Secret Asset

51

Tom had found a small, shabby genteel hotel near the old green in Witney, a market town west of Oxford. He paid in advance for a week’s stay, booking in the name of Sherwood. He used the same name to hire the car and buy the plane ticket.

Living as Sherwood, he found it hard to fabricate a past for the man, so engaged was he with the present. In time, he would be able to fill in the blanks, enough to satisfy the most persistent of questioners, but just now he felt he lived in the perfect existential moment of his life.

He rang Bashir once, after driving carefully to the outskirts of Burford, taking back roads that had no cameras. Tom reckoned it was safe in any case—only Rashid’s phone had proved at risk, and that was only through the boy’s stupidity. What a mistake it had been to choose him—even though he had brought in Khaled Hassan, who was steady as a rock.

Now he and Bashir reviewed their plans for the hundredth time, and synchronised their watches before Tom rang off. Bashir sounded calm, but then he was of a different calibre—and commitment—from Rashid, who thankfully was destined only for a supporting role. So far, Rashid had been the only mistake. But it was too late in any case to do anything about him.

Part of Tom was relieved about that, for he had got no joy from killing his old tutor O’Phelan, or from ordering the killing of Marzipan. Not that he felt any guilt—they had been necessary murders, and if anything had caused them, it had been the overeagerness of his colleagues in MI5, particularly Liz Carlyle. Tom found it untroubling that Bashir and Khaled were eager to die. He had no interest in their motives or their cause. They would serve his purpose. That was the point of them.

And now it was Wednesday morning. D-Day, Tom told himself, as he packed, amused by how English that sounded. Later this day he would drive to Bristol where he had booked another hotel room for the night. An early morning flight to Shannon, and then on to New York courtesy of—fittingly—Aer Lingus. The search for him would by then be intense, so Tom was avoiding Heathrow where he was more likely to be recognised. As Sherwood he should be safe enough at Irish passport control, and certainly safe enough in New York. There he would decide what stage two of his long-term campaign should be. Long term—he had no intention of being anything but a permanent thorn in the side of his father’s persecutors.

On his way out, he explained to the lady at the desk that he was off to the West Country and was taking his bag in case he had to stay overnight. He did not want her to think he was leaving abruptly for good. She can be surprised later on, he thought. Just like everybody else. Including Bashir.