. Finally, he found a set of freshly laundered doctor's overalls. Putting them on was painful and difficult, but they meant that he would have a better chance of walking along the hospital's corridors unchallenged.

He remained in the store cupboard for several minutes before quietly pushing the door open a few inches. He listened carefully. Nothing, so he slipped out.

Minutes later he was walking past the reception. It took every ounce of energy he had to walk normally, but it paid off. Ignoring the excruciating pain in his shoulder, he walked out into the street.

Nobody even raised an eyebrow.

Zack Levinson looked around his new London office — bland, featureless shit hole that it was — with bleary eyes.

Levinson was tired. Damned tired. He'd caught the redeye from Washington just the night before and the DCIA was already on his case. Donald Priestley's body had barely been cold when Levinson had been drafted in to replace him and for a few blissful hours he thought he was on to a soft option — an extended vacation in London. He'd soon been disabused of that stupid idea.

The DCIA was in a panic — that much was clear. Levinson didn't know why he wanted former SAS soldier Will Jackson, but he really wanted him, and the full force of the CIA's London resources were given over to finding the guy.

Levinson's mobile rang and he answered it immediately. 'Give me good news,' he said.

'We think we've found him.'

'Alle-fuckin'-luia. Where?'

'Central London. Private hospital. We're going in now.'

Levinson breathed a sigh of relief. 'OK,' he said. 'Go get him and bring him straight to me.'

He hung up and leaned back in his chair. Zack Levinson's day had just taken a turn for the better.

The moment he walked out of the hospital, Will hailed a taxi. He slumped heavily into the back seat. 'Holiday Inn,' he told the driver. 'Nearest one.'

'You all right, mate?' the driver asked, genuinely worried.

'Fine,' Will breathed. 'Just drive.'

The taxi slid away.

Half an hour later he was in a reassuringly bland room of the hotel, having checked in under an assumed name. He sat on the side of the bed, swallowed a couple of morphine tablets, and then set about attending to his wound. He winced as the dressing peeled away from the skin, the flimsy gauze sticking slightly to the still wet blood around the stitched-up entry point. He staggered to the bathroom, splashed cold water over the sticky wound, then dabbed it dry with a clean, white hotel towel which immediately became stained with patches of scarlet. Back in the bedroom he unwrapped the packaging of the fresh dressing with shaking fingers, pressed it to the wound and stuck it to his skin with sticking plaster. It looked a lot less professional than the previous job, but at least it was clean.

Minutes later, to his overwhelming relief, the morphine started to kick in. Will stood up and looked at himself in a mirror. Jesus, he thought. You look like death warmed up. His skin was pallid, his eyes bloodshot and tired. He wished, more than anything, that he could just lie down and sleep — for days, if necessary. But that wasn't going to be possible. His mind was suddenly ablaze with plans, with things he had to do. Pankhurst's warning had been stark, and for the first time ever Will felt an absolute confidence that the DG of Five was on his side. And Pankhurst was right. Will might have done enough to stop the law coming after him, but the CIA would be slightly more tenacious, especially if they suspected that he knew anything about Operation Firefight.

He had to make arrangements. Set things in motion. He cursed the debilitating wound in his shoulder, but he couldn't let it get in his way. Will could only stay anonymous for so long; the Americans would catch up with him eventually. Unless…

Unless… He sat again on the side of his bed, a slideshow of images flickering through his brain. He saw Latifa Ahmed, brutalised and only days from death in the hut in Afghanistan. He saw the bodies of his fellow SAS men, dead and cold. He saw the flat, emotionless eyes of Faisal Ahmed as they stood together by Priestley's bleeding corpse. And he saw his family's grave, silent and still.

So much violence.

So much death.

And it seemed to Will Jackson as he sat in that bland hotel room that there was only one way to put an end to it. He looked out of the window as a strategy began to form in his head.

By his side was the clear bag of his personal possessions he had taken from the hospital. He opened it up and pulled out the phone he had removed from Ahmed's body. There were still bloodstains on it, though who the blood belonged to he couldn't tell. He flicked through the memory until he found what he was looking for.

Then, with a deep breath, he shuffled up the bed towards the hotel phone. First he called directory enquiries; then, when he had the number he needed, he dialled it.

The phone rang twice before it was answered. 'Good morning, Thames House.'

'Put me through to the Director General,' he said. 'Tell him it's Will Jackson on the line.'

Lowther Pankhurst put the phone down, then pressed his fingertips together and closed his eyes. Jackson was asking a lot. An awful lot. It could cost Pankhurst his job if it ever came out.

But by God, if anyone had earned a break it was Jackson. He thought back to the interrogation Latifa Ahmed had undergone. Nasty. He and Jackson might have had their differences, but the guy didn't deserve anything like that. In an official capacity, Pankhurst had to keep his nose clean; as a man, he owed Will Jackson a helping hand.

He buzzed through to his secretary. 'Get Ashley Jones up here, would you?' he requested.

Minutes later, Jones was being ushered into the DG's office. He was a good man. Unassuming, with his mousy brown hair and short stature, but reliable. Discreet. He stood respectfully on the other side of the desk and for a moment Pankhurst couldn't help noticing the difference in attitude between Jones and Jackson. A rueful smile flickered over his face, but he quickly checked it.

'What I'm about to tell you goes no further than the two of us,' he said.

'No, sir.'

'I need you to arrange two passports, then deliver them to a contact in forty-eight hours. 11.30 a.m., Friday. St Pancras Station.'

'The contact's name, sir?'

'You don't need to know that. He'll find you.'

Jones nodded, without asking any further questions.

'You have a pen and paper?' Pankhurst continued. 'Good. Take this down. These are the details you'll need…'

It was a busy forty-eight hours, but slow, and it passed in a haze of morphine. Will travelled twice out of London — both of them difficult, traumatic trips, but necessary. When he wasn't travelling, he stayed in his hotel room — out of sight, recuperating as best he could, and hoping that Five would come through for him.

As he lay alone in the room, he had time to reflect. He didn't need any more regrets in his life, that was for sure. Killing people had been his job for a long time, after all. But while he was unable to mourn the passing of Donald Priestley, in his moments of honesty he had started to feel a grudging respect for the man who had killed his wife, his daughter and his military colleagues.

Maybe that was why he was doing what he was doing.

Friday morning arrived and Will was up at eight o'clock. It was a bright, clear day, not a cloud in the sky. The wound was still painful, but bearable now and he felt he could face the day without any morphine, avoiding the lethargy that it brought on. He still cleaned the wound well, however, and applied a new dressing before putting on the same clothes he had been wearing for the past few days, which were now beginning to smell.

He looked at his watch. Ten to nine. The meet was at 11.30. He'd stay in the room till eleven before making his move. He lay down on the bed and switched the television on in the hope that it would distract him. It didn't.

There was a knock at the door. Will cursed. He'd put the do not disturb sign on the handle when he first arrived, but the cleaners seemed to ignore it. 'No thanks!' he shouted grumpily.

A pause, then another knock. Firmer this time. 'Will Jackson?' an American voice called.

Will's heart stopped. His fingers instinctively felt for a gun, but he didn't have one. He glanced towards the window, but the room was five flights up. There was only one way out and that was through the door. He pulled himself to his feet. 'Who is it?' he called, warily.

Another knock. Three solid, determined raps. Then the voice again. 'Open the door, Jackson. We don't want to break it down.'

His eyes flickered around the room. There was almost nothing he could use as a weapon. The lamps were fastened to the surfaces and there was nothing else of any weight that would serve as a bludgeon. But on the floor there was a dressing gown. Will picked it up and pulled the cord from out of the loops, then pulled it tight from each end. It was strong enough, should it come to that. Will held it firmly in his right hand, then gingerly opened the door, keeping the dressing-gown cord out of sight.

There were two men there, about Will's age, maybe a little younger. They were dressed in casual clothes — jeans, trainers and warm padded overcoats. One of them had his hands in his pockets, and Will's practised eye immediately noticed that there was more of a bulge in one of them than there should have been. He was being held at gunpoint.

There were no introductions, no pleasantries. 'We'd like you to come with us,' the man with the gun said, almost politely.

Will sniffed. 'How did you find me?' he asked.

The man inclined his head slightly, but didn't answer. 'There's two ways to do this,' he said. 'Our way or the other way. Our way is easier and will hurt less.'

'I bet it will,' Will murmured. 'I need to get my things together.'

The American nodded, then they both followed him into the room. 'Drop the cord,' the man said as soon as he saw it in Will's hand and Will had no option but to do as he said. When he was ready, he turned back to the Americans.

'This is what we're going to do,' he was told. 'We walk on either side of you. I don't need to tell you what will happen if you do anything that makes us even slightly nervous. Don't try and check out — your room bill has already been paid. There's a red Laguna waiting outside.

You get straight in it, using the back door on the sidewalk side. We've got men in the lobby and men outside. We know who you are and we're aware of your training. I hope you'll believe us when we say that we've got every exit covered.'

'Yeah,' Will said flatly. 'I believe you.' Inside he was cursing.

How the hell had they caught up with him? Nobody knew he was here. Nobody. If he missed his meet, everything would go tits up. But these guys were clearly CIA, they weren't going to let him get away and he was in no fit state for heroics.

'Good. Let's go.'

It seemed to take forever as they walked silently down the deserted hotel corridor to the lift and no one said a word as they descended to the ground floor. Once they were in the lobby, Will couldn't help his eyes glancing around to see if he could spot the plain-clothes agents. He couldn't. They were good.

His mind turned somersaults, desperately trying to think of a way out of this. The clock was ticking and he couldn't risk being late, but the CIA guys flanked him tightly and there was no getting away. As soon as they were all in the Laguna, the central-locking system shut down and the car slipped into the traffic.

'Where are we going?'Will asked.

No answer.

They headed up towards the West End.

It took them ten minutes to reach their destination — plush, gentrified Brook Street in Mayfair. They stopped and Will was hustled out of the car. The building to which he was led looked just the same as all the other houses, giving no indication as to what went on there. Will did notice, however, two guys hanging around in plain clothes, one a few metres from the door, the other on the opposite side of the road. No doubt there would be others. They approached the door and one of the men pressed a buzzer by a small entry camera; a few moments later they were buzzed in.

The inside of the building was a lot less gentrified than the outside. A bland, empty corridor gave on to a number of closed doors and there was the antiseptic smell of whatever bleach had been used to clean the shiny, vinyl floor. 'Care to tell me who I'm meeting with?'Will asked as they crossed the threshold.

Neither man spoke, but one of them knocked on the nearest door. It was swiftly opened and Will's two guards stepped aside to let him in.

The man waiting for him was a good deal older than Will — mid-sixties, perhaps. He had a thick head of greying hair and a ruddy complexion. There was a broad, friendly smile on his face. 'Good morning,' he greeted Will as the door was closed behind them, leaving the two of them alone in the room.

Will nodded. 'Who are you?'

'Zack Levinson.' The man held out his hand. 'Don Priestley's successor. I hope our boys weren't too rough with you. It's the way they're trained, but I guess you know all about that.'

Will felt his eyes narrowing and cautiously shook Levinson's hand. 'Take a seat, please,' the American smiled at him.

He sat in the armchair that Levinson indicated.

'Damn shame about Priestley,' the American said. 'He was a good guy. I came up through the ranks with him. Damn good guy. 'Will noticed that Levinson stared straight at him as he spoke, as if gauging his minutest reaction.

'I didn't know him that well,' he replied.

'No,' Levinson muttered. 'No, of course. Look, I'm sorry about the two heavies bringing you in like that. Langley are pretty keen for me to speak to you, find out exactly what happened. Five are being a bit shifty about the whole thing. Not that I blame them — always a bit of an embarrassment to have a foreign agent killed on your own turf.'

'Faisal Ahmed was CIA trained,' Will reminded him.

Levinson held up his hands. 'Sure,' he said, mollifyingly. 'Sure. Don't get me wrong, Will. We're grateful to you for bringing Ahmed down. When a guy like that goes haywire there's no telling how it'll end. But it's always difficult to lose one of your own.'

You don't have to tell me that, Will thought.

'There was just one thing, Will, that I wanted to ask you. Our sources say that there were two guns at the scene — one that killed Priestley, the other that shot you. 'Levinson smiled, blandly. 'I'm sure there's an obvious explanation for that — why Ahmed felt the need to put one of his guns down, I mean.' His eyes remained locked on Will's.

Inside, Will's stomach was doing somersaults, but he did his best to maintain a calm exterior. 'I disarmed him and tried to take him alive,' he said. 'But he pulled another pistol on me.'

'I see,' he replied. His smile grew a little broader. 'Forgive me,' he said, 'but our reports from Don Priestley suggest that your intention was always to shoot to kill.'

'I don't kill people when I don't have to,' Will replied, quietly.

'No,' Levinson shook his head. 'No, of course not. What I'm wondering, Will, is if you can throw any light on why Ahmed targeted Priestley.'

'I'm afraid we didn't really get a chance to chat, Zack. Awkward social situation and all that.'

Levinson nodded his head, slowly. He stood up and walked to the window. 'Let me level with you, Will. We're worried about Ahmed's sister. From what we've heard she was roughed up pretty bad by the Taliban. The American government would like to offer her sanctuary — a place to live, a small pension. My superiors feel it's the least we can do.' He turned to look at Will again. 'But we've no idea where she is. Tell me, Will, do you think it's likely that she might get in contact with you?'

'Not really.'

'We think otherwise, Will. You've done a lot for the woman. Saved her life on more than one occasion. As far as we can tell, she doesn't know anyone else in the country. If I were a betting man, Will, I'd put a few dollars on you hearing from her sometime pretty soon.'

'I killed her brother,' Will said, flatly.

'She doesn't know that,' the CIA man retorted. 'She doesn't even know he's dead. This has all been kept on the q.t.'

Will shrugged.

'So if she gets in contact with you, Will, you'll let us know. Bring her to us. It'll be in her own best interest.'

'Sure,' Will replied. 'Anything else?'

Levinson shook his head. 'No. Not for now. You're free to go.'

Will stood up.

'Oh, and Will?'

'Yeah?'

'Thank you. You did a brave thing going after Faisal Ahmed. The world's a far better place without him.'

Will nodded curtly and left the room.

Zack Levinson watched Jackson leave. The moment the door was shut he picked up the phone and dialled through to Langley. 'It's Zack Levinson in London,' he told the switchboard. 'The DCIA's expecting my call.'

'Hold please,' a polite American voice told him.

Bradley Heller came on to the line immediately. 'You get him?'

'We got him.'

'And?'

'He's a pretty cold fish.'

'Did you get the impression he knew why Ahmed was after Priestley?'

'I asked him outright. Says he has no idea. Of course, it would help, sir, if I knew what was going on.'

'That's a headache above your pay grade, Zack,' the DCIA replied, evasively. 'Is Jackson being trailed?'

Levinson's eyes flickered through the window. 'Yeah, he's being trailed.'

'Good. Give him forty-eight hours. If he makes contact with the woman, bring them both in. If not, apprehend him and we'll deal with her later. Then I want Jackson on the first US military transport out of the country.'

'Am I allowed to know where to, sir?'

A pause. 'You have your instructions, Zack. This is a big gig for you. Don't let me down.'

Levinson's jaw clenched momentarily. 'I won't let you down, sir. You have my word.'

Alarm bells had started to sound in Will's head the moment Zack Levinson had started to question him. They knew Priestley's killing didn't stack up. They couldn't prove anything, but they knew. And what was that bullshit about offering Latifa Ahmed sanctuary? Days ago they had been waterboarding her, now they wanted to set her up in a cosy little condo with an income for life. He didn't think so. Zack Levinson had been perfectly transparent: Will knew that he and Latifa were in danger. Immediate danger.

He stepped out into the street. The guys he had clocked on each side of the road were still standing around nonchalantly, but as he continued walking he kept one eye on the side mirrors of the cars parked at the edge of the road. Sure enough there they were, following him at a distance. Two trails, and they were just the ones he could see. No doubt there would be more. As casually as possible he looked over his shoulder. A black cab was edging slowly up the street, its FOR HIRE light extinguished. He looked ahead again — suddenly everyone he saw was a potential trail. Guys on bikes, mums with prams. He knew he was being followed and any of them could be involved.

He had to lose his trail. He had to lose them quickly.

Will looked at his watch: 10 .45. He had three quarters of an hour and he couldn't afford to be late. It took a supreme effort for him not to keep looking around — if he alerted them to the fact he knew they were there, it would make losing them all the more difficult. So he slowed his pace and headed to the centre of town.

It took him ten minutes to reach Selfridges. He strode in confidently, fully aware of the fact that while he was in there all the main exits were likely to be watched. He headed across the ground floor, breathing in the heady smell of the perfume department, until he reached a line of elevators. He pressed the up button, then waited. It took a minute or so for the lift to come and in that time maybe seven or eight other customers congregated around him. The lift doors hissed open and they all politely entered. Just as the doors were starting to close, however, Will twisted his body sideways on and slipped out. To his relief, no one was quick enough to follow him. He rushed to the escalator and made his way up to menswear.

Once there, he found himself a large heavy overcoat and a brightly coloured woollen hat. He took them into a changing cubicle and, having checked that there was no CCTV, he ripped the security tabs off the items, then put on the overcoat and shoved the hat in his pocket. He walked brashly out, knowing that confidence alone was likely to avoid any harassed shop assistants from stopping him — they were too busy with the swarms of last-minute Christmas shoppers in any case.

A change of clothes, he thought to himself as he left the department store by a different exit, won't be enough to fool the best surveillance teams, but if he threw every trick he knew at them, then he had a chance. And Will had plenty more tricks up his sleeve.

His next destination was Hamleys on Regent Street. As Will had calculated, it was full of parents and their excited children. Will pushed his way in and negotiated his way through the crowds until he reached the far side of the ground floor. It took him a short while to find what he was looking for — a small, red fire alarm on the wall. He shuffled up against it, his back to the wall, then jabbed it sharply with an elbow. The glass shattered and immediately a high-pitched wail filled the air.

For a brief moment everyone stopped. And then, as one, the crowd dissolved into a state of blind panic. Everyone headed for the exit doors, which became blocked with a scrambling sea of people.

Will joined the throng. As he did so, he took the woollen hat from his pocket and put it firmly on, then bowed his head towards the floor. If he kept in the middle of the crowd, he would be unrecognisable.

It took several minutes to leave the shop, but that suited Will just fine. Once he was out in the cold air, the pavement was still crowded. He headed south down Regent Street towards Piccadilly Circus, quickly ducking down into the underground station.

The Tube concourse was circular, exits heading off at regular intervals, and Will decided to use this to his advantage. If anyone was still following him, they would expect him to get on a train to try and shake them off; he was going to do something different. If he walked quickly enough and put sufficient distance between himself and any trails, the circular concourse would mean that he could get out of their line of sight and take one of the exits before they noticed he had gone.

Like everywhere else, the station was crowded and Will thanked his luck as he hurried down the south-eastern exit and into Lower Regent Street. As soon as he was above ground again, he hailed a black cab. 'St Pancras!' he hollered at the driver as he climbed in and moments later he was heading north again. From the windows of the cab he kept track of any car coming up behind them. By the time they were in Cambridge Circus, Will was convinced that he had lost his trail.

He looked at his watch: 11.20. Ten minutes to go. He was going to make it.

Will asked the cab driver to stop just short of the station. He paid him, then stood on the pavement for a couple of minutes looking out for any other possible surveillance. There was none, so he headed up into the station.

It was only a couple of days until Christmas, but the station was still busy. That suited Will as he walked speedily but unobtrusively through St Pancras. Up ahead he saw what he was looking for: the huge black statue of a couple embracing. The most romantic meeting place in Europe, he seemed to remember someone calling it and in another life maybe it would have been. But romance was a long way from Will's mind. He realised his heart was thumping nervously. This morning had underlined that he was right to be doing this; but he just hoped there weren't any more surprises.

A number of people were milling around, waiting for loved ones or looking impatiently at their watches. Will ignored almost all of them. There was only one person he was looking for right now and he realised his heart was in his throat at the prospect of that person not having made it. He scanned the crowds around the statue, but there were no familiar faces.

A Tannoy announcement echoed around the station and a few people moved away from the statue. Will checked his watch: 11.30. Shit. She should be here by now.

11.31.

He'd told her not to be late.

11.32.

She knew the risks. He couldn't stay here for long.

And then he saw her.

Latifa Ahmed seemed to appear from nowhere, walking out of the crowd with a slight limp, but with a steady determination in her gait. She wore a heavy coat against the cold and a headscarf that covered her hair. As she grew near, Will saw that she had applied a little make-up to her face. It disguised her well; but it also, he noticed, enhanced the natural prettiness that he had never noticed in her before.

'I thought you weren't coming,' Will said, abruptly.

'I almost didn't,' she replied. Her voice was sad.

'You don't trust me?'

'I don't trust anyone. But coming with you is better than sitting and waiting for the Americans to—' Her voice trailed off.

Will nodded. He knew what she was trying to say. They were both in the same boat.

Now Latifa was here, he started looking around again. He knew what he was after: a man by himself, probably not in a suit, so as to stand out to anyone who knew what they were looking for. There was such a guy on the other side of the statue. Just standing there. Waiting.

'Don't move,' Will told Latifa and he sauntered around to where the man was standing.

Their eyes met, and the man seemed entirely comfortable with a stranger staring at him. Will sidled up to him. 'You got something from Pankhurst?' he asked.

The man said nothing; he just nodded and handed Will a white, padded envelope. Will glanced inside. Two passports, just as he'd asked for; and a thick wad of euros, which he hadn't requested but was pleased to see. He looked back up at the man. 'I'll watch you leave,' he said.

The man didn't respond. He just walked away, out into the crowds of St Pancras, and didn't look back.

Will returned to Latifa, who was just standing there, expressionless. 'Is it time?' she asked.

He nodded.

'And we will be safe, once we have left the country?'

He shrugged. 'Safer. The world's a big place. There are lots of places to hide. You could even go back to Afghanistan, if you wanted.'

Latifa shook her head. 'No,' she said. 'I do not think I will do that. There are too many memories for me there.' A vacant look passed across her face.

'You can't escape your memories, Latifa. They travel with you.'

She looked straight into his eyes. 'You are right,' she said, sadly. 'Thank you for doing this, Will. I know I do not deserve it, after what my brother did.'

Will took a deep breath. He knew how much it took for Latifa to say that. 'You're not your brother, Latifa,' he replied. 'You're not your brother.'

She inclined her head. 'You are leaving a lot behind, Will. Are you sure this is what you want?'

'You're wrong,' Will replied. 'I don't have anything to stay for.' He smiled. 'Only memories. And like I say, memories — '

'- travel with you.'

'Exactly.' He took her lightly by the arm. 'The train for Paris leaves in ten minutes. We need to be on it. Are you ready?'

That distant look crossed her face again and for a moment she didn't speak. But when she did it was clearly and firmly, with a confidence that Will didn't expect.

'I'm ready.'

Will nodded and together they walked away from the statue into the teeming crowds of St Pancras.

And into whatever the uncertain future held.