The Gilgamesh Conspiracy

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The bright sun softened as it sunk towards the western horizon. It was surrounded by a dull red sky that contrasted with the deep blue of the sea and the dark clouds overhead. Steven Morris stared at the scene and then inspected the weather maps of the north Atlantic that he had just downloaded from passageweather.com. He glanced quickly but thoroughly around his sixteen metre yacht for any signs of storm damage, stuffed the map into the front pocket of his jacket and then hauled the mainsail back up to its full height. He waited for the yacht to heel as the sail took the wind and thought about setting the jib. The craft crested a wave and then pitched down into the next trough, the sea broke heavily against the fore peak sending a drenching mass of spray crashing down on top of the bows. Perhaps he should wait until the morning when the sea should have moderated. He ducked back down into the cockpit, checked that the global positioning satellite signal was good and adjusted the automatic steering so that his yacht was once more heading towards his destination on the east coast of the United States.

He was hungry. He pulled off his waterproof clothing and thrust it into the locker. He took one more look at the sky beyond the yacht’s stern. He could see distant flickers of lightning as the storm blew away to the east but according to the latest weather forecast he could anticipate at least four days of good weather before the next front would blow in from the west to offer a fresh challenge to his seamanship.

Now the sun was so low that he could only see it when the yacht crested the waves, and with each successive peak more of the red disc disappeared until only a flickering red line remained. As he swung down into the cockpit he glimpsed a curious shape in the sea beyond the prow. He grabbed the coaming and jumped up on to the thwart to keep it in view. The object crested a wave and as it caught the light of the setting sun it appeared to be a dull orange colour. It lay long and low in the water for a moment and then slid out of sight down the other side of the wave. He stared out into the darkening sea and as the last of the sun sank below the horizon he saw it rising sluggishly towards the crest of the next wave. He tried to fix its position against the clouds on the horizon and then altered course towards it. It was probably only some piece of flotsam but the picture he retained in his mind’s eye suggested that it might have been large enough to damage his yacht if he was clumsy and collided with it.

The moon was not due to rise for at least an hour. He took the flashlight from its bracket and shone it hopefully. The object was much too far away to be picked up by its beam. He replaced it and pulled out a single shot flare gun. His body tensed as he pulled the trigger. There was a bang, louder than he expected and the firework trail of the projectile arced up into the sky. He shut his eyes for a moment as the flare burst into life. As the bright light descended on its little parachute it gave him a good sight of his target. He altered course slightly and then stood staring out to sea using the flashlight sparingly to preserve the battery life. After ten minutes he still had not spotted the floating object. He thought about firing off another flare but then he caught a glimpse of it at the top of a wave only about a hundred and fifty metres away off the starboard bow. He hurriedly altered course towards it and then winched the mainsail down. ‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered as he held his thumb on the engine auto start button. Ten seconds later he heard and felt the diesel motor rumbling into life in the bowels of the yacht. With one hand he steered the craft whilst playing the flashlight beam over the sea. Suddenly it was right in front of the yacht. He threw the engine into reverse but not in time to prevent the stem grinding against the floating object.

Steven put the motor into neutral with a curse and gazed out over the side. He was relieved to see a cylindrical fabric tube about a half metre in diameter rather than a rigid object that might have damaged the yacht’s bows. The flashlight revealed a large inflatable raft about ten metres long. It was curiously rectangular and flat at one end; it was not orange, but made from a dull silver fabric that had reflected the dying sunlight. He couldn’t see anyone aboard, but playing his flashlight at the far end he could see a bundled up sheet of heavy duty plastic fabric. What lay beneath it?

Somewhat reluctantly he unclipped a boat hook from the cabin roof and pulled the life raft hard up against the side of his yacht. There was a webbing strap fastened along the top of the cylindrical side of the raft and using the hook he manoeuvred it awkwardly along the boat until he could use the aft mooring line to tow it astern. He checked his battery condition indicators and then switched off the diesel motor. He examined the raft as best he could while leaning over the stern and playing the flashlight beam over it. Maybe someone was alive in the raft, sheltering under the plastic sheet?

‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘Anyone aboard?’

He played his flashlight over, looking for any signs of movement.

‘Anyone in the raft there?’

Perhaps he should climb aboard and examine it more closely? A wave heaved the raft up towards the yacht. It then sank rapidly down and by some combination of their relative motion a jet of water erupted from between the two craft and soaked him thoroughly. He cursed his stupidity in not putting his waterproofs back on. He decided it was too dangerous to climb down into the raft in the dark with the sea in its current state; he pictured it breaking free while he was on board it and watching his yacht drifting away. He would do nothing more until morning by which time the sea should have moderated. He looked up at the mast. There was no point in setting the sails. With the raft acting as a sea anchor, the yacht’s handling and steering would be problematic at best. He decided to ride out the night.

He walked into the saloon cabin, sat down in front of his computer and switched it on. As he waited for the satellite link to connect he gazed up at the bulkhead where the photograph of his late wife used to be fixed. Six weeks ago he had realised that he was spending too much time clutching a glass of whisky and gazing at her picture and tormenting himself with memories and he had taken it down and hidden it in a drawer.

He thought again about the strange design of the raft. That rectangular shape would make it awkward to manoeuvre or to tow and that curious raised flat end would make it less seaworthy. A series of low pitched bleeps told him that the internet connection was available.

After a few minutes searching the web sites of manufacturers of life rafts and their associated equipment he discovered what he had moored to the stern of his yacht must be a slide raft from an airliner. Usually it was packed into the lower half of a passenger door but if the door was opened in an emergency then the raft would erupt from its container and inflate into a rectangular shape that passengers could slide down if they had to escape from the aircraft when it was on land, or if the aircraft ditched into the sea then it could be detached from the side of the aircraft and became a life raft that could hold fifty people.

Steven read through the description of the raft and its features. Apparently all the newest ones were fitted with an Emergency Locator Transmitter that would broadcast a signal on the international distress frequencies for at least forty-eight hours before the internal battery was exhausted. He slowly folded down the screen of the computer. His own life raft was packed into a readily accessible box on the cabin roof and he knew it was fitted with an ELT. He wondered if the raft floating outside had been equipped with one and if it was working. Maybe he should find out. He reached over to the radio set and switched it on. He selected the receiver to 406 MHz; there was nothing but a quiet hiss from the internal loudspeaker. He switched it off again and went outside to look at the raft. The moon had risen above the horizon and the raft was bathed in its silvery light. He listened as the waves slapped at the sides of the raft and gurgled under the flat end. He had read that it had been attached to the side of the aircraft on the door sill and when the door was opened it … that was strange; it seemed that the heap of fabric at the far end of the raft had shifted. He shone the flashlight beam over it. Perhaps the action of the waves on the raft had tumbled it into a new position. He heard a sudden movement behind him and began to turn round but as he did a savage blow to his head knocked him unconscious.

He woke up with a throbbing, aching head. As soon as he tried to shift his position he found his hands were tied together behind his back. His knees were bound and so were his ankles. He tried to straighten his legs but his hands were held to his feet by another length of rope. He had been attacked, knocked out and expertly tied up by an unknown assailant. He swore quietly under his breath. By his nature he was not a man much given to fear, and as an ex-Major in the Royal Marines he was mentally well equipped to supress panic. His most important conclusion was that if his unknown assailant wanted to kill him then he would already be dead, not trussed up.

He looked up and around and realised he was lying on the deck in the forward cabin of the yacht. Normally a sleeping cabin for two, he had turned it into a storage compartment. But hell! What had happened to him?

‘Fuck!’

The oath was called out in an irritated female voice. The woman must have been concealed on the raft under the plastic sheets. She had climbed on board when he was down below and then knocked him out. He was about to call out, but stopped. Who was she? An ordinary person would have called out to him as soon as he had found the raft. She would have cried out in the blessed relief of being miraculously rescued from near certain death, and hugged him in gratitude. She would not have assaulted him and tied him up.

He looked around as best he could in the dark space. There were no rough metallic edges against which he could try to sever the binding ropes. He could call out and asked to be released. He could pretend to be deeply unconscious and hope that his captor might release him. He could cry out that he was in agony and ask that at least his hands be released so that he could straighten his legs. Maybe then he could find a way of freeing himself. He realised that he needed to relieve himself. In the old days in the Marines, even in training it was expected that you would just wet your pants. But he was not a young officer in the Marines any more, he was forty-seven years old, in his own yacht and he did not want this woman, even if she was a homicidal maniac, to find him with wet trousers.

‘Hey!’ he shouted’ and winced as the ache in his head suddenly intensified. He was about to call again but then he heard a stumbling of feet from the saloon and then a few moments later he heard the bolts being worked free and the door opened. He jerked his head sideways so that the door did not hit him. The light from the main cabin made him screw up his eyes. He retained an impression of a face surrounded by long straggly dark hair peering round the door at him. He opened his eyes again and gazed up at the woman standing in the doorway. She stared down at him with brown bloodshot eyes; a yellowing bruise surrounded one of them; a thin scar led from beside her ear down her neck to her collarbone and her lips were cracked and swollen. Then her eyes darted down to inspect the ropes around his legs, and then looked around the cabin for a moment before staring at him. ‘So you’ve come round; I was afraid I’d hit you too hard; I didn’t mean to knock you out so much.’ Her voice was educated southern counties English, incongruous against her villainous appearance further enhanced by a missing front tooth.

‘I’m in pain! Can you release my legs? I’ve got awful cramp.’

‘What’s the password?’

This seemed a somewhat surreal question. He stared at the woman for a moment wondering if she had been driven insane by her exposure on the raft. He slowly became aware that she stank; a mixture of waterlogged clothing, vomit and possibly excrement. Suddenly she gave a short, irritated sigh. ‘For your computer!’

‘Oh! Its… I’ll tell you what it is after you’ve untied me.’

‘Bollocks!’ she replied emphatically. She stared at him for a moment before continuing in a more reasonable voice ‘Actually if I can use your internet connection to make a few inquiries then I can probably release you altogether. I just need to check a few things out.’

‘About me?’

‘You’re on the list.’

‘Will you be quick? I really need to go to the head.’

She frowned at him. ‘To the what?’

‘The loo, I need to go to the loo.’

‘Why did you say ‘to the head’?’

‘Because we are on a boat. That’s what they’re called on board a boat.’

Despite the bloodshot eyes and the bruising he thought he could see a hint of amusement on her face.

‘Give me the password then you jerk, and maybe you won’t have to wet your knickers.’

Bitch! Bloody pirate! She had assaulted him on his own yacht, now she was insulting him, demeaning him… and he was getting angry to no purpose. He must stay calm; see if he could get an opportunity to turn the situation around.

‘Ok, it’s “surprise”’

‘A surprise?’ She shook her head in amazement or disdain. ‘Go on then; surprise me.’

‘No! That’s it. The word ‘surprise’; it’s the name of my yacht.’

She looked at him with an expression of understanding and maybe even apology. ‘Oh I see! — thanks.’

She shut the cabin door and bolted it, leaving a strong odour behind her. Steven heard her shuffling back into the saloon. He wriggled about trying to relieve the pain in his right shoulder and right hip which had been carrying his weight since he had been tied up. Time passed slowly. He thought about his assailant, wondering how long she had been on the raft; had she been alone all the time? Had there been fellow survivors, now dead? Damn, his shoulder hurt. What kind of aircraft had she been on? Was she a passenger or one of the crew? What had happened to the rest of the passengers? That raft had been large enough to carry forty or fifty people. He thought back to the description of the raft in the web site. Why had the ELT not summoned a rescue mission to pick up survivors? Perhaps it had, and perhaps someone would soon come out to his yacht to take this mad woman off his hands and leave him to continue his solitary journey. His head ached; his shoulder ached; his hip ached and his bladder cried out for relief. He was about to call out when he heard the woman shuffling across the deck and moments later the door opened.

‘So you’re Steven Morris, ex Royal Marine officer and owner of this yacht and a property company based near Chichester.’

‘That’s near enough. And who are you?’

‘I’m Emily.’

She stared down at him. He suddenly realised that she held a gun in her hand, and he did not feel inclined to question her further.

‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Look I only tied you up as a sort of precaution. I’ll cut the ropes now. I know I owe you an explanation but just in case you are a vengeful person I’m going to hold this gun on you until you have heard my explanation.’ She paused and then showed him his own small automatic pistol which she must have found in its locker in the saloon. ‘In case you think I don’t know how to use your gun, I can tell you that this is a Smith and Wesson double action .45 semi-automatic compact. Barrel length is three point five inches and weight not including six rounds in the chambers is twenty three ounces.’

‘I see,’ he said. ‘I won’t try anything.’

‘Good. You may be an ex-commando, or something, but I’m sure you know when you’re not in control. Now I‘m going to cut the rope holding your hands and then you can untie the rest. Ok?’

‘Understood,’ he replied.

‘Roll onto your stomach.’

He did so. She put her foot on his back high up between his shoulders. He felt the vibration through his wrists as the knife sawed through the rope, and then he heard her walking back to the saloon and he set about untying the other ropes that bound him.

A few minutes later Steven was seated in the saloon of his yacht with the woman who called herself Emily opposite him. He had borne the indignity of relieving himself while she watched him and now they both sat down with a bottle of water each and stared at one another under the cabin lights. Steven decided that she must be between thirty and forty, but her face was bruised and swollen and it was difficult to judge her age. She was tall for a woman, probably about the same as his own height of five feet ten inches. She wore a yellow weatherproof jacket from his deck storage, dark trousers and a pair of his best Timberland shoes. Her hair was matted on one side of her head and Steven wondered if she had been lying in a pool of her own vomit. She still held the small gun in her hand, but in a rather more negligent manner with the barrel pointing towards the deck. Steven had the impression that she seemed unaware that she was holding it,

‘I stink, don’t I.’ she said.

‘Yes, you do!’ he replied.

‘I didn’t dare swim off that raft to clean up. It’s quite difficult to climb back on again when you’re knackered.’

‘So how did you come to be in it?’ He saw that Emily was staring intently at him, but her gaze did not appear to be focussed on him. Her eyes were wide with an expression of barely suppressed anger. Her mouth twitched; her grip tightened around the gun

‘It’s a slide raft from a freighter aircraft. We came down onto the Atlantic… four… no, five days ago, I think. Since then I’ve just been living off a very little water and my own fat, hoping some miracle would turn up. You did, and I’m very grateful.’

Steven stared at her, wondering what she would be doing on a freighter aircraft unless she was a pilot, and if this was the only explanation she would give him. ‘Why did you hit me and tie me up,’ he asked. ‘Why didn’t you just call out when you saw my yacht?’

She did not answer, seeming to be lost in some inner contemplation. Then she blinked several times and gazed at him with a more natural expression.

‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’ he asked.

She began to run her fingers through her hopelessly tangled hair, looked at her fingers and wrinkled her nose.

‘Perhaps you’d like to have a shower. Clean up.’

‘You have a shower on this boat? With fresh water?’

‘Well no, it’s sea water actually. I don’t have the fuel to spare for running the desalinater except for drinking and cooking.’

‘Is there any chance you could lend me some soap and shampoo?’

Somewhat incredulous, Steven stared at the woman; she had attacked him, tied him up, threatened him with his own gun and was now calmly requesting the loan of bathing sundries.

‘By all means. Let me show you the way.’

‘Thanks. Here you are.’

She held the Smith & Wesson out in the palm of her hand. He took it from her in silence, and then placed it in a locker under the seat.

She nodded her understanding while he explained the operation of the bathroom facilities to her and then he left her in private. He looked around the cabin. Nothing had been moved, but there was a nearly empty plastic two litre water bottle which he did not recognise as his own and a box of cereal bars newly opened and three of them had been eaten. He wondered how long she had gone without food and if she had enough sense not to eat and drink too much too quickly after a period of extreme deprivation.

He climbed back out to the cockpit and gazed around the yacht. It was pitching gently on the swell, its drift still restricted by the raft attached to the stern. He found his flashlight in a corner where he must have dropped it when she hit him, its bulb now giving out nothing more than a dim glow. He changed the batteries and then stuffed it in his pocket. He pulled the raft close in to the stern and clambered aboard it. As it heaved over a wave he lost his footing and rolled over in the bilge water. He crawled towards the far end where the bundle of cloth lay in a disordered heap and began to inspect it with his flashlight. Underneath he found a waterproof bag that contained some leak stoppers, a hand pump and a pair of woman’s leather shoes sodden with water.

He stuffed everything back into the bag except the shoes and gazed thoughtfully at his yacht. He could see her, a vague shape moving about in the light of the saloon windows. Perhaps she would cut him adrift when he was in the life raft. In a moment of panic he began to crawl back to the yacht before he remembered that already she could have killed him and shoved him overboard.

He took a deep breath and crawled more carefully back to the yacht, threw her shoes on board and then climbed over the stern and peered in through the window. She was sitting on the saloon wrapped in a couple of towels gazing down at the cabin floor. She had washed her hair out and combed it into a damp curtain that hung across her shoulders. He wondered what she looked like when she was not bruised and suffering from exposure. She had a straight nose, a hint of cheek bones a wide brow with the lines of early middle age etched across it. Her shoulders and arms reminded him of the Russian pole vaulter from the Olympic Games. He opened the door and she turned round and gave him a faint smile that was spoilt by the missing front tooth and abruptly turned into a wince; she fingered her cracked and swollen lips.

‘Do you feel better now?’ he asked by way of starting off a conversation.

‘Yes, thank you. I look awful, though, but it’s mostly superficial. This is your yacht then?’

He realised that this statement of the obvious was her way of inviting him to continue the conversation.

‘Yes it is. I’m sailing it across the Atlantic to Florida, and then I’m thinking about going on all the way round. A circumnavigation.’

‘You obviously don’t mind being alone then.’

‘No I don’t.’ He paused a moment. ‘Not now, anyway.’

She nodded as if she understood what he meant. And then with an embarrassed reluctance to meet his gaze she added, ‘I looked you up on the internet I found out your wife died five months ago… but don’t you miss your daughter?’ She stared at him curiously as if the answer was important.

‘I will miss her, but not her ghastly boyfriend.’

‘Oh! What’s wrong with him?’ she asked, eyebrows raised.

‘I don’t like the way he makes his money.’

She considered him for a moment. ‘Does he approve of the way you made some of yours? Or perhaps he doesn’t know.’

Steven stared at her in silence, wondering if she had discovered his past as a mercenary after he left the marines.

‘So why is your boat called Surprise?’

‘Patrick O’Brian is my favourite author,’ he replied, glancing toward the shelf of books where the familiar twenty-one book spines were lined up.

‘Never heard of him,’ she said with a dismissive shake of her head.

‘Well we won’t make Fort Lauderdale for a few weeks, so you’ll have plenty of time to read him… On second thoughts we could go to Bermuda first. I could leave you there.’

‘Ok. Thank you. That would be fine. British territory,’ she added after a moment.

Steven stared at her. She seemed strangely uninterested in their possible destination, and how long it would take for them to reach it. But he had much more to be curious about. ‘So how come you were floating in a life raft in the Atlantic?’

‘Do you mind if I get dressed first? Then I’ll tell you.’

Steven summoned up a mental inventory of the clean part of his wardrobe. The weather was warm enough for her to wear shorts. He had some fairly new ones that had not been repeatedly washed in salt water, and he had some new tee shirts and some sweaters of various degrees of cleanliness. He could punch some extra holes in one of his belts. ‘Come on I’ll show you what you can borrow.’

He waited on the deck while she got changed in the main cabin. The sky had largely cleared and he looked around at the familiar constellations and glanced at the navigation system. He felt the lump on his head where she had hit him. The swelling was painful, but the associated headache had eased off, so presumably there was no underlying injury. The time was coming up to 0200 hours GMT, approaching local midnight in the western Atlantic. The cabin door opened. ‘I’m ready,’ she called through the gap. He climbed through and fastened the storm latches, and when he turned round he saw her studying her reflection in the mirror above the bookcase. He saw her feeling around her missing tooth with her tongue.

‘I’ve got some painkillers if you like; paracetamol, ibuprofen, or something stronger from the emergency kit,’ he offered.

She fingered her bruises. ‘No the pain has eased off. No permanent damage, though, I think.’

‘What about your front tooth? Doesn’t that hurt?’

‘Oh that. That was knocked out years ago. The cap’s just fallen off.’

‘Would you like a drink,’ he asked.

‘What? Alcohol, you mean?’

‘Yes, I’ve got some gin, or scotch.’

‘Hell, yes; a scotch would be great, thanks.’ She sat down carefully, clearly in some pain and watched him retrieve a bottle of Glenfiddich from its stowage and pour out a couple of glasses.

‘Cheers,’ he said as she took a glass from him.

He sat down on the opposite side of the cabin and took a sip. ‘So, you were going to tell me what happened to you,’ he said.

‘Yes. I was on a yachting trip across the Atlantic with a friend called Joe Johnson. He’s an American who comes from Dover. Our boat sank in a storm and you found me in a life raft. You took me to Bermuda and we checked into a hotel. You paid for my room. The next day when you came to find me, you found that I’d checked out of my room. You’d no idea where I’d gone.’ She drank some of her scotch. ‘There; that’s the bare bones of the story. We might flesh it out a bit later.’

He stared at her for a moment. ‘But that’s all crap!’

‘Of course it is. It’s for the best. I’m grateful you pulled me out of the water, so to speak, but believe me, you don’t want to be involved any more than you are already.’

‘So who was this Joe Johnson?’ he asked.

‘No idea. Johnson’s one of the most common surnames in the States, Anglo surname anyway, and I believe there are more than twenty places called Dover in North America. I learned that from Mash, the novel. Hawkeye and Trapper called themselves the pros from Dover.’

He frowned into his glass of Scotch, not having a clue what she was talking about. ‘So is your name actually Emily?’ he asked after a while.

‘Yeah, Emily Smith.’

‘Not Brown?’

She set her glass down with a sharp rap on the table. ‘Look Steven, it might seem a bit of a bloody joke to you now, but there might come a time when you’re grateful for it.’

‘Ok Miss Smith; I’ll remember that. I’ll also try and forget the joke of you knocking me out, trussing me up and threatening me with a gun!’

The yacht heaved over at the crest of a wave and she had to grab the table to steady herself. The glass began to slide towards the edge but she seized it and took another drink. ‘Yeah I’m sorry about that, but when you’ve been floating about in the middle of the Atlantic for days, you might get a little paranoid yourself. It was your gun,’ she finished.

‘Does that make it alright then?’

‘No, it was sort of a way of asking you why you have one on board.’

‘To deal with any nutters I might come across during my voyage.’

They stared at each other in silence for a while.

‘How long before we reach Bermuda?’ she asked.

He gazed up at the wind read out on the navigation display on the bulkhead. ‘Hard to say. It’s still over five hundred miles, nautical miles away. Could be five days with a favourable wind, but it might take twice as long.’

‘What do you do at night?’ she asked.

‘How do you mean?’ he said, somewhat taken aback.

‘Well you can’t stop the boat while you’re asleep, can you?’

‘Oh I see. Well, there’s an automatic steering system. I set an alarm to wake me every hour and I have a look around. Also if the weather forecast is poor, I shorten sail and my navigation system alerts me if there is a sudden change in the wind, or if the course alters for any reason. There’s also a radar scanner which will alert me if there are any other boats or ships around.’

She nodded. ‘Sound’s tiring.’

‘Well there’s plenty of time to nap during the day.’

‘I could do with some sleep now. Have you got a spare bed somewhere?’

‘Through there’s the aft cabin. You can sleep in there. Sorry if it smells of unwashed male. I’ll sleep in here. Let’s at least find you a clean sleeping bag.’

‘Thanks. Maybe you can teach me something about sailing, on the way to Bermuda, as part of my cover.’

‘More than Joe Johnson did, perhaps.’

To his surprise, she gave a brief chuckle. ‘Yeah, he turned out to be a useless bastard.’

‘I’m going to cast off the raft now. I retrieved your shoes; they might dry out after a few days in the sun. Do you want to bid it a fond farewell?’

Her expression darkened. ‘I never want to see it again,’ she replied.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Gerry stared up at the cabin roof enjoying the miracle of being alive and safe. She had slept deeply despite occasional nightmares about her abduction, the plane journey and the fear she had felt as the raft was tossed about in the storm.

She remembered the joyous relief when she saw the flare burst overhead and heard the chugging of the engine as the yacht approached. She wondered why she had been so paranoid. How could they possibly have known that she had survived the crash, realise that she had been drifting in a raft for five days and then arrange for a yacht to pick her up just before she died of thirst when her death was what they had desired? But then she had a sudden anxiety that perhaps they had secretly been tracking her and arranged her rescue as part of the conspiracy and she had decided not to take any chances.

Her treatment of Steven Morris had been unnecessarily harsh, but in fact it was partly a weird over-reaction to her impulse to hug him. His obvious distaste for her appearance was understandable considering that she looked and smelt awful and had violently assaulted him on his own yacht. Despite his apparent lack of any deeply felt resentment she had locked the cabin door from the inside, although they had been bolts designed merely for privacy rather than security, and she had slept with one of his kitchen knives under her pillow.

Bright sunlight now cast patterns around the cabin that swooped and circled as the yacht pitched and heaved with each successive wave.

She heard Steven clambering about in the cockpit, occasionally muttering to himself, sometimes humming in a rather tuneless fashion. She thought over what she had found out about him from the internet. He was aged forty-seven; he had completed a short military career, achieving the rank of Major in the Royal Marines. He had served creditably in the Gulf war, but resigned a few years afterwards. His subsequent career in the property trading business had been successful and his ownership of this yacht and the free time to sail it across the Atlantic suggested that he had ample means. She had also found a two year gap between his departure from military service and his property business which had been spent on some lucrative but clandestine overseas mercenary adventure, which perhaps she should investigate further. Apart from that, she knew that he was widowed five months ago and had one daughter aged twenty two.

She needed to pee. She unbolted the door and peered out. Across the way was the door with the brass letters WC affixed. Not bothering to cover her nakedness, she stepped quickly and quietly inside. She managed to supress a gasp of pain and was washing her hands when she heard Steven jumping down the steps and into the saloon. Damn.

‘I’m in here,’ she called out.

A silent pause. ‘Er…right,’ he replied.

‘I’m not wearing anything,’ she said only too aware of how her naked vulnerability of today was in stark contrast to her naked aggression of yesterday.

‘Ok, I’ll go back up while you get dressed, then,’ he said, and shortly after she heard his tread on the steps and the door close.

She stepped back into her borrowed cabin and quickly pulled on her borrowed clothes. She spied an elastic band around some rolled up papers. She remembered the simple pleasure of combing out her newly washed hair yesterday as she now swept it up into a pony tail and secured it with the band. There was a mirror on the back of the door and she gazed at her reflection. God, she looked a sight; hollow eyes, one surrounded by greeny yellow bruising and her lip still swollen. She carefully pushed up her lip and inspected the peg where her cap had fallen off. She shook her head in disgust at her appearance and clambered up into the cockpit.

Steven was out on the front deck doing something to the rigging. She saw that he had kept himself in shape since leaving the army, with just a slight thickening around the waist. She waited until it seemed he had finished and called out ‘Hi.’

He gave a quick wave. She watched him unclip a short blue rope that was harnessed around his waist from one of the wires that ran along the side and then walked along beside the raised cabin leaning against the heel of the yacht with the ease of practice but nevertheless he kept one hand on top of the wooden rail on the cabin roof until he jumped in beside her.

‘I see you’re careful not to fall overboard,’ she said.

‘Yeah that’s right.’ He fingered the blue rope. ‘I clip on this safety tether whenever I’m using both hands out on the deck; I also tow a hundred fathom floating rope behind the boat.’

‘So if you fall off how long does that give you to find it?’

‘Well it depends how fast I’m going of course. At one knot, about six minutes until the end goes by; at five knots, just over a minute. Any faster and I doubt I’d have any chance.’

She nodded. She had already experienced the terror of being lost in the middle of the ocean, so she did not feel the desire to discuss it further.

‘What’s the time?’ she asked. ‘I feel I’ve been asleep for ages.’

‘Well I don’t keep a clock on local time when I’m running. Its 0815 GMT, or UTC as they like to call it now, but it’s about an hour and a half before local noon.’ He pointed up to the sky as he said this, and following his finger she could just make out a point of brightness where the sun had nearly pierced the layer of cloud that hung all over the sky.

‘So nearly eleven hours, then,’ she remarked She suddenly caught sight of some clothes attached to one of the wires that ran up from the side of the boat to the mast, and amongst his shirts and underwear drying in the breeze she saw the polo shirt and bra she had left dumped in the shower along with the rest of her clothing. He caught the direction of her gaze.

‘I dumped the rest of your stuff; I hope you don’t mind.’

Her other clothes had been filthy through sea sickness and other personal hygiene issues and she quickly thought of something to say to hide her embarrassment.

‘I’m starving. Sorry to be cadging your supplies, but maybe I can at least learn how to use your cooking facilities and help out there.’

‘You’re feeling ok then? You know you shouldn’t eat too much after a long fast?’

‘Yes, I know, but I’m fine really…thanks.’

‘Ok, well I keep to a routine, so I start cooking lunch after my noon sighting. There’s some more of those cereal bars if you can’t wait.’

‘Thanks. Sighting of what?’

‘The sun. I practice my solar and celestial navigation.’ He pointed to the array of sophisticated equipment at the front of the compartment. ‘In case the satnav system craps out on me.’

‘Sounds like a good idea.’ She stepped over to the display panel. ‘I’ve used satnav on field trips and in cars. Why don’t you show me how this works?’

Steven came over and stood next to her and she felt a sudden need to make some kind of physical contact with another human being. She resisted the urge to wrap her arms around him while he talked her through the operating system and then showed her how the automatic helm system was clutched into the satnav. This led to him demonstrating how a shift of the wind resulted in the boat heeling over further, and then how the steering system compensating for the drift. They fell into a discussion of leeway and how it varied with speed through the water. He was gratified that she seemed eager to learn and he spent the next hour showing her the basics of seamanship and how it particularly applied to sailing a sixteen metre yacht single-handed. ‘You’re a keen student. I should be able to teach you quite a bit over the next few days.’ For the first time since they had met he smiled at her. Gerry responded by beginning her own smile, but it turned into a grimace of pain as her cut lip stretched.

In the afternoon while Steven was up on the deck she logged in to the MI6 web site. She looked up her own profile and found that a security wrap had been placed on it that denied her access. She stared at the screen for a moment and then put in the operation code Sandstar. Fifteen minutes reading left her burning with anger.

The report stated that Geraldine Tate had suffered a psychological breakdown in prison following the death of her mother and her decision to give up her child for adoption. She was now suffering from acute paranoia. She was still determined to find further scapegoats for the murder of Dean Furness, the man responsible for the death of her partner Philip Barrett. She still remained in denial that she was responsible in any way for Furness’ murder.

When returning to the UK with Ali Hamsin it was assumed that Tate had managed to break free and had run amok, attacking the crew. It was suspected that Daniel Hall had furnished her with the means to break free and he was now on the run, location unknown. Investigation by air traffic services suggested that the aircraft had turned towards Bermuda and it was assumed that the aircraft had crashed into the ocean. A ship had reported seeing an aircraft at low level heading towards the islands, but a search based on this position report had found no debris. It was assumed that Tate had carried out her threat as there was no sign of the aircraft. It was probably not in the interests of the USA or the UK that any further search should be carried out as to the exact circumstances. It was considered unlikely that news of the accident would be released into the public domain on any future occasion, but a joint approach to a covering statement was now a high priority. The only records of the flight described a military charter carrying miscellaneous dangerous cargo and the only reported losses would be the two pilots.

Gerry logged off and stared at the screen which now showed a painting of a nineteenth century ship with the name “Bellona” on the stern, probably part of Steven’s enthusiasm for Patrick O’Brian’s work.

After a few minutes thought she tried logging on to her Santander bank account and found her access denied. She tried her Barclays account and could not gain entry to that either. In some desperation she tried the Lloyds account that she had created fifteen years ago under the name of Emily Stevens, and she was relieved to find £9723 pounds was still available, with an overdraft facility of an additional £3000. Unfortunately her illegally retained Emily Stevens passport was concealed under the floor of the shed in her late mother’s garden. She wondered if she would ever be able to retrieve it and she gazed up at the cabin roof making tentative plans to get from Bermuda to England without being picked up by either her own people or the Americans.

To what extent would Steven Morris be prepared to help her? That rather depended on how much he liked and trusted her. His was a strong character and she doubted that she would get far by trying to threaten or coerce him. She heard him treading overhead and decided to go on deck and learn more about yacht sailing. Fortunately his desire to teach her and her burgeoning interest in the subject chimed in nicely with that objective. Maybe if she devoted enough time to learning how to sail she could get out of the cooking job she had volunteered to do. Then of course there was another thing that a woman could offer a man, especially a man who had been alone on a yacht for many weeks. And she hadn’t had sex, hetero sex, for years. She hoped she did not appear too repellent.

Next day dawned with clear skies and a strong breeze. Under Steven’s watchful eye Gerry disengaged the automatic helm and steered the boat using the traditional wooden spoked wheel and the magnetic compass in the adjacent binnacle. She adjusted the tension on the main sheet and checked the leech of the mainsail and was pleased to have his approving nod. She found it exhilarating to be in control of the big yacht as it swooped up to the top of a wave and then down into the next trough, sending a rainbow coloured sheet of spray out to leeward. Before she realised how much time had passed it was noon and Steven pointed his sextant high south and sighted the midday sun. Then he said ‘I’ll make lunch’ and disappeared below leaving her on watch.

After they had eaten, he remained at the helm while she cleared up. She climbed out onto the deck carrying two cups of coffee. She had quickly become used to drinking it without milk as the alternative was to have milk powder which she detested.

‘Hi there,’ Steven called out, but looking around the deck she could not see him. ‘Up here!’ She shaded her eyes and saw him halfway up the mast.

‘What are you doing?’ she called.

‘Checking the radar,’ he replied.

‘I made coffee.’

‘Ok thanks. Two minutes.’

In accordance with her newly formed habits she checked the navigation display and then sat down and watched him. He was wearing only a pair of shorts and she admired the play of muscles in his back and powerful arms as he clambered down the mast. She felt a little flush of embarrassment when he turned round and caught her watching him but it was too late to avert her gaze and pretend she wasn’t.

‘Is it ok, then?’ she asked.

‘Yes. It’s maintenance free, really. I was just checking the mounting bolts. You’re looking better today,’ he added.

She was sure she was blushing now, but she replied ‘Thank you but I know I look bloody awful.’ Then by way of making her reply less abrupt she asked ‘I don’t suppose you have a mini dental surgery tucked away on board, do you?’ and gave him a careful smile.

‘I’m sorry I can’t help you there, but we can search the internet for a dentist on Bermuda for you. Do you have travel insurance?’

He grinned at her and the incongruity of the question suddenly struck her as extremely funny and she burst out laughing despite the pain from her lip and swollen jaw. Then she reminded herself of her other problem. ‘You don’t happen to have any broad spectrum antibiotics do you?’

‘Yes of course. I have a very good medical kit on board. What’s the problem?’

‘Erm… it’s my throat. You see I drunk water collected off the life raft canopy and of course it wasn’t very clean.’

‘Ok, I’ll find you some.’

Next morning Gerry woke up and realised that the familiar noise of seawater rushing past the stern had dwindled to a slight slapping sound, and the pattern of light moving across the cabin showed that the yacht was rocking gently. She listened out for the familiar sound of Steven treading about the decks, but it was curiously quiet. She hurriedly pulled on her shorts, squealing ‘ouch’ when she caught some hairs in the zip and tugged on a shirt.

The deck was empty. ‘Steven?’ she called out. No reply. ‘Steven!’ she shouted. She clambered around the deck in front of the cabin and then back into the cockpit. Surely she wasn’t alone again? There was a splashing noise alongside and she peered over the side. There he was swimming alongside wearing a diving mask. She took a deep breath and tried to make her voice steady. ‘Hi! There you are. I was calling you.’

He grabbed on to a line that she now noticed was clipped on to the rail. ‘Hi. I was taking advantage of the calm to check out the rudder and propeller and have a look at the hull.’

‘What’s the water like?’ she asked.

‘Fairly warm in these latitudes. A bit of a shock when you first jump in though.’ He grinned up at her. ‘Why? Do you fancy a swim?’

‘I don’t have a bathing costume,’ she replied. She glanced at him and despite the ripples he was creating treading water she could see that he was naked.

‘Well, come in with what your wearing, or I’ll look the other way while you strip off and dive in.’

She gazed down at him and feeling reckless she began to pull her shirt over the top of her head. She was fully prepared to gaze defiantly at him but as she emerged from under the shirt he was nowhere to be seen. Feeling rather silly she nevertheless pulled off her shorts and jumped naked into the sea. Out of curiosity she dived down and saw the propeller and rudder tinged green with algae and then she suddenly had a panicky memory of being trapped in the sinking aircraft and with pounding heart she struck out for the surface and took several huge gasping breaths. She thought about her fear while her heart rate slowed and then she deliberately forced herself to swim under the boat and stare up at the hull for a slow count to twenty. Then she surfaced on the other side and looked around for Steven. He had already climbed out and was gazing beyond the stern, a towel wrapped round his waist. A thought suddenly occurred to her. ‘Hey, what about sharks?’

‘Unlikely this far from shore. Hey, I’m sure there’s a breeze coming; I think you’d better come out.’ He pointed to a rope ladder with wooden steps draped over the stern. ‘There’s a towel on the seat.’ He disappeared below and she climbed out and wrapped herself in the towel and when he emerged half a minute later clad in shirt and shorts she went down to dress.

By the time she had untangled her hair the yacht was underway again, moving very slowly with the merest v-shaped ripple left astern. She looked at herself in the mirror. If she did not give her gap-toothed smile then her face was pretty much back to normal again, apart from a yellowish tinge here and there, and after a few days of regular food and unlimited supplies of water her body had recovered. She looked down at herself. Her tan had evened out and the remnants of her bruising were fading away. Only the scars on her neck, her abdomen and her leg showed as pale lines. She dressed herself and switched on the computer. She tried to log on to the department intranet and she was pleased to see that she could still gain access. She stared at the screen and rather reluctantly she typed ‘Sandstar’ into the search engine, but now it flagged up “Unauthorised Access”. She logged on to the general personnel file and found that she was classified as whereabouts unknown, presumed dead. She sighed and closed the site.

One thousand two hundred miles away in Washington DC a systems analyst stared at his computer screen and called his boss over. ‘The key word “Sandstar” has been recorded, and a back search has found that it was used by the same internet access address yesterday.’

‘What’s “Sandstar” then? Why was it flagged up?’

‘I don’t know. The computer just says that it is a key operational code word and gives a list of contact addresses to alert.’

‘No names attached to those addressees? What’s a sand star anyway? It sounds familiar.’ The analyst called up a new webpage and googled Sandstar.

‘Uh… a kind of starfish, an all-terrain vehicle tyre, a construction company in Canada, a kind of shoe. And there’s a name Grantham… that’s the guy you have to call first if it comes up.’

‘Ok but why did the computer flag it? It’s a common enough term.’

‘Because someone was trying to use it on the British service website.’

‘What… MI6?’

‘Yes sir.’

His boss nodded and then withdrew to his private office and picked up his telephone and dialled a cell phone number.

‘Is this Mr Grantham?’ he asked.

‘This is he,’ replied General Robert Bruckner.

‘Ok good. This is Halverson, shift manager in data monitoring. Your key word “Sandstar” has cropped up.’

‘What! You’d better give me all the details. Have you tracked down the source yet?’

‘Hold on. Hey Barney, have you got the source for Sandstar, yet?… Huh?…yeah, its Grantham…ok… ok not yet then.’

Bruckner clenched his teeth and snarled impatiently while he listened to Halverson’s half of the conversation.

‘No Mr Grantham, we don’t have it yet. Computer’s still working on it.’

‘Ok make it your top priority, do you here?’ Bruckner demanded.

‘On whose authority?’

‘Look up this code.’ Bruckner gave Halverson a number and a few seconds later the man came back to him.

‘Ok right on to it sir… absolute priority.’

Bruckner grunted in response, broke the connection and then dialled Sir Hugh Fielding in London. Next he called Jasper White, Neil Samms and Vince Parker and summoned them to an urgent meeting.

During the afternoon the gentle breeze grew in strength, at first by fits and starts, but then more steadily. Steven stared out towards the southwest. The sky was covered by an innocuous layer of altostratus but it seemed to be growing thicker towards the horizon. He heard Gerry moving about below and he recalled watching her dive under the boat. Her face was returning to normal and, although her smile was seriously marred by the missing tooth he found her rather attractive. He remembered admiring her taut, muscular body when he saw her performing an amazing number of pull-ups while clinging on to the boom and watching the muscles writhe across her back and bulge on her arms. When she had started to climb back on board he had gone below but he had not been able to resist peeping at her through a skylight and he remembered his guilty pleasure at watching her standing naked on the deck for a few seconds before she wrapped herself in a towel. He had also noted that she had acquired a pattern of small scars across her knuckles — they resembled some he had acquired himself.

The owner of the scarred hands climbed out of the cabin and favoured him with her gap toothed smile. He showed Gerry the weather report he had downloaded and together they looked at the anemometer record. ‘There’s a deepening depression that’s moved faster than the previous forecast suggested,’ he said. ‘Now it seems like we may have some gale force winds. The barometer’s dropped quite sharply in the last two hours.’

‘What do we do?’ Gerry asked. He was acutely aware of her proximity and he peeped down at her cleavage while she read the report.

‘What sailors have done for centuries,’ he replied. ‘We batten down the hatches and reef the sails. I just hope the wind is at least from somewhere south of west otherwise we’ll lose distance. If it’s from the south as forecast it will help us on our way.’

The setting sun was hidden by clouds that edged up over the horizon. A thick layer of stratus topped by a line of towering cumulo-nimbus that even while they watched grew and spread until a wall of cloud stretched across their course. As the sky darkened flashes of lightning lit them up from within. Slowly but inexorably the wind gathered strength until it was blowing a hard gale, and when the first of the cold rain reached them they donned wet weather gear. With the mainsail partially raised the yacht skimmed up to the tops of the waves and then raced down the other side, digging its prow into the troughs and sending showers of spray flying aft. The ride was exhilarating and the yacht steadied at a speed of twelve knots.

‘Can it go any faster than this?’ Gerry asked, calling loudly above the roar of the wind and crashing of the sea.

‘Certainly,’ he replied, ‘but we would be heeling over uncomfortably and it puts too much strain on the gear. If we were in a race with a full crew on board we would do it but it’s dangerous with just two of us alone on the ocean.’

Steven stayed by the wheel most of the time watching the behaviour of the automatic steering system. Now and again he would adjust the angle of the boom and creep carefully about the decks checking everything was made fast, leaving Gerry standing by the wheel. As midnight approached the storm system drifted away to the north and the rain stopped. They could just see stars through some ragged holes in the clouds. The wind began to moderate but the yacht was still pitching up and down over the monstrous waves. ‘Why don’t you try and get some sleep now?’ Steven suggested.

‘What about you?’ Gerry asked, feeling guilty that she slept most of the night while he maintained his routine of sleeping for an hour at a time.

‘If you go below and get some sleep now, then if it keeps easing off, maybe you could keep watch for me.’

‘Ok,’ said Gerry, pleased that he would trust her alone up here, although of course he could be on deck in seconds if something cropped up needing more expertise than her slender experience could provide. ‘I’ll see you later then; don’t forget to wake me.’

Gerry went below and quickly fell asleep. She dreamed that she was back on the life raft being tossed around by frightening high seas and then woke up when she slid out of the bunk onto the floor. The boat was heeling over at a frightening angle. She scrambled out of the cabin and crawled up to the cockpit, barking her shins on the unfamiliar angles. Steven was lying on the deck clutching on to the shrouds trying to pull himself upright. The main sheet had parted somewhere and the boom was flung out to starboard, its end dipping into a raging sea. The wind howled through the rigging and a new storm flashed lightning across the sky followed by a huge crash of thunder. Gerry shrieked in alarm, then gathering her wits she shouted ‘Steven, what shall I do?’ She saw the relief in his face.

‘Turn us to port!’ he shouted. She managed to grab the wheel. It span out of her grip giving her wrist a painful wrench. ‘Shit,’ she muttered and took a more determined grip and turned the wheel round. At first the yacht refused to respond but as it crested a wave the boom shook clear of the sea and the yacht turned into the wind and the sail began a thunderous flapping. She could see Steven struggling with the halliards and suddenly the sail slid down the mast. The yacht began to turn away from the wind. She tried to stop the turn but it was beginning to gather sternway and twist slowly round. A huge wave rose up blotting out the horizon and she realised the yacht was going to meet it on its beam. She stared in horror as they began to climb sideways up the wave heeling further and further over. Then she saw Steven hoisting a small jib up the forestay. The wind grabbed the sail and the yacht span round and began to run before the gale. As it picked up speed the helm began to respond and she tried to keep a steady course. She watched Steven wrestling with the mainsail and he managed to lash it to the boom. He unfastened his tether and crawled across the deck and jumped into the cockpit beside her and gave her a hug; she enjoyed the warm contact of his body and wished she could respond but she dared not let go of the wheel.

‘We’re safe like this,’ he said ‘but we’ll be back where we were yesterday evening if this keeps up much longer.’

‘That trace and alert on key word Sandstar,’ said Jasper White to Bruckner. ‘It’s come up with a result. Internet connection relates to a computer that belongs to a Brit called Steven Morris.’

‘Very good… and his whereabouts?’

‘The guys promise they will have that very soon.’

‘Call me back when they do.’

Colonel White stared across the table at Vince Parker and Neil Samms who did their best not to look apprehensive. ‘Well I hope that this is going to be the last frigging loose end attached to this operation,’ he suddenly snarled. ‘Who is this guy Morris? One of Dan Halls’ buddies? Or maybe Richard Cornwall’s? Maybe his daughter’s boyfriend?’

‘Do you want me to go London and take care of it Colonel?’

‘What? After you and Vince screwed up over catching Dan Hall?’ White gave a quick shake of his head. ‘Ok, that wasn’t your fault; I guess we were all unaware that he knew Tate from way back in the gulf and probably had some kind of emotional attachment to her. We should find him quickly enough.’

Samms was grateful that White seemed to have got over their failure to catch the fugitive. After an initial bawling out, he had seemed to treat him and Vince with slightly more consideration.

‘I’m sure we will Colonel,’ he meekly agreed.

‘But for now we’ll send someone from the London station to get the gen on Morris. You seem to spend most of your time there Neil; who is there?’

‘I’d ask Gary Weitzman, Colonel.’

White’s phone rang. ‘They’d damn well better have that address,’ he grumbled as he picked it up.

Two hours later Gary Weitzman pulled up outside Steven Morris’s house in Chichester. There was no reply to his doorbell ringing or from his knocking on the front door but a neighbour helpfully informed him that Steven Morris had gone on a sailing trip several months back. Did she know when he’d be back? No, but why don’t you go down to the yacht basin and ask around there to see if anyone knew his plans.

At dawn the weather moderated. Steven repaired the rigging, hoisted the main sail and then replaced the storm jib with a larger sail and soon they were heading westwards again.

‘I’m wasted,’ he said. ‘Can I leave it with you for a while?’

‘Yes of course,’ she said.

‘Ok call me if the weather changes, and call me anyway before midday, could you?’

Gerry spent the morning practising steering the boat, sometimes making small adjustments to the sails and feeling pleased with herself when they seemed to work out well. She gazed out over the ocean dreaming of an alternative life where she could just sail a yacht to an unknown destination without this constant anxiety of what awaited her when she reached the land. She went below as the sun approached the overhead and for a couple of minutes she watched Steven stretched out on the saloon bed, his mouth just open, snoring gently. She felt an almost overwhelming urge to wake him up by kissing him, placing her own slightly parted lips over his but instead she pushed him on the shoulder and called ‘Wake up! It’s nearly high noon.’

While he took the watch, she found some spaghetti and decided to try and make the best pasta dish she could with the limited resources of Steven’s galley supplies.

After they had finished eating Steven stretched. ‘That was great, thank you. I really needed that sleep as well.’

She noticed he was frowning slightly. ‘What are you thinking?’ she asked summoning up a smile.

‘I wish I could invite you out to dinner; to a restaurant or something, but I guess we’ll be eating together again anyway. It’s hard to ask you out on a date when we’re sort of thrown together in mid-ocean.’

Gerry smiled. ‘I was hoping that you would have at least found me a bunch of flowers.’

‘Well when we get to Bermuda perhaps I can do that.’

‘Are you going to ask me out, then’ she said raising her eyebrows and gazing directly into his eyes.

He looked back at her. ‘Yes I suppose I am.’ He took hold of her hand in his. ‘Will you have dinner with me in Bermuda?’

‘I’d like that very much! Thank you.’ Despite this invitation she felt lonely, knowing that they would inevitably have to part company in Bermuda.

Suddenly he looked rather embarrassed. She decided to take the bull by the horns. ‘Do you want to make love to me, Steven?’ she asked, putting her other hand over his.

‘Yes I do. Very much. Sorry.’

‘There’s no need to be sorry. Here we are, a man and woman alone in a yacht, miles from anyone else.’ She smiled at him. ‘But when we reach Bermuda I still expect you to buy me flowers and take me out to dinner.’

He gave her an embarrassed smile but clearly he was still unsure of his invitation. Gerry leant forward and kissed him on the lips and after a moment their lips parted and they kissed more intimately. Gerry expected him to start tugging at her clothes but as he seemed to be waiting for her to take the lead she backed off and pulled her shirt over her head and smiled at him. He looked from side to side, and then at the deck. ‘Er… I’ve not done this since… er… since my wife … well it’s been eighteen months.’

Gerry turned her back to him. ‘Can you remember how to unhook a bra?’ she asked lifting up her hair. He did so and then somewhat gingerly he moved his hands round to cup her breasts. Then he let go and Gerry waited expectantly for him to slide his hands around her hips and unfasten her shorts, but he seemed to be hesitating. Before it became even more awkward she turned round to face him and kissed him again and hugged him, crushing her breasts against his chest and then she unbuttoned and unzipped herself and when her shorts had fallen to the deck she stepped out of them. Then she started to unfasten his shorts, wondering at his sudden reluctance, but soon he was naked and she felt the proof of his ardour pressing against her, but still he appeared slightly troubled. ‘What is it, Steven?’ she asked.

‘I haven’t made love to any woman but my wife for twenty-four years, and, well we‘ve only just met and I’m worried that I’m well, exploiting your vulnerability or something,’ he said.

‘Look, I like you and you definitely seem to want me and although we may not love each other, I really want you right now so will you please just lie down with me on this bed and shag me.’ And without waiting for his answer she fell back somewhat awkwardly on to the bunk pulling him down on top of her. He kissed her again and then began to kiss her breasts and then her stomach while she stroked his head and back.

‘Steven…’

He looked up with an anxious expression.

‘My name’s not Emily, it’s Gerry… short for Geraldine. Can you call me Gerry from now on?’

‘Gerry… of course.’

‘Ok now carry on where you were please.’

‘Message from London, General,’ said Jasper White. ‘Steven Morris in his yacht Surprise departed the Azores about two weeks ago, destination Miami, and given reasonable weather he should now be in the vicinity of Bermuda.’

‘Ok, so we can safely conclude that by some miracle Geraldine Tate survived ditching in the Atlantic and was picked up by Morris. Now where do you think she might persuade him to take her?’

‘Well if I was Tate I’d want to go to the nearest UK territory,’ said White. ‘She’d persuade him to take her to Bermuda. We could ask the Navy if they have anything out there that can start a search.’

‘It’s tempting but I really don’t want to explain anything to the Navy. First of all let’s find out if we have some asset in Bermuda, or if we should hire a boat. Have Samms and Parker fly out there and see if we can intercept this guy’s yacht,’ Bruckner ordered.

‘Yes sir, I anticipated that, and if you don’t mind I’ve found out that we have an old friend with an ocean going motor yacht moored up in Hamilton we could borrow.’

‘Jasper, if there were more like you we wouldn’t get into all this crap in the first place. Forgive the cliché but from now on I won’t believe Tate is dead until I see her head on a plate. Now have you got any news about Dan Hall?’

‘Sorry General, not yet. We’ve checked all house rentals, car thefts and car rentals nationwide, all credit card transactions; cell phone calls et cetera et cetera. We’ve questioned all Hall’s known associates, current and past, we’ve searched their properties, searched their beach houses and holiday homes. So far we’ve drawn a blank.’

‘How about the Canadians?’ Bruckner asked.

‘When we told them we were looking for a suspected terrorist then they were quick to cooperate. Their border crossing people are on alert.’

‘How about down south?’

‘Well we’ve not had so much success there. You know how chaotic they can be, but Hall doesn’t speak Spanish and there’s no record of him having any experience in Central or South America. I doubt that he’d go south.’

‘Ok, that makes sense but don’t totally discount it. Let’s hope we get a break soon. Is Samms using his best endeavours?’

‘Like his life depended on it General.’

‘Good! Maybe it does.’

The next morning dawned with a stiff breeze, the sea still swollen from yesterday’s storms, but the wind was now a steady north-easterly trade wind. Steven extricated himself from Gerry’s embrace and assessed the conditions. He hoisted the spinnaker and the yacht headed for Bermuda at a brisk eight knots. He rather regretted that the voyage would soon be over, but he knew that she was desperate to get there as soon as possible.

He was beside himself with curiosity as to the chain of events that had resulted in her being trapped on a yacht in the middle of the Atlantic. The only likely explanations he could come up with was that she was a member of the security services, or the unlikely opposite, that she was some kind of criminal, but that hardly seemed likely. He heard a noise behind him and a moment later she wound her arms around his waist and rested her chin on his shoulder. ‘Good morning!’ he said, glancing up at the sail. ‘Shall we get some breakfast?’

She gave him a squeeze and said ‘not yet.’

He turned around and smiled at her and saw that she was still naked.

‘Why don’t you put the auto helm back in and come below?’ she suggested and then she grinned. ‘Come below, good pun… get it?’

Since his return to London, Richard Cornwall had read a fair amount about the ancient semi-mythical King Gilgamesh, but he was no nearer understanding what Vincent Parker had meant by it in his last report to Sir Hugh Fielding. He had conversed with Felix Grainger on a number of occasions to try and find out what had happened to Dan Hall but his American friend had drawn a blank.

Cornwall had taken it upon himself to handle the matter of Gerry Tate’s disappearance. Today he was wrestling with the complexities of issuing a death certificate without having to report exactly what business Geraldine Tate was engaged in, and deciding to whom he should speak in the HR department who of course should have been dealing with the entire matter anyway. Her only close family was her brother who now lived in the USA. She also has three cousins but there was no record of her being close to them. He opened his e-mail files and began to write. Then he noticed a special in his personal coded inbox.

“Urgent. Please proceed to Bermuda as soon as possible. Geraldine Tate is on the yacht Surprise, owner Steven Morris. Attempts will be made to intercept and apprehend before their arrival in Bermuda. I found this out from Sandstar group files to which I still have access. Gerry attempted to enter MI6 and/or CIA web sites from the yacht. Please ensure you do not, repeat do not use official channels. Daniel Hall”

Cornwall stared at his screen in amazement. So Daniel Hall was still at large. How come he still had access to the CIA website? Some sort of cock-up no doubt. But Gerry Tate still alive! He checked his records; just over a week since the plane had gone missing. Still alive; glory be! He printed off the e-mail and then deleted it. Now how could he justify shooting off to Bermuda? He drummed his fingers on the desk and called his PA. ‘Hello Jenny I’ve not much on next week, so I’ve decided to take Fiona to Barbados for a week.’

‘Oh, that’s very short notice sir.’

‘Ah yes Jenny, but I’m the boss; I can do short notice.’

‘Yes I know sir. I meant for Mrs Cornwall.’

‘Mmm yes… fair point, but she can pack pretty quickly for the beach in summer, I think.’

Good — that was his absence from the office and his pretence of Barbados would stop any alarm bells ringing if Jenny blabbed. Now he just had to hope that there was nothing in Fiona’s schedule that would militate against a trip to Bermuda. He read the e-mail again. Sandstar — now what the hell was that about? He wondered if he should write a reply to Dan Hall telling him that he was on his way to Bermuda, and advising him that there was a major search effort out to find him, and take maximum care to cover his own tracks. Maybe it would be best if electronic communication was kept to the absolute minimum.

‘It’s been ten days’ said Neil Samms. ‘If we could make it public; put it in the newspapers and say that a suspected terrorist is on the loose, then we might get somewhere.’

‘Well we could do that, but disregarding your idiotic suggestion that we alarm the public with the terrorist appellation, I think it’s best that Hall doesn’t realise that we’re searching that desperately for him,’ countered White.

‘Ok then, but we’ve nearly finished any possible leads from his known contacts; his details are at all ports and airports; the police in every state are after him and our tracing team are monitoring every lead. What more can we do?’

‘You’ve checked in with all police computers have you?’

‘Yes, but there records are not always up to date. The local forces take their time transferring everything to the central database.’

‘Stick at it and stop complaining,’ said White.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Mary Travers, married with two children, worked for the USA Cruise Company, which hired out recreational vehicles from a site near Atlanta airport. She was a trained intensive care and theatre nurse and found her job in vehicle interior cleaning and prepping rather dull, but she told her friends that at least it was no worse than cleaning up after her police officer husband and school-aged children, and the part time hours could be fitted in with school and her husband’s shift work.

That morning she drove to the parking lot, passing a torched car that was being inspected by a couple of highway patrol officers who had parked their police cruiser just beyond it. One of them was peering into the vehicle while the other was calling in the incident on the radio. She recognised this officer from some social function she had attended with her husband, but as he seemed busy she did not think it a good time to renew their acquaintance and she continued a further quarter mile to the company parking lot. After the usual greetings she was sent from the office to clean a Winnebago Vista and after a fruitless search of the parking lot, she went back to the office and told the supervisor she couldn’t find it. ‘Look Sam, the key’s not on the rack either,’ she said, pointing to the keyboard behind him. Sam turned round, stared at the empty hook for a moment and then back at Mary.

‘Didn’t I give it to you already?’ He swung round to the mechanic who was leafing through the maintenance records. ‘Paolo, did you leave it in the van yesterday?’

‘Come on Sam, and have you chew me out?’ said Paolo. ‘’Sides, I never touched that one. It came in yesterday afternoon late and I’ve not taken a look at it yet.’ He slammed the filing cabinet shut. ‘It was you who must’ve taken the key off the people who brought it back. Maybe you took it home with you.’ Paolo grinned at Mary and stepped out.

‘Oh crap,’ said Sam, ‘that van’s gotta be out there somewhere.’

After a fruitless search of the premises, Sam called the local police and reported the theft of a one year old recreational vehicle, worth $85,000. He was worrying about how he would report the loss to his manager and part owner when he noticed the condition of the office door. He recalled a peculiar stiffness in the lock when he had opened it that morning and now he saw strange marks on the door frame around the lock.

‘Well I’ll be…’ He hurried back to the main gate and saw for the first time that the security camera had been destroyed, probably by being shot through. Obviously accomplished thieves had been at work, but why would they want to steal a used RV? At least he no longer felt guilty about the loss. He called the police again and told them about the signs of a break in.

That evening when her husband, Sergeant Lee Travers, reached home, Mary began to discuss the incident with him. Lee was a homicide detective so he was not particularly interested in motor vehicle theft, but when Mary went on to describe seeing their mutual acquaintance looking at a burnt out car near the USA Cruise site he drew a quick conclusion. ‘Seems to me that the guys who torched the car could have stolen the RV, he said. ‘I’ll mention it to Doris in vehicle theft in the morning, in case they didn’t make the connection.’

Doris Hadlow was feeling extremely irritable as she watched the burnt car being lowered down the trailer ramp and wrinkled her nose against the stench of burnt rubber and plastic. Her irritation was partly due to not having a cigarette all morning but mostly due to the phone call she had received which told her that unless there was evidence of a crime more serious than auto theft, her application for DNA testing of the vehicle was denied. However the fingerprint expert who would be sent out to the USA Cruise office later that day could also come and take a look at the car, although as she knew the recovery of fingerprints from a fire was a little haphazard. Hadlow bent down and examined the vehicle license plate mountings. The plates had clearly been levered off and no doubt been discarded a good distance from the scene. ‘Give me a hand with the hood, would you?’ she asked one of the recovery vehicle men. They managed to wrench it open and she noted down the vehicle identification number. ‘Ok, put it in the shed,’ she said to the recovery vehicle men, ‘and don’t touch the inside or the door handles, ok?’

‘Yeah Doris, we know,’ they threw back at her. She grunted and returned to her desk. She entered the VIN into the computer and found the name and address and telephone number of the owners who lived in Jacksonville, Florida. She dialled the owner and her call was picked up by his answering service so she left a brief message.

Next she opened the file on the Winnebago. Selling a stolen recreational vehicle did not strike her as a profitable proposition as it was a specialised market. Perhaps the thief wished to use it for some other purpose. She sat back from her computer, lit a cigarette and gave the matter some thought. A free holiday? A place to hide out? A place to hide someone, or something, or to transport someone or something? Hardly likely, because a small freight truck would be less conspicuous.

‘Put that goddam cigarette out, Doris,’ growled a voice from the office next door. ‘I thought you were giving up?’

‘Yeah, so I had a relapse, but I’m down to ten a day,’ she replied. Her telephone rang and she took her cigarette out of her mouth and picked up. ‘Detective Hadlow.’

‘Oh, Ms Hadlow, Ted Deakins here.’

‘Who? Oh yes I called you yesterday about your car, left a message.’

‘Yeah, I just got back from St. Louis; turned up at the airport park and no car!’

After a few minutes conversation, Doris Hadlow had the details of how Ted Deakins had left his car in the Jacksonville Airport economy parking lot a few days ago and on his return yesterday evening he had discovered it stolen. Doris Hadlow had her confirmation of the make and model, although as she already knew the VIN that had been rather superfluous. She gave him a police crime reference number to pass on to his insurance company and wished him a good day.

She had a sudden thought; she remembered that a couple of days back there had been a nationwide special alert for a white male American and one British female who had escaped custody in Florida and who might be looking for places to hide out. Even the slenderest of leads would be welcome the message had said. That stolen car had come from Florida, and maybe a Winnebago RV would be a good choice for a hiding place. It was unlikely, but nevertheless she found the alert and sent off an e-mail.

Neil Samms printed off the report filed by Doris Hadlow and showed it to Vince Parker. ‘Do you think this could be a possibility? The timing fits in, and the first theft was in Florida and an RV might suit a guy on the run.’

Parker skimmed through it and shook his head. ‘Well there’s no visual sighting, but it’s about time our luck changed. Why don’t you call up this Hadlow woman and see if they’ve managed to get any prints from the theft site?’

‘Ok then, might be worth a try.’

He returned to his desk and telephoned the number at the bottom of the screen. ‘Hello could, I speak to Doris Hadlow please?’

‘Yuh, this is she.’

‘Ok, my name’s Neil Samms, Homeland Security special task force. You sent me a report on the theft of a Winnebago recreational vehicle yesterday?’

‘Uh… yeah, that’s correct.’

‘Yuh great… look, did you get any results from the fingerprint tests from the rental site where the vehicle was stolen from?’ he asked.

‘No we didn’t,’ Hadlow replied.

‘Oh!’ said Samms crestfallen. ‘Ok, never mind, well thanks for your time anyway, and if you get anything else then please send it on.’

‘But we might get a result from the burnt out Chevrolet,’ said Hadlow.

‘Really? That’s great!’

‘Yeah, they seemed to have wiped it down but one of my people found an empty diet coke can lodged under the seat. Course, we don’t know if there are any prints on it but it’s been sent on to forensics in Atlanta, but it was hardly a priority. I don’t know if they’ve filed a report yet. I’ll check tomorrow and ask them to expedite it and after they’ve taken a look we’ll maybe get you an answer by the afternoon.

‘Tomorrow?’ said Samms, trying to hide his irritation. ‘Can’t you do it today? It’s only ten in the morning, and that’s nine o’clock where you are!’

‘Duh… it’s Sunday. The only reason you got hold of me is I gave you my cell phone number. Mind you, there might not be any prints on it, and if there are they might be the car owner’s and not the thief’s.’

‘Oh, ok yeah, sorry, I forgot what day it was,’ Samms admitted. ‘We’re under a lot of pressure here. It‘ll just have to wait until Monday I guess. But thanks anyway; I’ll get back to you.’

‘What will have to wait until Monday?’ came a stern demand. Samms mouthed a silent curse towards his computer and then turned round to face Jasper White.

‘A possible lead, Colonel.’ He quickly explained the situation.

‘So Monday afternoon eh?’ White mused quietly.

‘Yes sir,’ Samms replied. Then he suddenly realised that White was on the verge of an explosion. ‘But maybe if I get straight down there I can sort of persuade them to get it done immediately.’

‘That’s the smartest thing I’ve heard you say in a while Samms. Get your ass down to Atlanta and check it out. After that the three of us are going out to Bermuda and you and Parker are going to take a boat out to that yacht. I want Tate brought safely back to Bermuda, not disappearing again.’

Samms drove home, quickly packed an overnight case and then picked up a cab and drove to the airport and took the first flight to Atlanta. He hired a car and drove to the forensics laboratory. After some cajoling and persuasion he had the Coke can retrieved and then with the promise of a two hundred dollar inducement the weekend duty supervisor found a lab technician willing to come out and share the proceeds.

‘Yeah we got prints,’ remarked the lab technician laconically.

‘And are they any good?’ demanded Samms.

‘If you’ll just quit breathing down my neck I’ll have them on the screen just as soon as I can,’ countered the technician, who was beginning to regret volunteering to come out and assist this pushy guy. Samms literally backed away and stared at the ceiling.

Fifteen minutes later there were slightly smeared partial prints of three fingers and a thumb of a man’s right hand displayed on his screen. ‘It’s not very good,’ remarked the technician staring at Samms as if he was a minor artist who had submitted a work of dubious quality to the National Gallery.

‘Yeah ok, but do we have a match?’ Samms asked. The technician hit a button on his keyboard and a face appeared along with biographical details.

‘Daniel Edward Hall, former US Marines and now works for some security outfit,’ the technician declared.

By a huge effort in self-control Samms managed to avoid giving a whoop of triumph. ‘Ok give me back the can and scrub the file from the computer,’ he told the technician.

‘Why?’

Samms grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and pulled him close enough to feel his nervous panting. ‘Cos if you ever breathe a word about it to anyone I’ll come and find you and I’ll rip your fucking head off. Here’s your hundred dollars.’

Jasper White was mulling over the problem of how to use the full resources of the United States law enforcement in the mere search for a stolen Winnebago without drawing attention to it. Eventually he called up a friend in the FBI who owed him a favour and persuaded him to say that the Winnebago was being used by a man suspected of a bank robbery who had evaded capture but killed an FBI agent in the process. The apprehension of a criminal who had murdered one of their own would ensure their diligence.

Two days later his friend called back and told him that the vehicle had been found just to the west of the Allegheny Mountains in West Virginia. It was parked in a small camping site privately owned by a dodgy character named Brandon. He had sent out strict instructions to the local police and to the FBI that on no account was the vehicle or its occupant to be approached unless it showed signs of moving off, in which case they were expected to follow it discreetly, but in view of the reason the occupant was being hunted, he encouraged White to get there as soon as possible.

Two hours before dawn Joe Brandon was woken up by a knocking on his back door. He rolled his ungainly body towards the edge of the bed then heaved himself upright. He was willing to bet that one of those goddam elderly campers had some kind of medical emergency and wanted his help, not that he could offer any except phoning for a doctor, and what the hell, they all had cell phones and internet connections and all that stuff didn’t they? He switched on the bedside lamp and looked around for the clothes he had worn yesterday. They weren’t on the chair or on the floor; then he realised he was still wearing them. He ran his hand back through his hair and then across the three day stubble on his chin and staggered off towards the front door which received another knock just before he reached it.

‘Ok, ok I’m here, hold on.’ He undid the latches whilst preparing a small speech about how he wasn’t liable for providing any services to the people on his land except a fresh water supply. He was ready to deliver it as he opened the door but the door was shoved inwards and a man grabbed him spun him round and into an uncomfortable arm lock and shoved a gun into his cheek. ‘Are you Joe Brandon?’ the intruder demanded.

‘Yes, that’s me,’ Brandon replied, hoping his admission would lead to reasonable treatment rather than having his head blown off.

‘Good.’ His arms were released and he heard the man step away.

‘My name’s Dawson, I’m with the FBI. Sorry I had to treat you like that, but we’ve been tracking a guy who’s been running this marijuana farm over in Atlanta. He’s in that Winnebago at the end of your park.’

‘What, the one with the Georgia plates on it?’ Brandon asked.

‘Yeah that’s right. They bought it with some stolen cheques. We’re gonna take possession of it tomorrow, and get him for the drugs. I just thought I’d give you some warning that we’ll be moving in at dawn.’

‘Well, ok Mr Dawson, I appreciate the warning. Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘Well we appreciate the offer, but just keep your head down. We’ll start moving into position in a couple of hours.’ He held out his hand and Brandon shook it. ‘I’ll take my leave now sir.’

Brandon watched him walk away towards the main road and a few minutes later he heard the distinctive sound of a Harley Davidson motorcycle rumbling away into the distance. He waited another minute and then walked towards the Winnebago with the Georgia plates and knocked on the door and then stepped back. The outside flood light came on and then a torch was shone in his eyes as the door opened a crack.

‘Yes?’

‘Er look, well it’s none of my business really, but there was this FBI guy snooping around… said they were coming for you in the morning.’ The man who had booked in with him a few days ago jumped down from the door way and gazed around. His gun and the expression on his face made Brandon real uneasy but the man said ‘I’m much obliged Mr Brandon. Now tell me everything and quickly.’

Brandon did as he was told, and ten minutes later he watched the Winnebago driving along the track away from his home and he breathed a sigh of relief. He was really taking a chance helping them out, but planting marijuana on his dilapidated farm and passing dud checks were two of the crimes and misdemeanours of which he himself had been convicted. He concealed the thin wad of hundred dollar bills the fugitive had given him as a reward, and then he quickly showered and shaved and made himself as presentable as possible. Next he packed an overnight bag and set off for his sister’s place in Beckley. He really did not want to be around when the Feds found their prisoner had checked out.

The past few days were some of the happiest Steven had spent sailing his yacht. The weather was excellent, alternating periods of bright sun and high cloud and the trade wind blew steadily so they rarely had to adjust the sails or make any course corrections. For the first time since his wife had died he did not feel lonely. He was worried by the probability that Gerry would soon resume her mysterious former existence and he suspected that she would disappear from his life as mysteriously as she had entered it, but for the moment he enjoyed her company. Also he was honest enough to admit to himself that making love or having sex, he was not quite sure which it was, made up an important part of this sense of well-being.

‘Bermuda in two days,’ he said, looking forward to spending time with her on the islands, and wondering whether it was a good opportunity to suggest that they meet up again when she had completed whatever unfinished business she refused to discuss with him. She smiled back. ‘I’m going to tidy up the cabin. I’ll bring you some coffee in a few minutes.’

Down below Gerry switched on the computer. She had not been able to access her department’s intranet site nor any other where she might get any useful information. She wondered if she should try to fly to the USA and see if she could make contact with Dan Hall, or if she should just go back home and report to Cornwall. She had no idea if there was a termination order out on her, imposed by her own service or by the Americans. She did not know whom she could trust, if anyone.

She thought about merely disappearing from view. She had hidden away two UK passports in different names and she was almost sure that one of them was not known to her employers. She also had a valid UAE passport that was an MI6 issue and an Australian one that she had officially handed back but in reality she had returned a partially burnt forged copy and retained the original. Unfortunately none of these were of any immediate use to her because they were all stashed in England.

What she really needed to do was to find out the truth about Gilgamesh because she had decided that the knowledge would protect her now and in the future, and her best chance lay in the USA. There she would find Dan Hall and suggest that together they should go to Baghdad and track down Rashid Hamsin. She had a vague idea that she might call Richard Cornwall, on the basis that he might tell her the truth even if that was merely a warning that a team had been despatched to kill her.

She contemplated asking Steven if she could sail on to the States with him, but she readily admitted to herself that she was scared and that remaining on board his yacht would merely be procrastination. She began to search airline schedules from Bermuda back to Florida and home to London, but then remembered that she was supposed to be making coffee and hastily set about it.

After taking his noon sun sighting, Steven pointed to the horizon. Gerry gazed out and saw a thin green tinge appearing as the yacht crested a wave, and then two hours later the islands of Bermuda stretched across the horizon. Steven showed her the chart. ‘We have to enter St George’s harbour through Town Cut channel, just north of Higgs Island and Horseshoe. Then we have to clear customs and immigration at Ordnance Island here. It’s going to be a bit awkward as you don’t have a passport or anything.’

‘Could you wait until dark and then, well, drop me off somewhere? Maybe I could swim ashore,’ she suggested.

‘Well we could wait until dusk, and then you could slip over the side. Are you happy to swim ashore?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘I’ve got a small inflatable dinghy. If the tide’s right, you could paddle ashore. There’s this little place Building Bay outside the harbour.’

‘That seems ok.’

‘I’m not so sure; Bermuda’s known for rocks and reefs and this stretch here might be really dangerous. It might be better if you hid on board, and then when I’ve cleared customs I can motor round to Hamilton over here.’

‘Yes. Let’s go for that.’

‘Ok, well we’re within VHF range now so I’ll call them up.’

Steven spoke to the Harbour control and reported his yacht’s name, position and likely arrival time in the harbour and declared that he was the only person on board.

‘Well, they seem happy enough,’ Gerry said. Then she was startled by a rapid high pitched beeping that she had never heard before. ‘What on earth was that?’

‘That’s the radar alert,’ Steven replied, ‘there’s a vessel approaching. They both gazed out over the forepeak and saw an ocean going motor yacht heading towards them. ‘The toys of the mega-rich,’ said Steven.

‘It looks like it’s heading towards us,’ said Gerry.

‘Well steam gives way to sail, but anyway I think we’ll miss the harbour entrance on this course, so ready about?’

‘Aye skipper.’

With Gerry’s assistance he tacked on to a more northerly heading. They were sipping coffee having completed the manoeuvre when he realised that the larger vessel was once more heading towards them.

‘It looks like they’re going to intercept us,’ Steven remarked. ‘I wonder what they want.’ He turned to Gerry. ‘It’s not someone looking for you is it? They can’t possibly know you’re on board, can they?’

‘I can’t take that chance,’ she replied. ‘Is there anywhere I could hide?’ She searched around frantically.

‘Over the side!’ he said. ‘You’ll have to hold on to the safety line. We’re going quite slowly.’

‘But they could still see me.’ She crouched down low. ‘If they’ve got binoculars they might have seen me already.’

She was right, but there was no other place to go. ‘Hold on I’ll get a snorkel.’

Steven hurried below and searched frantically in the store cabin and managed to turn up a diving mask with a snorkel attached. He hurried back to the cockpit. Gerry was nowhere to be seen, but he saw her clothes discarded on the seat. He looked over the stern and there she was clinging on to the safety line. He threw the snorkel and it splashed into the sea beside her. She let go of the line and pulled the mask over her face, dragged the straps tight and grabbed the line again. She clenched the tube in her mouth and as the yacht moved along she let the line run through her hands until she was at the far end, and he could just see her head bobbing about in the waves. The blast of a warning siren startled him and then he could hear the chug of the other boat’s diesel motor. He luffed up, spilled the wind out of the mainsail and ran down the jib and watched it pass in front, make a wide turn to parallel his course and then the helmsman skilfully edged it closer. Presumably there was a name and home port painted on its stern but Steven could not see it. There were no other identification marks that he could see. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he called out as indignantly as possible.

Two men leaned over the side of the boat. One raised a loud hailer. ‘This is Bermuda Coastguard. We would like to come aboard.’

The man shouting was red haired and grinned down at him showing a prominent gold tooth. He spoke with a southern American accent that seemed incongruous in a Bermudan Customs official, and surely a ship belonging to the Coastguard would have its ownership prominently painted on the hull. ‘I’ll be in harbour this evening,’ he shouted. ‘Can’t it wait until then?’

‘We’ve had a report that you have a known criminal on board. Take in your sails; we’re coming alongside.’ Two other men appeared holding machine guns, which at the moment they rested casually on the coaming.

‘Ok, hold off a minute,’ Steven shouted. He lowered the main sail and then he threw the fenders down beside the hull and signalled that he was ready. He looked around the cockpit. Shit, there was her bra lying on the seat! He picked it up and shoved it in his pocket. His yacht juddered as the boat came alongside and the red haired man jumped down on to the deck, followed by another.

‘Ok where is she?’ this second one demanded in an educated English accent.

‘Where’s who?’ Steven asked in return trying to adopt an expression of genuine puzzlement.

‘Vince, why don’t you take a look below?’ red hair suggested. The Englishman opened the cabin door and went into the main saloon.

‘Hey, wait a minute!’ Steven called out.

‘Listen, we know she’s been on board. She accessed the internet and we traced her to your yacht.’

‘Traced who?’ demanded Steven. The American hit him hard under the ribs and he fell back on to the seat clutching at his mid-section and gasping for breath.

‘Quit screwing around. Where is she?’

‘Ok,’ said Steven. I did pick someone up, but two days ago a boat like yours only smaller called the Kingfisher, registered in Miami, intercepted me. They took her off. I don’t know where they went. ‘

‘So why did you deny that she’d been on board, you jerk?’

Steven tried to appear as ingratiating as possible. ‘They warned me not to say anything. They said they‘d be looking out for me in Florida. That’s why I’m going into Bermuda. I thought I’d turn round and head home after that. I thought they were a drug smuggling gang; they scared the shit out of me actually.’

The man named Vince reappeared. ‘She’s not down below, but here’s a DNA sample.’ He held up a brush festooned with long dark hair.

‘Ok,’ said the first man, ‘you’re gonna tell us exactly what happened, how you picked her up, what she said; everything.’

‘You’re not the Coastguard, are you?’ said Steven.

He related a quick story of picking up a woman from a life raft who gave her name as Emily. Subsequently she was picked up by another vessel. The two Americans told him to go below. He heard them making a call, presumably on a satellite phone, but he could not make out the words.

Then the man in charge came and spoke to him. ‘Ok you can go on to Bermuda now. We’ve found out that there are two boats called Kingfisher registered in Miami. We’re going to check a few things out, and if anything comes up we’ll be ready to meet you on shore, and oh boy, if we find you’ve lied to us it will be the worse for you.’

Steven watched the launch head off back to harbour. He read the name Seahorse 2, Fort Lauderdale, painted on the stern. He wanted to start the motor immediately and retrieve Gerry, however he decided that might look suspicious, so he slowly hoisted the main sail, but he did not sheet it home. When he was sure they were out of sight he began to reel in the safety line, and was relieved to find that it was still weighted. After a minute he saw her head, and waved and to his relief she gave a brief wave back.

A couple more minutes and she climbed back on board, exhausted, coughing and retching with a rope burn from where she had wound it around her. She winced when Steven hugged her, but she still clung on to him.

‘I’m sorry; they knew you’d been on board. They found out about you because of something you used the computer for.’

‘Oh shit!’

‘They also found a hairbrush you’d been using, and talked about DNA sampling.’

‘They didn’t say who they were, did they, or show any ID?’

‘No, but I don’t think they were from Bermuda Customs. One of them sounded American, and one of them was English for certain, and he was called Vince.’

He gave a small smile that quickly faded when Gerry immediately released him and he saw the expression of angry hatred that spread over her face. ‘Was the American red haired, with a gold tooth?’

‘So you know them,’ he said.

As dusk drew in the Surprise was half a mile off shore in Gunner Bay and the tide was turning. The breeze had died away during the evening and it was now almost calm. Gerry climbed down into the inflatable dinghy. She was wearing Steven’s ill-fitting dark clothes and in a plastic bag under the thwart she had two hundred US Dollars and fifty UK pounds. She gave a quick wave and then began to paddle the dingy towards the shore. Steven watched her until she was swallowed up in the darkness and then with all lights blazing he motored the yacht towards Town Cut and into St. George’s harbour. He hooked on to a buoy, let go the anchor for additional security and switched off the engine.

A few minutes later the Customs and Immigration vessel pulled alongside. ‘Hello Surprise. Permission to come aboard, Captain?’ A man aged about sixty dressed in a white uniform of Bermuda shorts and shirt with an insignia on the collar stepped aboard.

‘Hi, nice to have someone to talk to at last,’ said Steven.

‘Ah yes, the loneliness of the solo yachtsman,’ he observed. He offered his hand to shake. ‘You, I presume are Steven Morris. I’m John Grant.’

A young man aged in his mid-twenties stepped across after him, wearing a similar uniform, but with a sidearm in a button down holster around his waist. ‘This is Sam Goodhew of the Customs.’ Steven shook hands with the young man. ‘He just has to make sure you haven’t brought anything you shouldn’t have with you. You’ve come from the Azores, I believe.’

‘That’s right,’ said Steven.

‘You know the regulations regarding animals and fresh produce?

‘I’ve no animals on board and the fresh produce ran out many days ago,’ Steven assured him.

‘Very good, well Sam will have a poke about while we fill out the paperwork, then.’

Steven led the way below and they sat down at the table. Grant kept up a steady flow of chatter while he inspected Steven’s yacht master’s certificate and insurance documents and Steven filled out his personal details. He was holding his passport in one hand and writing down the date of issue on an immigration form when a large plastic bag containing a white powder thudded down on the table.

‘This would appear to be cocaine, Mr Morris,’ Goodhew declared. Steven stared at the bag in horror. After a short silence, Grant reached across and tugged the passport out of his fingers.

‘Perhaps I’d better take care of that for the moment.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Gerry walked along the narrow road until she came to a house with a small sign with the name of a holiday rental company on a post beside the driveway. From her rucksack she pulled out the list of rental properties that she had printed out from Steven’s computer and by the light of the moon she checked the address. She crept around the perimeter looking for burglar alarms, security guards, canine or human and then walked boldly up to the front door and rattled the door handle and called out ‘Hello, anyone at home?’

She scanned the area and then walked around the back of the house where she found patio doors adjacent to a swimming pool. She picked up a leaf strainer from beside the pool and drove the long pole at the glass door. It was made of toughened glass that broken into a myriad small pieces that cascaded to the ground in a sizzling shower that sounded very loud to her adrenaline heightened hearing. She walked quickly away from the house, glancing back over her shoulder for any sign that police or neighbours might be taking an interest. She waited twenty minutes before returning to the scene of her crime, stepped quietly into the house, checked out the ground floor and then ran upstairs. She peered out of the bedroom window and watched the street for another fifteen minutes. A few cars drove past but there was no sign that her breakin had raised an alarm. She ran back down to the utility room where she found the mains water stopcock and an electric water heater switch.

While she waited for the water to heat up she switched on the television in the living room and watched CNN for a while before flicking through the channels. She wandered around the house looking at books; picking up ornaments and setting them down; gazing at the pictures hanging on the walls; thinking about the normal life she had lost before Phil had been killed, or as normal as was possible for someone in executive operations. After twenty minutes she returned to the bathroom, tested the water, stripped off and climbed in with a big smile on her face. It was pure luxury to bathe in hot fresh water and wash the salt out of her hair with the expensive brand of shampoo she had found in a cabinet.

The bedroom cupboards were empty, but at the end of the house she found a door that was locked. She examined the frame and then searched in the kitchen until she found a meat tenderiser and took a shelf from the oven. She hammered the oven shelf into the gap between door and frame and levered it open, mouthing an apology to the house’s owner as the frame splintered. As she hoped the room was packed with personal belongings that the owner of the house did not want any holiday lessees to share. Inside a cupboard she found clothes that fitted quite well. The trousers were a good fit around her waist but not surprisingly they were too short in the leg, but there were shorts and skirts which she could easily wear. The next thing she required was some make-up; she pulled open drawers of a dressing table and found what she needed.

In the kitchen she opened some tins and ate the contents cold. Then she went back upstairs and cleaned her teeth as best she could with a finger. She inspected the peg from where her crown had been dislodged. She tried a smile, then shook her head and muttered ‘sod it.’ She went into a bedroom, yawned, set the alarm on the clock radio, slumped down on the bed and fell asleep.

Steven Morris had not been arrested since he was a student involved in a drunken brawl at a nightclub. On that occasion he had been released after a few hours because he had managed to convince the duty sergeant that he had been no more than a bystander who had tried to defuse the tension, but he remembered it as a salutary experience. Now thirty years later he was on the much more serious charge of attempted drug smuggling. He had no idea if the penalties in Bermuda were fairly lenient, in accordance with British criminal justice, or as harsh as in Thailand. In any event he had no wish to spend time incarcerated while his yacht lay unattended and unprotected at some obscure mooring. He had demanded to see a lawyer as soon as possible, and now after an uncomfortable night in a police cell he was ushered into an interview room by the duty sergeant. A tall well-built middle aged man dressed in an elegant lightweight suit was seated at the desk. He stood up and offered his hand.

‘Good morning Mr Morris. I am your assigned legal counsel. My name’s Hammond.’

‘Good morning Mr Hammond,’ he replied. He shook his hand and then took the proffered business card and read “Kenneth Hammond — Strickland, Hammond & Fitch Partners”. Steven felt some confidence returning ‘Have you been informed of the charges against me?’ he asked.

‘One moment please,’ said Hammond. He reached into a briefcase and brought out a piece of electronic equipment the size of a mobile phone and stood up. ‘Bug detector,’ he said. He walked around the room passing the device all around the walls, across the floor and under the chairs and table, while Steven watched in some surprise that a Bermuda lawyer would need to take such precautions. Then the lawyer stood by the door and abruptly opened it. Steven could see that the corridor was clear and he looked at his visitor with raised eyebrows.

‘So it seems we’re alone.’

‘Yes,’ Hammond replied, ‘can’t be too careful.’ He sat down and gazed frankly into Steven’s eyes. ‘The honesty with which you answer my questions will probably decide whether or not Gerry Tate ever gets home safely.’ Steven stared at him for several seconds, taking on board her surname. He wondered if the man opposite might be a colleague of hers rather than a lawyer. Then he realised that this man could either be trying to help Gerry, or possibly to arrest or even kill her. The problem was that he had no idea which.

Hammond studied his fingernails while Steven thought the matter through. ‘So I guessed that Gerry works for MI6. Does that mean you do as well? Are you a real lawyer?’

Hammond finished his nail inspection and folded his arms. ‘Is that what she told you?’

‘No, she said she worked for the Ministry of Overseas Development and her name was Emily Smith. How do I know that you’re not someone who is out to get her?’ he asked. ‘I might be handing her over to her enemies if I talk to you? You might be an accomplice of those two guys who planted that damn cocaine!’

Hammond smiled. ‘I arranged that.’

‘What?’ Steven shouted. He clenched his fists under the table, barely resisting the urge to leap up and throttle him. ‘You bastard! Why the hell did you do that?’

‘So I could have an excuse to have the two of you taken into protective custody without arousing any suspicions and to stop Gerry rushing off somewhere,’ Hammond explained. ‘Trust her to circumvent that. When this is over the chemical analysis will reveal that it was talcum powder or something and then we’ll let you go, but I really need you to tell me where Gerry is, and what she’s planning.’

‘I’m not certain I should trust you,’ said Steven. Hammond looked him in the eye.

‘I’m not sure if I can persuade you. Do you know I’ve considered all kinds of options? I considered threatening to harm you; your daughter; sink your yacht; throw you in jail. I’ve documentary evidence to show you that Gerry Tate is actually an aggressive, dangerous and a killer without conscience for whom you should have no shred of sympathy. What I’m actually going to do now is hand you back your passport take you to the gateway of this pen and call you a car. This will take you to the dock where your yacht is moored. The customs people will allow you on board and I would suggest that you slip out under cover of darkness.’ Hammond reached into his case and placed a passport on the table. ‘We’ll try and think of some other way to save Gerry.’ He picked up the telephone and dialled. ‘Sam, could you come in please?’

Steven picked up his passport and fanned through the pages until he saw his photograph and then pocketed the booklet. A few moments later the young Customs Officer who had boarded Steven’s yacht entered the room.

‘This is Sam Goodhew, Steven. I expect you remember him. Sam, could you take Mr Morris back to his yacht? I expect he’ll be leaving with the evening tide.’ Hammond stood up and offered his hand. ‘Have a good trip, Mr Morris. Sorry to have troubled you.’ Steven shook his hand.

‘Sorry, but Gerry told me not to trust anyone, or talk to anyone if possible,’ he explained.

‘No, no, that’s quite alright,’ Hammond assured him.

‘This way then, please sir,’ said Goodhew. Steven followed him out of the building. Outside in the yard Goodhew directed him to a Range Rover. ‘Do you need water and fuel? I’m afraid I’ll have to charge you for the fuel, but I think I can give it to you free of duty which should save a tidy sum.’

‘Thank you very much,’ said Steven.

‘The weather forecast is good for the next five days,’ Goodhew remarked as they drove through the gates. ‘You should have a nice run towards Florida.’

‘Look… turn the car round!’

‘What’s that?’ asked Goodhew.

‘I’ve decided I’ll cooperate. Take me back to Hammond.’

‘Well if you’re sure. I’ll just take the next right and then turn round there. We have rather narrow roads on these islands.’

Richard Cornwall was sipping a cup of coffee in front of his computer and checking his inbox when his telephone rang. ‘Yes, hello.’

‘It’s Goodhew, sir. Mr Morris has had a change of heart. I’m bringing him back.’

‘Well that’s marvellous,’ said Cornwall in a voice that he hoped Steven Morris would hear. ‘Tell him I’ll be very happy to see him.’ He switched off the phone. ‘Morris, you’re a bloody romantic idiot,’ he said out loud, but internally he was congratulating himself. He now had to find out somehow if Gerry had ever mentioned the name Richard Cornwall to Morris, and if she had, was it with admiration, approbation or murderous intent. Until then he would have to keep up the somewhat tiresome pretence of his Kenneth Hammond persona. He telephoned the agent who was keeping tabs on Vince Parker and Neil Samms, and then settled to await Morris.

‘I’m glad you’ve decided to help,’ Cornwall declared as Steven came back into the room.

‘Ok so what do you want?’

‘Firstly I’d like you to explain why Gerry was no longer on board.’

‘When we were about twenty miles out from Bermuda, this big yacht, motor yacht, came alongside. Gerry went over the side with a mask and snorkel. I tow a rope astern and she clung on to that. These two guys came on board and searched the yacht. Later she told me they were Neil Samms and Vince Parker. Well they didn’t find her, but they found a hairbrush festooned with her hair and took it for DNA. I thought they planted the cocaine.’

‘Oh I understand now,’ said Cornwall. ‘When you said two guys planted cocaine I thought you were referring to the men from Bermuda rather than these Americans. Sorry, go on.’

‘Anyway when she found out who the two of them were, well you should have seen her face — you’d think she wanted to kill them.’

‘Oh surely not. Now did she mention any other names?’

‘Not really.’

‘Not really?’

‘Well when she was asleep. She’d have these recurring dreams and she’d mention Ali a lot. I asked her who he was and she said he was on the raft with her but he died.’

‘Mmm… anyone else?’

‘She mumbled something about Phil when she was asleep, and once she called me Phil by mistake. I asked her who was this Phil guy and he said he was from her past.’

‘So I can take it that as you heard all these dreams you were sharing a cabin?’

‘Er yeah… that’s a polite way of putting it, but yes.’

‘Are you sure there’s nothing else she told you in intimate moments? You were her first lover oh, for years, probably since Philip.’

‘Four years… really? No wonder she was so… er, that guy Phil must have really hurt her.’

‘He’s dead Mr Stevens, and for the last few years she’s been in prison for killing the man who was responsible.’

‘What!’

‘Actually I don’t believe she did kill him: I think she was fitted up for it.’

‘Well thank goodness for that; she doesn’t seem the type at all.’

‘Oh no, of course she isn’t.’

They remained silent for a few seconds as each of them considered their divergent opinions of Gerry Tate.

‘Is that why she gave up her daughter for adoption?’ ventured Steven after a while. ‘Because she was in prison.’

‘So she told you she had a child?’

‘Yes. I think she wants to go back to England and see her child and then she’s out for revenge.’

‘Revenge on whom?’

‘On whoever’s responsible for dumping her on that life raft. And probably whoever put her in prison too I should imagine.’

‘Well she can hardly go through the usual channels; there’s an arrest warrant out for her. And it’ll take her some time to track down her daughter.’

‘No it won’t, she already knows where she is.’

‘What? How?’

‘She hacked into the adoption records.’

‘Ah!’ Cornwall shook his head slowly. ‘So she’s heading back to London. Unless of course she planted all that with you as disinformation.’

‘She may have done.’

‘So Mr Morris, what plans do you have now?’

‘I’ll continue to sail to Florida I think.’

‘How long will that take, do you reckon?’

‘Five to ten days, depending on the wind of course.’

‘Good, by the time you arrive, this should have all been resolved. Now perhaps you could tell me where you dropped her off, and what she had with her in the way of money, equipment, anything at all in fact.’

The sunlight flooding into the room woke Gerry up. She quickly dressed and then looked around the garage. She rummaged through a tool set and found some pliers, four screwdrivers of different types and sizes, a pair of tin snips and a utility knife which she added to a large shoulder bag in which she had already packed some clothes before leaving the house via the broken door. She walked back to a row of local shops and restaurants, found a telephone booth and bought a Diet Coke from a nearby shop and asked for change for the telephone. She searched for the major hotels in the directory, called the first on the list and asked to be put through to reception. ‘Hello is that where the conference is taking place please?’ Gerry asked.

‘I’m sorry you have the wrong hotel, we have no conferences booked if you like I can look up…’

Without waiting for the man to finish she hung up and then dialled the next on the list and asked the same question, this time with the response she had been hoping for.

‘Do you mean the American Orthodontics Society?’ The woman on the reception asked. ‘Are you attending madam?’

‘Yes I am,’ said Gerry. ‘This is Doctor Eve Adams. I’m running a bit late, can you tell me what time they’re starting?’

‘Well let me look at their schedule. Breakfast at 9am, meeting at 10am and the first speaker is scheduled to begin at 10.30am.’

‘That’s fine, thank you very much,’ Gerry said and hung up. She walked along the street to a secluded spot and cut a strip of metal from the empty Coke can and bent it double so she had a strip about one centimetre by six. Then she returned to the café and telephoned a local taxi company whose business card was taped to the wall and asked to be picked up.

Gerry walked into the hotel store and bought a copy of the Economist and a roll of adhesive tape. She wandered around the reception area taking careful note of the surroundings and then settled down in the Starbucks concession with a double tall latte and began to read her magazine.

When the American Orthodontics Society broke up for lunch Gerry rose from her seat and surreptitiously inspected the participants wearing their distinctive conference name cards. Helen Mendoza was several inches shorter than she was, but otherwise her hair and facial resemblance was fairly good. Gerry followed her into the elevator with a crowd of other delegates and followed her along the corridor and noted her room number. Then she walked to a service trolley and took the room maid’s clipboard and walked back to Helen Mendoza’s room and knocked on the door. She stood back and smiled at the door spy glass with the clipboard prominent. After a moment the door opened.

‘Good afternoon Doctor Mendoza, I would be grateful if you could just check that your minibar has been serviced for me?’

‘Oh… ah… ok. But I haven’t had anything from the minibar.’

‘If you could just check the security tag has been renewed please.’

As Helen Mendoza walked back into her room Gerry taped her metal strip over the door catch aperture.

‘Yes its fine,’ said the orthodontist straightening up and turning to look at her.

‘Thank you very much, doctor. I hope you have a pleasant stay and a good conference.’

Gerry replaced the clipboard and rode the elevator back down to reception and ordered another coffee. A few minutes later Helen Mendoza emerged from an elevator and walked into the conference lunch room. Gerry hastened back up to her room, pushed open the door and removed the metal strip. She searched through the woman’s luggage until she found a passport, driving licence, Visa and Amex cards, cash to the value of five hundred dollars and another seven hundred in traveller’s cheques.

She went into the bathroom, relieved herself of some of the coffee and looked in the mirror. ‘Good afternoon, my name’s Helen Mendoza,’ she said in her best American accent. ‘I need some dental work carried out.’

The dentist had been all sympathy as Helen Mendoza described how she had lost a tooth in a car accident two years ago and how she had been hit in the face playing tennis last week and now her cap had fallen off. ‘My travel insurance company and my dental health insurance people are fighting over who is going to pick up the tab,’ she had explained, ‘so I was wondering if you could just fix me up with a temporary crown.’

Gerry left the dentist two hundred and twenty four dollars worse off but with a full set of front teeth, or at least a suitable imitation. Then she went to a bank and took out three thousand dollars courtesy of Helen Mendoza’s passport, driving licence and credit cards. Next she paid a visit to the shops, bought a wheelie bag and some more suitable clothes and a laptop computer, thence to the International Airport where she found the British Airways ticket desk.

‘Hello, I need a ticket for today’s flight back to London, please.’

‘I’m sorry madam; this evening’s flight is full. We’ve got space on tomorrow’s in club and world traveller. Would you like me to book you for that?’ the agent asked her.

Gerry pursed her lips and suppressed a string of oaths. She dared not wait in case Helen Mendoza reported a stolen passport and Gerry was arrested before she could leave the island. She looked around and saw an Air Canada desk where the agent was being harangued by some apparently discontented customers. She walked over and eavesdropped that the much delayed flight to Toronto would be leaving in ninety minutes. She waited with as much patience as she could for thirty seconds but then ignoring discontented objections from the complaining passengers she barged her way to the front. ‘Do you have any seats left on that Toronto flight?’ she asked with her best smile.

‘Actually we do. You’d like a ticket?’ said the man gratified that he had one customer he did not have to placate over the delayed departure.

‘Yes I would thanks,’ said Gerry, relieved.

The flight proved to be fairly empty of passengers; presumably they had been re-routed by the airline on to earlier flights. Gerry wondered if she should have tried to bargain for a discounted ticket, but at least she had the comfort of a row of three seats to herself. After take-off she accepted a cup of coffee from the cabin crew, sat back in her seat and closed her eyes.

‘May I sit here for a moment?’ a man murmured to her. She sighed inwardly and opened her eyes then she started violently in her seat and slopped her coffee over the table top. She spent a half second wondering if she should be prepared to fight for her life or stop the coffee from pouring on to her legs, but then realised that he would probably not attempt to kill her on board the aircraft, and she was absolutely certain he would never have given her any warning.

‘I’ll go and get a cloth,’ said Richard Cornwall.

Cornwall returned a minute later carrying a damp cloth and a fresh cup of coffee for her. He watched in silence as she mopped her table and her legs. Then he took the cloth and handed her the coffee and sat beside her.

‘We thought you’d drowned until you started using the internet aboard that yacht,’ he said.

‘I’ve no idea who you mean by ‘we’. If you knew I was taking this flight then presumably you could have stopped me before I boarded.’

‘I wanted you to get away from there before Samms and Parker found you.’

‘Ok, so how did you track me down?’

‘Not my ingenuity, I have to admit. I had a message from Daniel Hall, who said that you had survived and were on a yacht destination Bermuda.’

‘How the hell did he know that?’ Gerry asked.

‘I assume a bit of a cock-up,’ Cornwall suggested. ‘He must have logged onto the website and read the reports. They must have forgotten to deny him access. You know what it’s like; sometimes people can take all the necessary precautions except the most obvious ones.’

‘Like me trying to log on from Steven’s yacht and showing that I was still alive?’

‘Yeah… pretty silly of you Gerry.’

‘Well maybe, but I’ve been in prison for the last few years trying to keep a grip on my sanity, not keeping up to date with tracking and surveillance, data monitoring and…’

‘Ok, point taken!’ said Cornwall alarmed by a note of hysteria. ‘Of course you’ve had a godawful experience. Sorry.’

‘And how do I know you haven’t arranged for me to be arrested on arrival in Toronto?’ she went on.

‘I could have had you arrested in Bermuda, still officially a piece of UK territory,’ said Cornwall. ‘Why would I let you go to Canada?’

‘Alright… fair point.’

‘You really are a ruthless bitch; you haven’t expressed any concern about Steven Morris at all! What do you think would have happened to him with your friends Samms and Parker waiting for him in Bermuda?’

‘Oh… is he alright?’

‘Fortunately I arranged for him to be taken into protective custody when he arrived and he told me something about your adventure. Now he’s off to Florida in his yacht. In the meantime I have put out some disinformation that you intend to travel to Egypt where you can live out of sight until…’ He broke off when he realised that tears were trickling down Gerry’s cheeks and she was ineffectually wiping them away with the back of her hand.

‘Bloody hell, you really have gone soft!’ he scoffed, but then felt ashamed. ‘I’m sorry; it must have been utter hell alone on that life raft for all that time.’

‘You think?’

‘Now officially I have no idea you’re still alive,’ Cornwall continued. ‘I’m meant to be on holiday in Barbados; my wife is still in the hotel in Bermuda. I hope she’s not enjoying herself too much without me.’ He glanced over at Gerry who was staring at the seat in front of her in some miserable world of her own. He sighed. ‘Look; you should trust me. We should pool whatever we know about this whole bizarre mess and we should work together.’

Gerry gazed out of the window, but drew little comfort from the vista of layers of white cloud topped by the deepening blue of the evening sky. ‘Who was responsible for putting me in prison Richard? And why was I brought out? Did you really think I would be a useful asset?’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘I thought you’d be a bloody pain in the arse. Fielding insisted. He wanted you to go to Guantanamo Bay. Ali Hamsin demanded to speak to you, but I don’t know what about.’

Gerry stared at him. ‘I find that rather hard to believe. Are you telling me you don’t know about operation Gilgamesh?’

‘I’ve been trying to find out, but it was buried years ago!’

‘I know, but Hamsin didn’t tell me where exactly,’ Gerry said.

‘What do you mean where exactly?’ Cornwall demanded. ‘It was an abandoned operation, but sensitive so all references were deleted, expunged from the records.’

‘But Ali Hamsin told me he had the documents. He knows where they were buried… literally!’

‘What… in the ground?’

‘Yes!’

‘Shit! No wonder there’s all this crap going on. There must be some really embarrassing stuff.’

‘Yes but as Hamsin didn’t tell me anything useful, they must have decided to just get rid of us both.’

‘There’s a report already written stating that you were responsible for that aircraft crash, and that everyone on board was killed,’ said Cornwall.

‘How could they possibly know that?’

‘They didn’t, but when the aircraft disappeared and then you turned up alive, they made the assumption. Then when Dan Hall disappeared from sight they reckoned that he must have had something to do with helping you.’

‘I guess that’s not too far from the truth.’ Gerry stared at the seat back. ‘If only I had shot the bastards straightaway. I could probably have flown that plane back to Bermuda and landed it myself! But why did Dan run off? He could have brazened it out?’

‘My guess is that he has some romantic notion of carrying out his own investigation into the Gilgamesh affair.’

‘But he knows I’m alive?’

‘Yes he sent me a message saying that you were expected in Bermuda.’

Gerry frowned. ‘How could he have known that?’

‘As I said, apparently he still has access to the confidential website,’ Cornwall replied. ‘So what happened on board the aircraft? In fact you’d better tell me everything that happened from the time you left Farnborough airport. After all we’re together in this aircraft for another two and a half hours.’

Gerry was coming to the end of her story as the aircraft began its descent towards Toronto.

Cornwall was silent for a moment, wondering if she would elaborate on her days alone in the raft but just then the Captain announced that the aircraft would land in ten minutes. ‘But didn’t Ali Hamsin tell you about Gilgamesh before he died?’

‘Ali didn’t tell me what was in the Gilgamesh document; he told me how to find it.’

‘Bloody hell! So are you going to tell me?’

‘Why should I trust you?’ she asked.

‘Because you can’t keep going on your own and because I’ll tell you how to find Dan Hall. Also if I wanted to, I could easily have arranged for you to be picked up at Toronto, rather than boarding the flight to talk to you.’

‘Ok then, it’s hidden in Lebanon with a friend of his. Richard, you have to let me go there and find it.’

Cornwall nodded. ‘Very well, I agree.’ He reached into his briefcase and handed Gerry an envelope. ‘In here is a United States passport in the name of Edith Williams and three thousand dollars and a UK passport in the name of Vanessa Davies, plus matching driving licenses. When we get to Toronto I’ll be getting the next flight back to Bermuda. Your mission, should you choose to accept it is to make contact with Dan Hall and find out what the hell Gilgamesh is all about. Then call me.’

Gerry looked at the passports. ‘I don’t think the name Edith suits me,’ she mused.

‘The name Melissa Madbitch suits you better, but I settled on Edith Williams,’ Cornwall replied. ‘Now, from Toronto you take a flight to Denver and then you get a connection to Jackson Hole in Wyoming.’ He handed her a piece of paper. ‘Send me a text to this number to say you’ve arrived. Then hire a car and drive to this location. It’s a campsite and you’ll find Dan Hall there. Take it carefully because Dan won’t be expecting you. Oh and here’s a telephone with fifty dollars credit.’

‘Oh good, do you have his cell phone number?’

‘There’s no telephone or internet coverage where he is.’

‘Oh, ok.’

‘My number’s in the memory under Barnes. By the way, that three thousand dollars is my own money, so don’t piss it away on a business class ticket or high living. It’s too late to get a flight this evening, so we’d better check into a hotel by the airport and you can set off tomorrow.’

‘Ok Richard… thanks. So you do trust me?’

‘Yes… but I still want separate rooms.’

‘Ha bloody ha!’ she retorted but he was pleased to see the small smile she gave him.

On arrival in Toronto, Cornwall watched Gerry Tate walk up to the United Airlines desk and buy her ticket and then he booked an Air Canada flight back to Bermuda. They took separate taxis to the hotel and made no sign of recognition while they checked in at adjacent positions. Alone in his room Cornwall made a telephone call to his wife and was pleased to find her in their room. ‘Hi Fiona, how are you?’

‘I’m fine, just having a beer and watching a Jason Bourne film. He’s much more rugged than you, but not so handsome.’

‘Thanks. Sorry you’re alone, but my flight gets in at ten past twelve so perhaps I’ll be with you for lunch.’

‘Oh I’m not alone; one of the room service waiters is with me, but I’ll get rid of him by lunch time tomorrow.’

‘So long as it’s a waiter and not some billionaire banker who will whisk you away, I’m ok with that. See you tomorrow darling.’

‘Ok, love you!’

‘Love you too, bye.’ He put down his phone and then tried to concentrate on a copy of The Economist magazine that he had bought in the airport news store, while checking his watch at frequent intervals. Eventually his phone rang.

‘Felix?…Yes it’s Richard. I’ve sent her on. She’s planned to arrive in Denver tomorrow on United 7842 at 9:30 Mountain Time for onward connection to Jackson Hole, arriving at 12:30 where she should be able to pick up the trail to Dan Hall. I’ve given her the location of his camp site.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The United Airlines Boeing 757 approached Denver out of a cloudless sky. Gerry leant towards the window and gazed down at the airport with its six runways as the aircraft flew past before turning in for its approach and landing. If Heathrow had that many runways it would eliminate all those annoying delays, she decided, but then half of Middlesex would have to be bulldozed. She checked her watch which had survived days on the raft unscathed, and adjusted it two hours back for the Mountain Time zone. She had an hour and fifty minutes to make her connection to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. She sat back in her seat, finished her diet coke and ran her tongue over her peeling lips and crowned tooth. Soon she would be seeing Dan Hall again. Dan Hall who had told her he loved her. She wondered what he would think of her if he knew that she had spent nearly a week on a yacht with Steven Morris and engaged in enthusiastic sexual intercourse for the first time since she was with Philip. Rather to her surprise she felt uncomfortable at the possibility he would somehow find out.

She had spent a restless night in the Toronto airport hotel room, wondering if she should abandon the enterprise; make her way back home and disappear somewhere. In Europe with its uncontrolled borders she would be able to move around quite easily if anyone came to find her, but she had decided that although that kind of life might suit her for a while, it would leave unanswered all the questions that had been troubling her while she was in prison. She wondered what precautions Cornwall might have taken to ensure she stayed on task. She had seen him watching her as she had checked in but then lost sight of him when she had gone into US immigration pre-clearance where her passport in the name of Edith Williams had been accepted without question. However, his flight back to Bermuda departed thirty minutes after hers so it was no surprise that he was at the airport.

The aircraft touched down to a rather firm landing that shook her out of her reverie. She gazed out of the window as it decelerated along the runway and watched an executive jet taxying past in the opposite direction, one of the hundreds that conveyed wealthy individuals and influential businessmen around the world. She recalled her trip in a similar aircraft to Florida. That flight was only three weeks ago, but it seemed much longer and she felt disconnected from her life before that date by the trauma of her days on the raft. As she emerged into the arrivals hall she swept her eyes over the small crowd but she recognised nobody, however she was observed by Neil Samms. He was wearing a wig of long brown hair gathered into a pony tail, a thick moustache that surrounded his chin and cheek inserts broadened his face. Behind his sunglasses he wore contact lenses which changed his eyes from green to a more non-descript brown colour. He wore jeans and a heavy leather jacket but these were his own clothes and he appeared relaxed and natural in them.

The last time he had talked to Gerry Tate was when they were on board the Gulfstream coming over from Farnborough to Florida. On that occasion she had appeared nervous and uncertain, not at all like the woman he had worked with years previously and who had treated him with obvious disdain, but the woman who emerged off the flight from Toronto was deeply tanned with her hair lightened by continual exposure to the sun. There was an eager look about her as she strode impatiently past the other passengers with a rucksack slung over one shoulder. She walked past the baggage belts and he trailed her to the United Airline transfer desk. He walked up to an unmanned desk where he pulled from his own rucksack a device that appeared identical to a cell phone but actually contained a sensitive directional microphone. He inserted the earpiece and then he picked up an airport information leaflet which he pretended to study.

‘Good morning,’ he heard her saying in her assertive manner, ‘I’m booked on the flight to Jackson Hole at eleven twenty-five.’

‘Ok ma’am, let me just check,’ replied the counter agent. He heard the sound of a keyboard being tapped.

‘Any checkin baggage ma’am?’

‘No, I’m just carrying this,’ Gerry replied. Samms heard the brief chatter of a printer.

‘Ok here’s your boarding pass. You need to go to gate 36 in an hour or so. Have a good flight.’

‘Thank you.’

Samms watched her wander aimlessly for a few moments and then she walked purposefully towards the Coffee Beanery concession. He returned to the ticket desk and booked himself on the 11:25 flight to Jackson. He reluctantly showed his imitation FBI ID to the duty manager but thus ensured that he was not by some calamitous misfortune seated close to, or even alongside, passenger Edith Williams. Samms nodded in satisfaction, and thanked the woman for her help. He walked past the coffee shop and saw Gerry sipping her drink and gazing out into the middle distance. He smiled and then took the elevator to the mezzanine floor and entered the smokers’ bar where he knew she would never go. He ordered a beer and lit a cigar.

An hour later Samms was undeniably nervous as he lined up for boarding. There were twenty others standing between him and Tate but he felt that at any moment she would swing round and recognise him despite the disguise. The contact lenses were irritating his eyes and he blinked rapidly behind his sunglasses. She suddenly swung round, but instead of looking at him she glared at the man behind her.

‘Just hold on would you?’ he heard her call out in a strong clear voice. ‘If you jostle me one more time I’ll deck you!’

There was an immediate buzz of disapproval from her fellow passengers and Samms was a little concerned that some zealous member of security would come over and suggest that she was too aggressive to be permitted to travel, but now it appeared that the incident was over. At least her journey through two major airports had ensured she was unarmed. His own Glock 17 lay in the bottom of his rucksack, permitted through security on the strength of his bogus FBI identity.

At checkin, his inspection of the small Canadair airliner’s seating plan had revealed that she was seated towards the rear while he was in the second row. On boarding the aircraft he took his place as quickly and unobtrusively as possible and read his copy of Classic Bike magazine.

Gerry studied the map of Wyoming and in particular the road from the airport to Jackson and the routes through Grand Teton National Park. Apparently Wyoming was the state with the lowest population density after Alaska, albeit with a large influx of summer visitors to its parks. If Gerry had wanted to hide she would have chosen a densely populated city where strangers would not be noticed, but perhaps Hall’s lack of experience or some personal reason had lead him to this remote spot. She gazed at the seat back in front of her and conjured up a mental image of Dan Hall whispering to her as he placed the gun behind her back. He had given her his phone number and e-mail address on a piece of paper and she remembered pulling the seawater pulped piece of paper from a pocket and dropping it on to the floor of the raft. She hoped that he would be pleased to see her. The Captain’s announcement that they would be landing in fifteen minutes broke into her train of thought. She wondered how liberal were Wyoming’s gun purchasing laws.

‘Then there’s this Remington at nine hundred.’

Gerry picked up the pistol, and checked the action. ‘Ok Hank, is this the cheapest you’ve got?’ she asked. She had not realised that a used hand gun would be so expensive, but then she had been used to having them issued to her free, courtesy of Her Majesty’s Government.

‘That one’s nearly brand new ma’am. I’m out of Glocks for now. They come in at around six hundred. You see I mostly do rifles. Oh wait a minute.’ He bent down and opened a drawer. ‘There’s this Beretta 8000 with an eleven round clip. They’re not popular round here. This is second hand, about twelve years old and you can have that for three hundred, maybe three hundred twenty with the rounds.’ Gerry took the proffered pistol and examined it carefully.

‘That seems ok. Have you got a range?’

‘Yeah, out back.’

‘You don’t happen to sell Tasers do you?’

Hank eyed Gerry carefully. ‘No ma’am, but Marvin does, and you can get that hunting knife you’re after off of him too. Range is this way now.’

Gerry stowed her newly acquired weapons in handy locations inside the cab of her rented Chevrolet Equinox and entered her destination in the satnav. She was about to set off when she remembered one more thing she should do. She pulled out her phone and sent a text message to Richard Cornwall to say that she was on her way.

‘Proceed to the highlighted route,’ a female voice announced for the third time in a slightly petulant voice.

‘Yes, alright,’ Gerry muttered. She put the gearbox in drive and headed off towards Moose. After a mile she passed a General Motors Yukon and without interest she noticed the driver sitting by the side of the road talking on a cell phone. If he had not been facing away from her with his pony tail tucked inside his jacket, she might have recognised one of her fellow passengers. Neil Samms watched her drive past and then started his rented vehicle. By dint of careful observation and interviews with two somewhat dodgy retailers in Jackson he knew that she was armed and dangerous. He had also watched her walking to the Mountain Rental Company and climb into the white SUV with plate numbers 17 and 4368 either side of the bucking horse emblem. He waited until five other cars had gone by and she was out of sight before he pulled off the roadside into the traffic and set off after her.

Dan Hall stood in line for the checkout at the general store in Moose muttering to himself that it was about time they opened another till. Since he had arrived at the nearby campsite a week ago he had noticed an increase in the number of vehicles parked outside the town’s stores. Perhaps it was time to move on again, but to where? As summer progressed every site would be getting crowded and there would soon come a time when they would be filling up with campers who had made advanced bookings, which he had no intention of doing. He had driven further and further north but if he drove much further he would be up to the Canadian border and he was not sure if he could safely get through border controls.

‘Good morning and how are you today?’ asked the young woman on the till.

‘Fine thank you,’ he replied, whilst thinking it was a bad sign that he was now a recognised customer. As he packed his groceries away he wondered if he should make plans to move on before the weekend when the sites would become even more crowded. ‘That’s thirty-two dollars and three cents, please.’

‘Er, thanks; here’s thirty five.’

‘Ok, here’s three dollars change and we’ll forget those cents. Have a nice day.’

‘Thank you,’ Dan replied. He took hold of his carrier bags and walked through the exit. As he gazed up the street while waiting to cross the road he saw a woman stepping out of a white SUV, yawning and stretching. He nearly dropped his bags. Gathering his wits he walked with his back towards her to the gap between the general store and the next door hardware store. He put down his bags and peered carefully round the corner in time to see Gerry Tate walking inside the diner outside which she had parked. How in hell had she survived? Even more extraordinary how had she managed to find him? She couldn’t possibly have done it on her own. He resisted the urge to rush over to her. First of all he had to make sure that she was alone. He tried to walk as quickly and as casually as he could to his small Toyota pick-up. He drove the vehicle slowly past the diner and peered in. She was sitting gazing at a map. He so much wanted to go straight inside and speak to her, ask her how she had escaped from the missing aircraft, what had happened to her in the days since he had last seen her. But now whose side was she on? Had she bargained for her freedom and safety in exchange for a commitment to track him down? As soon as he was out of the city limits, he accelerated as fast as the battered old vehicle could manage to get back to his stolen RV.

After he had turned off the road on to the track that led to his camp site he veered off and parked the Toyota amongst the trees. He walked between them until he came within sight of the Winnebago. He gazed around, all his senses on maximum alert for any unexpected presence, half expecting a snatch team to emerge from the woods and take him down. He had to get out of there now. But which vehicle? He could head for the border in the four wheel drive pick up along the dirt tracks he had already mapped out in his head. But all his survival kit was in the RV.

‘Hey fella,’ someone called out in a California drawl. ‘I don’t know if you already checked it, but I reckon your back tyre there’s pretty well flat.’

Dan glanced briefly at the elderly hippy type sitting beside his Harley Davidson motor bike with a cigar clamped between his teeth and then examined the right rear wheel. ‘Shit, you’re right, thanks. Fuck it!’ He bent down further and saw the spare wheel stored in a cage under the vehicle.

He wondered if the guy with the Harley might give him a hand, but when he looked towards him the man had disappeared. He retrieved the lug wrench from its stowage and tried to loosen the first nut. Goddam it, they were on tight! He thought again about driving the Toyota instead when suddenly the nut gave and he started on the next one. He did not see the white Chevrolet Equinox driving slowly between the other parked up RVs and stop fifty yards away neither did he notice the driver walk quietly up and gaze at his straining back.

‘Do you need a hand there?’ a female voice called out in a clearly enunciated English accent. Dan whirled round with consternation and a happy smile fighting for control of his expression. There was Gerry standing there alone with one hand on her hip and the other clutching a set of car keys. He could not hear the sound of voices calling out orders; the clicking of weapons being armed and there was no sign of a SWAT team encircling his position. Just Gerry, standing straight and tall with a half-smile playing on her lovely suntanned face.

‘It’s good to see you Gerry,’ he said, dropping his guard but then looking warily around. ‘But how the hell did you find me?’ Instantly she looked alert and gazed around.

‘You told Richard Cornwall where you were. He told me I would find you here.’

‘Richard Cornwall…Who’s he?’

They stared at one another; both astonished and instantly worried.

Then they heard a helicopter approaching overhead. It was no more than two hundred feet up and they could feel the downdraught from the rotor as it drew to a hover overhead. The two of them stared up at it and saw the word police written large on the underside.

‘Shit!’ Gerry shouted above the noise, ‘I suspect that someone else has picked up the trail.’

‘I think it’s time to leave.’

‘That helicopter will trail us!’

‘Then let’s get rid of it.’ He opened the door to the RV and disappeared inside. Ten seconds later he emerged carrying an M79 grenade launcher. He held it high for a moment and then crouched down and aimed it towards the police helicopter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

‘Jesus H Christ he’s got a thump gun!’ Vince Parker shouted at the helicopter pilot. ‘Get us the hell out of here!’

The young pilot pulled the chopper into a high climbing turn and waited twenty seconds before asking his question. ‘What’s a thump gun?’

‘A grenade launcher; it can blow this helicopter apart,’ Parker replied.

‘So we’re not going back there, right?’

‘No. Just give me a minute… let’s see; can you put me down in the roadway at the park entrance?’

‘Well the road’s not very wide… but yeah, that should be ok.’

‘Then let’s take a wide circuit behind that hill and then bring it down below tree level,’ Parker suggested.

‘Hey! Like in the movies!’ the pilot agreed with enthusiasm.

‘If you like,’ said Parker, ‘but we’re the good guys so let’s be careful, alright.’

‘Ok, it’s your call.’

He lifted the chopper up and flew close to the ground until the camp site had disappeared from view and then picked up the trail around.

‘Are you sure they won’t hear us?’ the pilot called.

‘They might,’ Parker admitted, ‘but I don’t think they’ll be able to tell we’re we are. Is that the road back to their van?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Ok, put me down and then fly back and find the other guys; tell them to drive here.’

‘What are you going to do?’

Parker grinned and patted his M40 sniper rifle. ‘I’m going to herd them.’

Parker watched the helicopter disappear back behind the hill and then jogged along as quickly as he could while encumbered with the rifle until the camp site came into view. He crouched behind a tree and then took careful aim at the RV’s front wheel. The tyre deflated with a bang and the vehicle lurched over. Hall and Tate jerked round towards the sound of his rifle.

‘Ok I’ve got the two of you covered,’ he began to say, but Gerry Tate sprinted towards the woods beyond the Winnebago. He cursed and squeezed off two shots in quick succession. Oh hell, this was not going according to plan. A movement caught his eye and he saw a flash of blue amongst the trees. It was Tate running quickly through the trees. Towards him. He swung the rifle round and fired a shot. He cursed and suddenly realised that the bolt action rifle was a poor weapon against a quickly moving target, but soon she would slow down and try and stay under cover as she approached him. Then he realised she wasn’t slowing down; she was running towards him at full speed, leaping over tree roots and low scrub and ignoring the branches that whipped across her body. He aimed, fired and missed. He worked the clumsy bolt action as fast he could and fired again. Now she was too close and he could see the blood on her face where she had been cut by a tree branch and he could also see her face was contorted by hate and anger and she was nearly upon him and he worked the bolt action then tried to club her with the rifle just as she launched herself at him in a full on football tackle that knocked him flying. She rolled off him and he scrambled to his feet but not as quickly as she did. She backed off and checked that the rifle was out of his reach. He watched her clench her fists and rub her thumbs over her knuckles.

She was the same height as he was, or maybe slightly taller, but still she was a woman and however physically well developed, she was thirty pounds lighter than he was and not as strong.

‘So what are you going to do now Gerry?’ he grinned.

‘I’m going to beat the living crap out of you, you bastard.’

He watched her carefully, expecting her to run and try to drop kick him or trip him so as not to trade blows with him at close range, but she just walked quickly toward him and threw a punch at his face which he parried easily, but then her other hand jabbed towards him and he just managed to fend off a blow to his abdomen. He aimed his own fist towards her face but she fended it off and then connected a blow to his head that knocked him off balance swung round and kicked him in the back and he grunted in pain and fell to one knee. He suddenly realised that her speed and quickness of movement were entirely beyond his measure. He pushed himself upright and tried to close and wrestle her down to the ground but she quickly moved back but then she caught her heel on a tree root and tumbled over. He fell on top of her with the full weight of his body and prepared to drive his fist into her face but he felt an excruciating flash of pain to the back of his head.

Parker woke up face down with his arms bound behind his back and his legs tied to the back of the pick-up truck. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to overcome the throbbing pain in his head. Shit, what a bloody mess he was in, but surely Samms would be here soon. They hadn’t killed him yet, so maybe he would survive long enough to be rescued.

‘He’s awake,’ he heard someone say. Standing with Dan Hall and Gerry Tate was an old man with tanned face and full beard and mirrored sunglasses. ‘Seems I didn’t hit him hard enough, this friend of yours.’

‘Ok, let’s find out if he’s acting alone or expecting back-up,’ said Gerry. She pointed to the hunting knife in Dan Hall’s belt. ‘Lend me that, would you?’

Shit, what was she going to do with that? Hall handed it over without a word and then she knelt on his back and wrenched his arms up until he gasped from the pain.

‘Ok Vince, tell us how you came to be here or else I’ll have to start cutting off your fingers. Here’s the first one, just so you know I’m serious.’ She scored the side of his little finger with the serrated top of the knife blade. He screamed. ‘Ok, now you’re going to eat it!’ She prodded the side of his mouth with her own little finger. He gagged and turned his face away.

‘Come on Vince! Open your mouth!’ He pressed his face against the ground. ‘Ok so you don’t like that one. Let’s try another finger.’ She caught hold of his ring finger and scored it with the blade.

‘No I’ll talk! I’ll talk!’

‘Yeah I know you will you bastard,’ she snarled into his ear, ‘but one more finger first!’

‘No!’ he screamed as she jabbed his middle finger with the blade.

‘Ok tell us what back up you have and you won’t have to lose this one,’ she said.

‘Neil Samms is coming in a few minutes. He’s got the local police with him. You won’t get past.’

‘Oh… right. You mean they’re going to set up a road block? Where? Where the camp trail join’s the main road?’

‘Yeah, that’s it.’

‘Are you sure? I’ll cut your dick off if you’re lying to me.’

‘No I’m not lying!’

‘Alright then. I’m going to cut the rope from your hands.’

He felt the vibration as the ropes as she sawed through the rope and reluctantly he inspected his hand. He was amazed to discover that although his fingers had deep gashes and were dripping blood his hand remained intact. Relief was mixed up with fury. ‘You fucking bitch! I’ll kill you!’

She took out her gun and aimed between his eyes. ‘That sounded like a serious threat,’ she said.

‘Hey, wait Gerry!’ Hall called out urgently. ‘Don’t do it… you’re better than he is.’

She glanced towards him, back at Parker and then she replaced the gun in her pocket. She turned towards the old hippy. ‘Can we buy your motorbike off you?’

‘Hey, it’s not worth that much. Say I’ll trade it for that white Chevy of yours if you like.’

‘That’s not mine. It’s a rental,’ Gerry explained.

‘Aw they won’t miss it for a while. I’ll trade it for another bike.’

‘That’s illegal.’

The old man stared at her. ‘That coming from you, you’ve gotta be kidding me right. Hey, can I keep the guy’s rifle?’

‘Be my guest,’ she replied.

Neil Samms nodded in approval at the senior Police officer. The cars were arranged so that the Winnebago would be unable to drive out the camp site and all the patrolmen were armed with rifles and clearly knew how to use them. Where was the Englishman? He said he would meet them here. He took out his cell phone. ‘Vince, hi. Sorry it’s taken a while but we’re in position. Where are you now?’

‘He’s tied to the RV,’ said a female voice from the phone with a distinctive English accent. ‘When you cut the ropes, or open the doors, the bomb explodes.’

‘What in tarnation…?’ said the sergeant standing beside Samms, nudging his elbow and offering him a pair of binoculars. Samms peered through them and in the distance saw a Winnebago with a man spread-eagled across the front. He was standing precariously on the front fender to which his legs were tied and his arms were secured by ropes that lead through the front cab windows. He recognised the anguished face of Vince Parker.

‘Godammit, there’s no bomb, they haven’t had time!’ Samms insisted.

‘Whoa there,’ said the police officer, grabbing his arm. ‘We’re not taking any chances, after the way you described those fugitives. We’ll wait for a bomb disposal team before we go forwards.’

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ bellowed Samms.

Despite any number of dangerous activities she had undertaken in her professional life, Gerry considered riding pillion to Dan Hall on the Harley Davidson at high speed through the forest trails as one of her riskier moves. At her insistence Dan was wearing the old man’s crash helmet to protect his face from the branches while she clung on to his back and kept her head down as best she could. Eventually they found the main road which lead from Grand Teton into Yellowstone Park, but as they headed up the road Gerry heard a helicopter.

‘They could be looking for us; maybe we should turn off the road until it gets dark,’ Dan shouted.

The helicopter pulled up and disappeared over the tree tops. ‘Maybe just a routine patrol… oh shit!’

Nearly at ground level the helicopter came round a bend in the road and they saw bright flashes and heard the noise of a machine gun through the roar of the engine and the beat of the rotor. Dan turned the bike off the road and headed for a gap in the trees. A small ditch caught the front wheel but he managed to wrestle the heavy bike upright. The ground under the tall pine trees was uneven and laced with roots but he managed to keep up a speed of about twenty miles per hour as he zigzagged between the trees. Gerry glanced back and saw two men climb out of the helicopter armed with hunting rifles. A few moments later she heard four shots fired in quick succession but heard no sound of the bullets’ passage. They crested the top of a rise and Dan guided the bike down the slope. Gerry heard the sound of the helicopter now passing overhead and wondered if they had infra-red scanners on board. ‘Stop a minute!’ she yelled to Dan.

He brought the bike to a halt under a tree and turned off the engine. ‘Why what’s wrong?’

‘They’ve much less chance of seeing us if we keep still,’ she explained. Then he too heard the chopper and they stared up as it flew aimlessly back and forth for a few minutes before finally banking away and disappearing from sight, the noise of its rotors fading away.

‘We’d better stick to the woods until nightfall,’ Dan suggested. He started the bike and they rode down the hill. ‘Do you know which way we’re heading?’ Gerry asked.

‘I’m keeping the sun behind my left shoulder as much as possible,’ he said, ‘then…’. The bike suddenly lurched down into a hole and slewed sideways. Gerry tumbled clear and rolled over until her back thudded against a tree trunk driving the air from her lungs and for a moment she struggled to catch her breath. She turned round when she heard Dan gasping with pain and saw him struggling to lift the motor bike from on top of his trapped leg. She jumped to her feet and managed to tug it upright for long enough for him to scramble clear.

‘Ok how bad is it?’ she asked kneeling beside him.

Slowly and carefully he twisted his foot around, gasped and lay back on the ground breathing deeply. ‘Not broken, I don’t think. I’ll take my boot off and take a peek.’

‘Better not,’ said Gerry. ‘If it swells up you might not get it back on. Here, let me have a look.’ She carefully moved his ankle joint through a full range of movement and then pressed against the ligaments. He gasped a little as she pressed on his outer ankle bone.

‘It’s definitely not broken, nor even badly sprained. I think you’ve just bruised the outside of the joint badly. You might even have cracked the bone a little. I’ll ride the bike now.’

‘No chance; look at the front.’ The front tyre had burst and slewed off the wheel.

‘Oh crap,’ said Gerry. ‘Well to coin a phrase, on your feet soldier!’ She smiled and held out a hand and he carefully stood up and took a few careful paces. ‘Hey that’s not too bad. How are you though?’

‘My back hurts where I hit the tree. The rucksack absorbed most of the impact.’

‘The bottles did anyway. Water’s dripping out.’

She took off the pack and extracted two split plastic bottles. She suddenly shivered at the memory of being trapped on the life raft with nothing but a couple of water bottles and she began to tremble violently and she suddenly grabbed hold of Dan and clung on to him in desperate fear. Then to her intense embarrassment she suddenly started to weep uncontrollably.

‘Hey, we’re alright,’ he said soothingly and gave her a hug, inadvertently pressing on her bruised back.

‘Ow, you clumsy ox!’ She writhed and pushed him away. He looked at her with an expression of bewilderment, which quickly gave way to resentment. Damn it! Time to soothe his bruised male ego.

‘I’m sorry Dan; my back’s hurt more badly than I thought. Maybe you could take a look at it.’ She quickly took off her jacket and handed it to him and then tugged her shirt over her head. She stood in front of him for a moment in her bra before turning round. A moment later he felt his fingers gently touching her back. ‘You’ve a big bruise over your ribs; try taking some deep breaths to check nothing’s broken.’

She had already done that but still she turned to face him and took huge breaths that lifted her breasts and she saw him glance down quickly and then take care to look her in the eyes.

‘How does that feel?’

‘I’m ok.’ She pulled her shirt on and when he held out her jacket she stepped forward and kissed him quickly on the cheek. ‘Come on; let’s get back to the road. We need a ride. I think we should drive up to Billings in Montana, and then continue up to Saskatchewan. We’ll need a good off-roader; we don’t want to use a border crossing point.’

Dan looked at her, somewhat resentful of her assumption of command. Suddenly she grinned at him. ‘It’ll be like old times,’ she said.

His mind swept back years to the two of them crossing the border into Fujairah. ‘Yuh, sounds like a plan,’ he smiled and shrugged. ‘Well I expect all the crossing points will be closed to us, so we’ve no choice.’ He paused. ‘But I guess my passport’s going to ring alarm bells even across the border, so how are we going to get a flight out of Canada?’

‘We’ll make contact with my boss Cornwall,’ Gerry replied. ‘He can send a UK passport for you by FedEx or something, and then we’ll get back to London. After that we’ll make our way to Baghdad and find this Gilgamesh document.’

‘Hell, Gerry, you’re making it sound easy,’ Dan protested.

‘It’s straightforward,’ Gerry replied, ‘but it might not be easy. First of all we need a car.’

‘My guess is that they’ll head north to the Canadian border sir,’ Neil Samms said to General Robert Bruckner.

‘Your guess?’ Bruckner sneered.

‘My analysis, sir. We found their motor bike abandoned in the woods. The front tyre split.’

‘I would agree with that,’ said Jasper White. He turned round and stared at Samms for a moment who tried to avoid looking grateful. ‘Tate knows that you can order a full ports and airports in the States, but you can’t do the same in Canada. What we need to do is try and work out their intentions and plan to pick them up wherever they’re heading.’

‘Ok Jasper, so we nearly had the two of them,’ said Bruckner. ‘Now let’s see if you can find them for us again. Where’s Parker?’

‘He’s at the hospital, having his fingers stitched up.’

‘Bloody idiot. Is he ok?’

‘His little finger’s not working; damaged tendon, but otherwise he’s good to go.’

‘Post-traumatic stress disorder, triggered by the motorcycle crash,’ Gerry said to herself in self-analysis of her emotional outburst in the forest as she sat in the passenger seat while Dan drove towards Billings in Montana.

After walking slowly down to the roadside she had flagged down a four door pick-up. The owners had willingly stopped and given them a ride to the nearest big camp site when they explained that one of their trail bikes had broken down and as they were only single seaters they had decided to leave them hidden in the woods and get a ride. After saying goodbye to the couple they had begun to search for a suitable vehicle and found an unlocked GMC Sierra in which the owners had carelessly left the key ill-concealed on top of the sun visor.

Sharing the driving had enabled them to cover the eight hundred odd miles to Saskatoon, capital of the province of Saskatchewan, in twenty hours. After crossing the border they had abandoned the Sierra in the town of Swift Current and continued their journey in an old Toyota Corolla stolen from the airport car park. On the outskirts of the city they checked into one of the chain hotels used by the less well financed business travellers adjacent to a shopping mall.

‘Not too put too fine a point on it, we could both do with a shower and some new clothes,’ Gerry declared when they were alone in the hotel elevator. ‘We’d better go shopping.’

‘Have you got any cash?’ Dan asked. ‘I’ve got about seven hundred dollars left.’

‘I’ve got about a thousand,’ said Gerry. ‘I suggest we each buy a cheap wheelie bag, the size that they let you take on as hand baggage and a pre-paid cell phone. There’s a laundromat in the hotel basement, so we can wash what we’re wearing. Shall we meet in the lobby in half an hour?’

‘Are you sure your guy Cornwall will come through with the passports and more money?’ Dan asked.

‘Well if he doesn’t, then we’re screwed,’ Gerry replied. ‘That reminds me, first thing tomorrow morning I need to go downtown to the main post office and lease a post office box.’

Two hours later the two of them were sitting in the food court eating variations on the theme of diced chicken in oriental sauce with vegetables, rice and noodles. They had promised each other during the car journey that they would go to a decent restaurant, but having spent a fair proportion of their funds on the essentials, they decided that some economy was needed.

‘Right, I’m going back to get some sleep,’ Gerry announced after they had finished. ‘The prospect of a comfortable bed is too enticing to be put off any longer. I’m going to leave early tomorrow and set up that post office box.’

‘I’ll come with you, if you like,’ Dan suggested.

‘Ok, I’ll see you down at the lobby at 7.00am tomorrow then.’

Back at the hotel Gerry set the clock radio alarm to 6.30am and then sat at the desk with her new cell phone and called Richard Cornwall.

‘Hello, it is I,’ she announced.

‘Are you safe?’

‘Yes but we need to move on as soon as possible. Tomorrow I’ll send you a post office box number for the main office, Saskatoon. Can you send passports for the boy and cash? We need to buy airline tickets.’

‘Yes, I can do that, but listen; I feel so far out on a limb I can hear creaking and cracking; don’t let me down, Gerry.’

‘I owe you Richard, and I won’t forget.’

Gerry broke off the call and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She knew that her feeling of safety was based on the flimsiest grounds; even now her enemies might be surrounding the hotel and tomorrow morning they might be dead or in custody. She stood up and stared out of the window at the darkening skies. She turned on the television, flicked through the channels for a couple of minutes and switched it off. Then she lay down on the bed, but despite her fatigue she stared up at the ceiling and her mind wandered back and forth over the events of the last three weeks.

She got up again. Maybe there was an exercise room with a treadmill where she could run herself to exhaustion. She picked up the house telephone and called reception.

‘I’m sorry ma’am, but our exercise room is closed for renovation. I can give you a pass for the hotel a mile up the road, if you like.’

‘No that’s alright. I’ve just remembered I don’t have any kit.’

Gerry put the phone back and spotted her dirty clothes tossed on to the armchair. She picked them up and took the elevator down to the basement laundry room and found Dan leaning over a machine jiggling a handful of quarters and reading the instructions on the lid. Gerry hesitated in the doorway, wondering whether to stay or scarper back to her room before he saw her, but he spun round.

‘Hi Gerry, come to do your laundry? Sorry silly question, else you wouldn’t be down here.’

‘That was my plan,’ she acknowledged, ‘but I’ve just realised I don’t have any coins.’

‘No problem, I haven’t started mine yet, so add yours.’ He lifted the machine lid. Gerry placed her clothes in the machine and he set it going.

‘It’ll take forty-five minutes, according to the blurb,’ he said. Do you want to go and get a drink while we wait?’

‘Er… I’d rather just go for a walk, if you don’t mind.’ She hesitated. ‘I need to talk to you about one or two things.’

‘Ok then. Hey I thought you were going straight to sleep.’

‘I thought I would, but I started turning over things in my mind. I’ll tell you when we’re outside.’

‘Ok.’

They took the stairs to the lobby and found that a sudden rain shower and arriving guests were hurrying through the revolving doors, cursing the weather.

‘We could go to my room,’ Gerry suggested. ‘There’s some coffee or we could raid the minibar.’

‘Ok, that’s fine,’ Dan replied.

‘So what’s on your mind, Gerry?’ Dan asked, slumping into armchair while Gerry sat on the swivel chair by the desk.

‘Well amongst other things… you are a bit,’ she finished lamely.

He stared at her with a sombre expression. ‘Because I said I loved you back then, you mean.’

‘But I’m totally screwed up,’ she exclaimed. ‘I tell everyone I have a daughter, but the truth is I gave her up for adoption at birth. True my mother suddenly died and I didn’t feel I was the right sort of person to bring up a child. I’ve been assessed as mentally unstable by a prison psychiatrist. When I was alone in that raft, shit scared, I took a good long hard look at myself and I don’t like it much.’

Dan stared at her for a minute while she wiped tears away with her fingers.

‘I knew all that Gerry. I’ve seen the report on you, but I’m stupid enough to think I know you better than those people. Could you stand up a moment?’ he asked, getting to his feet.

‘Why?’ she asked.

‘So I can kiss you.’

Gerry gazed at him in wonder and then stood up uncertainly but Dan grabbed her around the waist with one arm and then gently place a hand behind her head and without the need for any more encouragement she kissed him hungrily and then with sudden desperation she pressed close against him. Suddenly he was pulling away and reaching towards his mouth and at the same time Gerry felt the sensations in her lips had altered. She darted her tongue forward.

‘My tooth’s fallen out,’ she wailed, just as he held out the whitish lump on the palm of his hand. ‘It’s a temporary crown,’ she explained. ‘Maybe I can get it cemented back in tomorrow.’ He handed it to her with a grin.

‘It’s not funny!’

‘I’m sorry, it’s just that you’re trying to talk whilst keeping your lips over your teeth; go on… show me.’ She forced a smile revealing the gap in her teeth.

‘One day perhaps you can tell me how that happened, but for now why don’t you put that somewhere safe and we’ll try that kiss again. Gerry stared at him for a moment.

‘Do you think you still love me then, Dan Hall?’ she asked. He looked back at her seriously, no trace of the grin.

‘I guess I have done ever since I met you in Muscat.’

Gerry shook her head. ‘Back then I was cheerful, optimistic, happy. A lot’s happened to me since then: I’m a different person.’

‘Everybody changes,’ Dan replied. ‘Perhaps I can change you back to being happy, if you give me a chance.’

She took a step towards him and they resumed kissing, and to show that she had no lingering inhibitions she plucked his shirt clear of his waist band and tugged it over his head and then lifted her arms so he could take off hers. She kept still while he fumbled with her bra hooks, then flung it aside and pulled him down on to the bed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Gerry woke up early in the morning and found that she was alone. Maybe Dan had gone back to his own room. She turned over and hugged a pillow but she was seized with a sudden anxiety. She telephoned his room but there was no reply. Suddenly her door clicked open. She rolled off the side of the bed, snatched up her gun from the bedside table and peered over the rumpled covers. Dan came into the room carrying the bundle of washing they had left in the laundry room and saw her.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

‘Defending myself against a man carrying a bunch of clothes apparently. Please don’t sneak in or out again.’

‘Ok, I won’t,’ he assured her, dumped the clothes on a chair and hobbled off to the bathroom. She climbed back into the bed and pulled the covers over her.

How’s your ankle?’ she asked when he emerged. He twisted his foot back and forth.

‘Still aching, but I can walk normally. She forbore to comment as he walked over to the bed with a set face and then fell on to it beside her. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she replied giving him a gap toothed smile in return. ‘What’s the time?’ She answered her own question by propping herself on an elbow and reading 6am on the bedside clock.

‘There’s two hours before the post office opens,’ he said.

‘Good,’ she replied, threw aside the covers and rolled over on top of him.

‘Ooof,’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re certainly no lightweight.’

Twenty minutes later he emerged from the shower and found her sitting staring at the mirror with a gloomy expression.

‘What’s on your mind?’ he asked.

‘After many years of anticipation I hope you haven’t become disillusioned with me. And I don’t mean by my performance in bed. I’m mad, bad and dangerous to know.’

‘Hey that sounds like Shakespeare.’

‘It’s actually how Lady Caroline Lamb described the poet Lord Byron when they first met; later they had an affair.’

‘Did it end happily?’ he asked.

‘I’m afraid not.’

He walked over and kissed the top of her head. ‘I don’t think you’re a poet, and I’m certain I’m not a lady, so I won’t let that worry me. Come on let’s get dressed, it’s time for breakfast.’

‘We would like to rent, hire or lease a post office box,’ Gerry announced to the clerk.

‘Yes ma’am. Do you know what size you want? They’re between a hundred and ten and six hundred fifty dollars a year depending on size plus fifteen dollars for two keys.’

‘Oh we only need it for a short time,’ said Gerry.

‘Minimum rental time is three months. Say, are you Vanessa Davies?’

Gerry felt a surge of adrenaline. She stepped back from the counter and spun round scanning the other occupants of the office.

‘Only er… ma’am, there was a guy in here earlier named Richard Cornwall who left a parcel for a Vanessa Davies, who er… said he was British, and that you were as well and that you er… could show a passport to pick it up. Ma’am?’

Gerry slowly turned back to face the man. ‘Yes. I’m Vanessa Davies.’ She reached into her rucksack and pulled out the UK passport that Cornwall had given to her and handed it over.

‘Thank you. Just wait here and I’ll fetch it for you’

Gerry stared out into the street. Dan was sitting in the car watching the entrance. She looked up and down but there was nobody who appeared suspicious. Nobody but Cornwall could know where she was, or that she possessed that alias, but how could he have got here so quickly? Had he been following her all this time?’

‘Here it is Miss Davies. You’ll have to sign this receipt.’

Gerry signed and took the large, thick envelope from the curious official. She felt it carefully through the internal bubble wrap. It could easily be passports and a bundle of money. Then she saw the note written on the flap. “Starbucks, Mid Town Plaza. Top of each hour.”

‘Do you have a photocopier I could use?’ She asked.

‘Over there. You need quarters to operate it.’

Gerry placed the envelope on top of the copier and fed in coins. With the lid up she studied it as the bright light made four passes under it.

‘Hey you’re meant to have the lid down!’ another customer suggested.

‘Bugger off!’ she muttered under her breath. She picked up the parcel and opened it. Inside it was a United Kingdom passport with Dan Hall’s image in the name of James Huntley. In another envelope was three thousand pounds sterling and seven thousand US dollars. ‘Thank you Richard,’ she muttered.

‘Could you tell me where Mid Town Plaza is?’ she asked the customer who had been keen to advise her on the use of a photocopier.

She smiled happily as Dan climbed out the car and lifted his eyebrows. ‘Cornwall’s left an envelope for us to pick up. A UK passport for you and enough cash.’

‘He left it there?’ Dan frowned. ‘How did he get it here already?’

‘I don’t know. He wants us to meet him at Starbucks just south of here in Mid Town Plaza which is a shopping mall with underground parking. It’s just coming up to eight o’clock so I guess the place is open and he should be there.’

Dan ordered two double tall lattes while Gerry looked around the coffee shop and then walked back outside and scanned the area. She checked her watch and sat down next to Dan who had chosen a table from where they could watch the entrance.

‘It doesn’t seem like he’s coming,’ Gerry admitted as she drained her coffee ten minutes later.

‘Should we stay around here?’ Dan asked, ‘or go back to the hotel and come back later.’

‘I guess…shit!’

‘Hi Gerry, hi Dan,’ said a young woman who had appeared beside their table. She took off her sunglasses and then her hat from under which long blonde hair tumbled down.

‘Annie Maddon,’ said Gerry, ‘what a pleasant surprise.’ She looked around once again, wondering if a team of agents was surrounding the coffee shop and going through her options: to flee, to fight, to grab Annie as a hostage. Had Cornwall betrayed her? Had Dan?

‘I expect you’re wondering how I got here,’ Annie suggested.

‘I certainly am,’ said Dan.

‘There’s just the two of us: me and Felix Grainger. Felix told me to come in to see you because he said I was less likely to get my head blown off. Richard Cornwall told us where you were and that you needed stuff. We brought it here.’ She smiled. ‘We’re on your side.’

Gerry and Dan exchanged glances: Gerry shrugged. ‘She seems to be on her own. I don’t see how she could be here if she wasn’t telling the truth.’

‘Yeah I can buy that,’ Dan agreed. ‘Where’s Felix?’ he asked.

‘He’s waiting back at your hotel,’ Annie replied. ‘Shall we go and join him?’

Felix Grainger smiled broadly as he shook Dan and Gerry by the hand.

‘It’s good to see you guys again. Richard Cornwall has briefed me. You don’t have much time. Cornwall asked me to ask you where you’re going in case he needs to find you again.’

‘We’re planning to go to Kuwait via Toronto, and then try and get a flight to Baghdad…’Dan began but Gerry grabbed his arm.

‘Wait! You’ll forgive my suspicions, but I’m not prepared to tell you anything more Felix. Maybe I should trust you but I’ve no idea who you might talk to in your office or in mine. We’re going to leave tonight and anyone I find trailing us will be treated as an enemy.’

‘Fair enough.’ Grainger shrugged. ‘Well I guess I’ve done my bit. Annie and I will take off now.’ He reached into a pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. ‘Here’s some contact details. If you get stuck and you feel you can trust me you can give a call.’ Dan took it from him.

‘Ok Felix; thanks.’

‘We’ll see you around, then.’

‘You bet.’

Grainger and Anne Maddon took a taxi back to the airport and settled down in the Starbucks concession to await their flight.

‘I guess it’s no surprise that Tate doesn’t trust anyone after what she’s been through,’ Maddon said.

‘I know, but they’re rather cutting themselves off.’

‘Cornwall didn’t give you any further clue as to their intentions did he?’ she asked.

Grainger shook his head. ‘No. Whether that means he doesn’t know or if it means he’s just not telling, well you’re guess is as good as mine.’

‘Excuse me Felix, I need to go visit the rest room.’

Boarding starts in ten minutes; I’ll see you at the gate.’

‘Ok.’

Maddon picked her handbag and went to the rest room where she pulled out her cell phone. ‘Uh… General Bruckner? Maddon here. They’re ready to leave… No I’m not going to try and trail them. She and Hall were friendly enough but she gave us a warning that anyone she sees following them would be dealt with… What? Of course she’s serious, she’s a goddam psycho. They’re heading for Kuwait. You should have no trouble picking them up in Toronto.’

As the Boeing 767 climbed out of Halifax airport Gerry twisted about and tried to get comfortable while she considered her last two trans-Atlantic flights. The first had been in the supreme comfort of a Gulfstream corporate jet and in the second one she had been lashed to the seat as a criminal. The best she could hope for now was that the flight would pass off quickly without any incident. Any discomfort she felt would easily be endured in the confident expectation of a safe arrival and in the comfort she felt in the presence of the man sitting next to her. She looked at his profile. He was not especially handsome and his features were spoilt by the dog bite scar that disfigured his cheek, but she had an undeniable urge to reach over and hug him. She tried to analyse when this emotional bonding had begun. She had originally thought that she had seduced him, or allowed him to seduce her as part of a general plan to bend him to her will, but now she felt an undeniable impulse to reveal her innermost secrets to him. She felt she needed to speak to him about her terrifying time on the raft and how she was rescued by Steven Morris, but of course not including her affair with him while she was on board. She wanted to talk to him about her life in prison, the unexpected death of her mother and giving up her baby for adoption. Not her sexual adventures with Angela though. Or maybe that would be a turn on for him? Men were weird that way. No better not risk it. She glanced towards him again. If he had experienced any gay encounters she certainly didn’t want to know. Anyway he was a regular guy in the marines, just like that Jasper White bastard, so no chance. Then she frowned as she thought about him.

‘Do you think Richard Cornwall will be ok,’ she asked Dan after a while, ‘I feel really guilty about leaving him in the lions’ den, so to speak.’

‘I’m sure they’re not going to arrange for his termination, not while we’re alive and loose anyway.’

‘I’ll bloody well be after them if they do,’ she muttered.

‘I hope you’re not considering some kind of death list after all this,’ he said. ‘We need to find out what this Gilgamesh thing is about, and then we can get people arrested.’

‘Don’t worry; I’m not trying to wreak vengeance and I don’t have a hit list,’ she assured him.

Apart from the one with Robert Bruckner, Sir Hugh Fielding, Jasper White, Neil Samms and Vince Parker on it, she thought. She lapsed into silence and stared at the back of the seat in front of her. Dan briefly squeezed her hand. ‘What are you worrying about?’ he asked. She looked across at him.

‘I’m ready to tell you what happened to me after you left me and Ali Hamsin on the aircraft.’

‘Ok good, I was kinda hoping you would.’

She described her fight on the aircraft, how she had fought the two pilots, the crash and her time on the raft with Ali and then his death. The near miracle of her rescue by Steven and the days spent on the yacht.

He listened in silence asking the odd question but generally letting the story and emotion flood out. When she had finished her story she hesitated a moment and then made her admission. ‘Steven and me on the yacht; we had sex. Several times.’

He remained still but she could hear him take a couple of deeper breaths. ‘Was it… was it having sex, or making love?’ he asked.

‘It was sex.’

‘Well I shouldn’t be surprised,’ he said. ‘After all you’d been through, the isolation. And him being alone on the yacht for all those weeks and then suddenly this beautiful women drops into his lap.’

‘So you’re not mad?’ she asked, ‘or disappointed?’

He smiled at her. ‘Why should I be? I’d have no right, though I’m relieved you told me.’

‘What? I don’t get that.’

‘Well for one thing I would have guessed that you did, because I’m sure if I was in a similar situation I would have done the same.’

‘Ok…’

‘And for another, your hesitation in telling me shows that you were concerned about my reaction. So that means you care about me and my feelings.’

‘You’re right; I do’ she said. She grabbed his hand and then leant over and kissed him.

‘Terminal Five is certainly an improvement,’ said Gerry as they rode up an escalator and walked into the Arrivals hall. ‘It was still being built when I went inside. Not that way!’ she called to Dan as he walked towards the Foreign Nationals line. ‘You’re a UK citizen now.’

‘Oh gosh yes, so I am’ he said in an appalling attempt at a sounding British.

‘Let’s hope your passport is more convincing than your accent,’ she muttered as he lined up behind her. ‘Stop it!’ she said when he tweaked her backside.

They emerged unscathed from immigration and took the coach to Oxford. ‘How far away’s this place where your folks lived?’ Dan asked.

‘It’s just beyond the city. From the centre we can get a bus to the village.’

‘Wouldn’t it’ve been quicker to hire a car?’

‘Well yes, but it would have been difficult without a credit card and I don’t want to leave any trail behind us if we can help it. Anyway we’ve got plenty of time.

‘I haven’t been on a bus in ages,’ he said.

‘Ok don’t be scared, I’ll look after you.’ she said with a grin.

‘You said you’d explain why we need to go there.’

‘I’ve got a small stash there. It’s under the garden shed. A couple of passports, a few other useful IDs, some more cash.’

‘Who owns the house now?’

‘My brother and I still own it, but it’s leased out,’ she explained. ‘We wanted to sell it but it proved difficult when I was inside, then property prices took a hit and it made better financial sense to keep it. I just hope the people in it aren’t at home. It’ll save some explanations.’

So it proved when Gerry rang the bell and knocked on the front door. Then she clambered over the side gate and unbolted it. ‘I guess this is how you used to sneak your boyfriends in when you were a teenager,’ Dan said.

‘I didn’t have any boyfriends,’ she replied. ‘Not until I went to university. There’s the shed. Seems to be in good condition, and someone’s certainly looking after the garden. It’s beautiful.’

Dan stared at her for a moment in surprise and then followed her over to the shed. ‘It’s padlocked,’ he said.

She fumbled briefly underneath by the door and came up with a small plastic bag inside which was a slightly rusty key. Inside the shed she pulled an old petrol engine mower aside and lifted up the floorboards, and then from under the shed she pulled out a metal box with a combination lock. ‘Here it is!’

She opened the lid and pulled out two hand guns wrapped in plastic and two boxes of ammunition. ‘Can’t take these with us, more’s the pity.’ She put them on the floor and pulled out a big envelope. ‘Here we are!’ She showed him a UK passport. ‘Do you recognise that name?’

‘Emily Stevens! I knew I recognised you from somewhere.’

She put it back in the envelope and pulled out another. ‘Ah this one’s better. Anne Fuller.’ She pulled out a third, stared at it then handed it to him. ‘You can take this one as a spare.’ The photo showed a cheerful looking young man slightly overweight judging by his neck. ‘Matthew Reynolds. It’s due to expire in about eight months but it will get you out of the country.’

Dan frowned at the picture. ‘He doesn’t look much like me, but then it’s nearly ten years old. How can I use this to go to Kuwait? The ticket’s in the name of James Huntley.’

‘I don’t think we should use those tickets. I think we should take a flight to Amsterdam or Frankfurt and then travel on from there.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘It’s just a feeling. If anyone’s on our tail then they’ll be expecting us to take the flight from London this evening we’re already booked on. This just leaves the trail cold.’

‘That makes sense, but why didn’t you say so before?’

‘I wasn’t sure if this stash would still be in place. It’s been over six years.’

‘Who’s this guy Reynolds in the passport?’ he asked.

She suddenly looked deeply sad. ‘That’s Philip Barrett. Phil. It was one of his.’

‘Oh… I’m sorry.’

‘It’s ok. I’ve got through it and now I have you with me.’ She managed a smile. ‘Come on, we’re going to take the Eurostar to Paris and tomorrow we’ll fly to Amman. We can get visas on arrival there.’

‘Amman? We’re going to Kuwait!’

‘Our destination’s Amman; that’s where I hope to find Rashid Hamsin. Kuwait’s a piece of misdirection, in case we were tracked.’

‘So that’s why we flew out of Halifax instead of Toronto? You don’t trust Felix?’

‘If Grainger or Maddon talk, they’ll say we’re going to Kuwait, but it’s in Amman I hope to catch up with Rashid Hamsin.’

‘So in case I was captured, I wouldn’t have known either,’ said Dan. She nodded. ‘Well you might have told me before now, it’s like you don’t trust me.’

‘I do trust you; it’s just that I’ve been on my own for so long.’

‘You’re not alone any longer. What’s the Eurostar?’

‘It’s the train through the channel tunnel and on to Paris.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

‘How the hell can you have lost them?’ General Bruckner bellowed into the telephone.

‘They didn’t turn up for the Kuwait flight they were booked on,’ replied Neil Samms.

‘You were meant to follow them when they arrived at Heathrow until they got on that goddam airplane; what happened to that?’

‘Well that was Weitzman’s job, General.’

Gary Weitzman, standing next to Samms, closed his eyes and grimaced while Samms grinned. ‘Would you like to speak to him?’

‘Not really, but put him on anyway.’ Samms held out the handset and Weitzman took hold of it as if it were red hot.

‘Weitzman here, General.’

‘Ok Gary, what’s the story?’

‘Tate and Hall came off the Halifax flight at terminal three, then they went down to the underground railway station there. They suddenly went into a door marked staff only and jammed it behind them. There’s a sort of network of corridors leading to fire exits and by the time we got through the door they had disappeared. She just had good local knowledge General.’

‘So she knew she was being followed?’

‘I don’t know General. I think maybe she was just taking precautions.’

‘Ok Gary, we’ve got all the airports covered and we’ve got their passport details. And our team in Kuwait are ready to pick them up when they arrive?’

‘Oh yes their ready, they’ll not make it through. The Kuwaitis are on side.’

‘And the Brits are cooperating?’

‘Yessir, they’re after them too.’

‘Ok Gary, I’ll be in touch.’

‘Yes General.’

Weitzman replaced the handset and grinned at Samms who looked at him in open mouthed wonder. ‘I don’t believe that! You frigging well lose them and rather than bawling you out he talks to you like an old pal of his! You’ve got a charmed life Weitzman!’

‘Those two are fucking idiots!’ Bruckner complained to Sir Hugh Fielding. ‘I’m gonna have their heads if anything else goes wrong.’

‘I wouldn’t be too hard on them Robert. Yes, they were clumsy to lose Tate and Hall, but Tate is a devious bitch; always has been. We’ll see what Cornwall has to say. What about Felix Grainger? Are you going to have him taken up?’

‘No he can stay out there on a long lead. Annie Maddon is reporting to me on his activities. Now we’ll be landing in twenty five minutes; let’s hope Cornwall hasn’t checked out.’

Richard and Fiona Cornwall had just finished packing their suitcases in preparation for their flight back to London and they were standing on the balcony gazing out towards the setting sun. There was a knock on the door.

‘That’ll be the porter,’ he said.

‘He’s a bit early but we’re ready so we might as well go,’ said Fiona she marched to the door and as her husband had always insisted she peered through the spy hole to identify their caller. ‘Oh!’ she said, ‘it’s not the porter, it’s a couple of policemen.’ She turned to her husband and gave him a look of inquiry.

‘Come into the bathroom! Now!’

Although for the last twenty years she had been a speech therapist, a wife and a mother, for seven years before that Fiona Cornwall had been an employee of MI6. She quickly checked the door bolt was secure and then grabbed a chair from behind the desk and dragged it into the bathroom and placed it behind the locked door while her husband tapped away at his I-Phone. She winced and gritted her teeth as the hotel room door gave way with a splintering crash.’

She heard muffled voices and then there was a knock on the bathroom door. ‘Ok would you come out please?’

‘What’s going on? We’re in the bath together!’ she said and saw her husband give a quick smile.

‘No you’re not, you asked for the luggage porter to come up in five minutes from now and you’re due to check out.’

‘Well we’re still busy in here!’

‘Open the door!’

‘Ok I’m nearly finished,’ Cornwall muttered. He quickly pulled the sim card from the phone and flushed it down the toilet. ‘We’ll open up,’ he called out.

Fiona dragged the chair away and opened the door.

‘What’s the meaning of this intrusion,’ she demanded with as much outrage as she could summon. Then she saw another man walk into the room.

‘Why Sir Hugh, what a nice surprise!’

‘Belt up Fiona,’ Fielding ordered. ‘Richard, you’ve some questions to answer. You’re coming to London with me. Your wife can go with British Airways.’

Robert Bruckner watched Richard Cornwall and Sir Hugh Fielding climb out of the car and then enter the cabin. The suave Englishman was too much of a professional to appear the least bit flustered and settled himself in the Gulfstream’s luxurious seat as if he was a guest rather than a man under arrest.

‘Jasper White has told us what’s been going on,’ Bruckner said without any preamble. ‘You’re up to your fucking neck in it.’

‘Yes but in what exactly?’ Cornwall asked. ‘A conspiracy to conceal the truth about a clandestine operation before the Iraq invasion. One that was too sensitive to be revealed by Philip Barrett or Dean Furness who were both killed, or by Ali Hamsin and Gerry Tate, both of whom were locked up. Then when you thought that you’d have to release Hamsin, you had this idea that he might be prepared to talk to Gerry Tate, and then when that didn’t work you were going to have them both incarcerated in some godforsaken prison cell. Or were you planning to just kick them both out of the plane, mid-Atlantic?

‘The only thing I haven’t worked out is what exactly it is you’re trying to keep covered up, and how high it goes. It obviously includes the two of you, but who else wants it kept hidden I wonder?’

‘You’re a smart man Richard, you always have been,’ said Fielding. ‘But of course what you’re saying is hogwash.’

‘You mean I can’t prove it. So what have you got lined up for me? Is something going to be pinned on me?’

‘We reckon we’ll have you for the murder of Geraldine Tate.’

Cornwall was quiet for a moment. ‘So you’ve managed to catch up with her, have you?’

‘Not yet, but we will do soon,’ Fielding assured him.

Although she excelled at Arabic, Gerry’s knowledge of French was schoolroom standard, and she was struggling to make the waitress understand her. She was somewhat amazed when Dan stepped in with a stream of fluent French which elicited a broad smile from the sulky waitress who then bestowed a look of contempt at Gerry before disappearing back to the kitchen.

‘What did you say to her,’ Gerry asked.

‘I just told her what we wanted to eat.’

‘There was something else at the end.’

‘I said that you were English and that meant you were incapable of learning another language.’

‘Bloody cheek!’ Gerry spluttered, ‘I’ll have…’ Her phone bleeped. She picked it up and frowned at the screen. ‘It’s from Richard Cornwall’s wife. She says he’s been snatched up by Fielding and suggests we act on the basis that he’ll reveal all he knows.’

‘Oh crap! Did he know we would be going to Amman?’

‘No, he thinks we’re off to Kuwait as well.’

‘Do you think he’ll be safe?’

‘Nothing will happen to anyone while we’re still on the loose, but if we can’t find Rashid Hamsin and find out the truth of operation Gilgamesh, then who knows?’

‘If they catch up with us, do you think they’ll put you back inside?’ Dan asked.

‘No I think they’ll kill us both,’ she replied. ‘We really need to find what we’re looking for.’

‘Do you think Rashid will help us?’

‘I hope so. I helped him get away when he was about to be picked up.’

‘I thought you were the one who snatched him in the first place.’

‘Yes that was me, but then the second time I was sent to pick him up, I arranged his escape.’

‘Let’s hope he remembers that. How are we going to find him now?’

‘His mother’s brother has a vehicle repair and car dealership in Amman. I can’t remember which type it is but I do remember it was one of the Japanese manufacturers.’

‘Well hopefully there aren’t too many car dealers in Amman then, otherwise we could be searching for days.’

‘It’s not going to be a problem finding the right one so long as an old friend of mine named Adnan Marafi is still around.’

‘Hall and Tate shouldn’t be too difficult to find,’ said Bruckner. ‘So they’ve not turned up in Kuwait, but we know they have to be heading towards the Middle East.’ He pointed to a map of the world displayed on one of the screens. ‘The other countries bordering Iraq are Turkey, Iran, Saudi Arabia, Jordan and Syria. Saudi Arabia is very unlikely as people can’t turn up without a visa, and I doubt that they have had time to get past that problem. Similarly Iran is a place where they don’t encourage tourists. That leaves Turkey, Syria and Jordan as the most likely countries but they could have gone to other places such as Bahrain where UK citizens are fairly welcome. I want you to go over Tate’s history and work out where she would most likely have gone.’

‘What about Hall’s past, General?’

‘This is Tate’s stomping ground. Let’s figure she’ll be calling the shots. Now get to it. I want them found. Oh, and keep the line open to London. They might not have the facilities we have but they know Tate better than we do.’

‘This should be the last time we have to worry about being picked up,’ said Gerry as they stood in line to board the flight from Paris to Amman the next day.

‘That sounds a bit complacent,’ Dan warned. ‘You don’t realise how much data we haul in these days, and what computing power we’ve developed since nine-eleven. They’ll be watching out for any pair of travellers that have left London or somewhere else in Europe, heading for destinations anywhere in the Arab world, and then they’ll search the background of each and every one of those passengers. I believe it’s just a matter of time before they track down our passports, find there’s no genuine background to them and decide it could be the two of us. We just have to hope that it doesn’t happen before we get to Amman.’

Gerry stared at him for a moment. ‘You’re right; I’ve been out of the game for too long.’ She grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘I’m glad your with me Dan, otherwise I would have just tried to hide somewhere. I’ve had too much crap kicked out of me in the last few years.’

‘You were going to tell me about Adnan Marafi,’ he said once they were seated on board the aircraft.

‘He’s a contact in Jordanian intelligence. I saved his life once and he owes me. He’s retired now but he has this car rental agency that has an office in Queen Alia airport. I’m sure he or his contacts will help us track down the family.’

‘But he’s retired, you say.’

‘Let’s say he’s inactive. He must be nearly seventy years old, but nobody ever retires really, not from this business and definitely not in his part of the world. You need to keep a friend on the inside to help you keep tabs on your enemies.’

‘Uh… General.’

Bruckner glared with disfavour at Gary Weitzman. ‘Yes, have you finally had a moment of inspiration?’

‘Well it’s like this sir. I’ve been checking Ali Hamsin’s family connections. According to this old report I’ve turned up his wife came from Jordan originally, not from Iraq and I wonder if she might still have relatives there. Also Rashid Hamsin might not have gone back to Iraq; he might have gone there too.’

‘To Jordan?’

‘Yes sir.’

Bruckner pursed his lips and finally nodded. ‘Ok listen up everyone, I want to make Jordan a priority. We have people on the ground in Amman, and I want them woken up and sent to work. I want the passenger lists for arrivals in Amman examined and the flights for the next few days. Don’t stop looking at the other places though; just work twice as hard, ok?’

He looked around the London ops centre and saw a renewed burst of feverish activity. He saw Hugh Fielding talking on the phone to his people in Vauxhall Cross, and the Englishman pointed to Weitzman and raised his thumb. Bruckner took the hint.

‘Ok Gary, good work,’ Bruckner called out somewhat grudgingly, and Weitzman gave a nod and a grin. ‘Samms, call the guys at Farnborough and get the aircraft readied for a trip to Amman,’ Bruckner growled, ‘and in the meantime why don’t you see if you can come up with something intelligent as well. Ok everyone, keep up the good work; let’s get the job done.’

‘In happier times we will drive down to Petra together,’ Adnan Marafi announced. ‘Have you ever been there, Daniel?’

‘No I haven’t, but… no never.’

‘Come on Dan what were you were going to say?’ Gerry asked.

‘I was going to say that I had seen it in a film. Not a documentary though; it was that Indiana Jones movie.’

‘Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade,’ supplied Marafi. ‘I enjoyed those films. When you have finished whatever it is you’re doing, we will go and find the Holy Grail together. I could do with a new… what do you say, leash on life.’

‘Lease of life,’ said Gerry. ‘I could do with one too, but first we need to find Rashid Hamsin.’

‘I am sure by the time we get to my house then my telephone inquiries will have borne fruit,’ said Marafi. ‘Apricots, avocados, very ripe.’ He kissed his fingertips. ‘Delicious!’ He looked in the rear view mirror and gave her a grin. ‘And you are still young and lovely Gerry, unlike me who grows old and grey.’

‘That’s because it’s getting dark,’ said Gerry. ‘First thing in the morning I’m middle-aged and grouchy, aren’t I Dan?’

‘You’re still lovely, but yes; very grouchy.’

‘Leyla, look who I have brought home with me!’

‘It’s Gerry! You called me from the airport, you old fool!’

Dan saw a small slender woman, somewhat stooped with age but with a lively expression come rushing into the garden and kiss Gerry on both cheeks and talk to her in a stream of Arabic. Gerry replied in another stream and kissed her again and then indicated Dan.

‘So this is the handsome young man you have brought with you?’ she asked with a smile.

‘Leyla this is Daniel.’

‘And he is going to help you in the lions’ den, which is where you are going, Adnan tells me.’

‘Well with his help me and Dan are going to be in and out of the den before the lions wake up.’

‘Let’s hope so. The world is still a dangerous place, but of course Adnan wants to go with you on whatever hazardous journey you are taking, but I told him you’re too old! Leave it to Gerry and her friend; they don’t need you slowing them up.’

Gerry smiled at Adnan, but made no attempt to deny that he would be too old and slow. ‘What we need from him is information. The rest we must do ourselves,’ she said.

‘Leyla’s right; I’m getting on,’ Adnan agreed. ‘My son puts up with me running the airport car hire although he thinks I’m too old; mind you he never tells it to me.’

‘That’s because he’s a good boy. Anyway that’s enough of our family bickering; come and have something to eat and drink; the food on these aircrafts is not what it should be any more.’

While they were eating the telephone rang. ‘Excuse me,’ said Adnan. His voice drifted in from the office, at first quietly but then raised in some excitement. Leyla put her hand on Gerry’s arm and smiled. Gerry smiled at Dan.

‘What’s he saying?’ Dan whispered.

‘Shush!’ said the two women. Dan had to wait impatiently until Adnan returned.

‘Saeed Massoud has come through with the information,’ he announced. ‘Tomorrow morning I will take you to the Almahwani garage which is in Nasariyah Street. It is owned by Ishmail Farahat the brother of Tabitha Hamsin and we will ask him where Rashid Hamsin is living now.’

‘Shouldn’t we go immediately?’ Dan suggested.

‘Now? You two should rest,’ Adnan suggested. ‘Tomorrow morning will be fine. I’ll show you to the guest bedroom. Oh!’

‘What?’

‘Er… I’ve been making a prediction… I mean an assumption that the two of you are… would be… er…’

‘Oh for goodness sake!’ said Leyla, ‘what he means is; are you two sharing a bed?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Gerry, ‘we only need one bed.’

The guest bedroom was on the ground floor and included an en-suite bathroom. Dan emerged from the shower to find that Gerry had got dressed again and was studying a street map of Amman. ‘Ok, what’s up?’ he asked.

‘I thought we shouldn’t waste a moment more than we have to, so if you’re happy we’ll go now.’ She held up a key. ‘I spoke to Adnan while you were in the shower and he’s lending us his car. He still wants to come with us you know, so quickly; get your clothes on and we’ll be away before he insists.’

‘General, I think we’ve got something!’

‘Ok Kolinski, what is it?’

‘A call from Frederikson in Amman. He’s just heard from a guy named Saeed Massoud in Internal Security there. He’s had a request from a guy named Adnan Marafi who’s ex of their organisation. He’s trying to track down a family with Iraqi connections and Massoud thought it was worth mentioning as Marafi retired five years ago and hasn’t been in contact for ages.’

‘Yeah, go on.’

‘Well I just ran Marafi through the computer and it came up with a list of things. He’s done some work with us in the past, all open and above board and he’s also worked with the Brits as well.’

‘Have you heard of him?’ Bruckner asked Fielding.

‘The name seems familiar, but I’m not sure.’

‘There’s something else sirs,’ said Kolinski. ‘He worked on a joint operation with Geraldine Tate. Twelve years ago. They got into a bit of a mess in Aleppo; Marafi was injured but Tate pulled him out of there.’

Bruckner glanced at Fielding, then the clock and then turned to Neil Samms and Vince Parker. ‘Ok you two; it’s just coming up to eleven thirty in Amman. Flying time is about five hours so you can be knocking on Adnan Marafi’s door at dawn tomorrow if you get a damn move on. We’ll brief you further by sat com when you’re on board.’

‘Yes sir!’

‘Now get going!

‘Weitzman, call up the guys in Farnborough and make sure the airplane’s at instant ready to go!’

‘Yes sir!’

‘Ok show me Amman, and where this Marafi guy lives,’ Bruckner demanded. Kolinski tapped at his key board and a detailed three dimensional view of Amman appeared on the big screen. Kolinski tapped some more; shuffled his mouse and pressed a button.

‘That’s his house three hours ago sir.’

‘I’ve a good mind to call for a drone strike,’ Bruckner muttered.

‘Wait a minute Robert I don’t think you can do that in a built-up street in Amman,’ Fielding protested.

Bruckner grinned at him. ‘Yeah I know, but my finger’s itching on the damn trigger.

At midnight in Amman the roads were still busy but with Gerry’s memory of the general layout of the city assisted by Dan checking the map they made their way without incident to Nasariyah Street and the Almahwani garage.

‘What now?’ Dan asked.

‘He’ll probably have a night watchman,’ said Gerry. ‘Let’s just wait and see.’

Fifteen minutes later two men armed with night sticks and carrying heavy Maglite torches emerged from a side alley and walked along the front of the building. They stopped at the big main access doors and inspected the locks, then peered through the windows assisted by their flashlights. ‘I wish I had my Taser with me,’ said Gerry, ‘but let’s go back to that bar round the corner and buy some soft weapons.’

Thirty five minutes later the two men rattled the locks again and peered through the windows.

‘Hey, have you got a light?’ a woman called.

They whirled round and played their flashlights over the speaker, who proved to be a tall woman with dishevelled clothes and disordered long dark hair. She was staggering along the street clutching a bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other and another one between her lips.

‘Hey you guys!’ she called out again and the cigarette dropped from her mouth. She bent down to pick it up and sank down to her knees and then finally rolled over on to her back. The two men walked over to her, not noticing the man who walked quickly and quietly up behind them. A few seconds later without realising what was happening they were both disarmed and lying face down in the road with knees planted in their backs and arms crooked around their necks.

‘Do exactly what we tell you and I believe that it is the will of God that you will both live,’ said the woman.

‘Ok, I can’t find anything that relates to Rashid Hamsin,’ Gerry said after they had spent nearly an hour rummaging through Ismail Farahat’s office. ‘I was hoping that perhaps he was working with his uncle. However there’s a message from a woman named Farrah inviting the Farahat family over for a birthday party. I remember Farrah is Rashid’s sister; she married a local man and was living somewhere in Jordan.’

‘Perhaps it’s time to telephone Ismail Farahat and have him come over, then,’ Dan suggested.

Gerry peeled the masking tape off the mouth of one of the two guards who were now tied to office chairs. ‘Oooh, sorry,’ she apologised, ‘it’s pulled out some of your beard; that must hurt. Now we need you to telephone Farahat and tell him that there’s been a break in at the garage. You haven’t called the police yet because the safe has been opened; financial papers have been examined and he might want to check everything is in order before the police come snooping around his financial affairs.’ She paused. ‘Did you get that?’

The man gazed at her for a moment and then nodded.

‘Good!’ said Gerry. ‘And what will happen if you try to trick me in any way?’

‘You will use that welding torch on me.’

‘Yes that’s right. Now are you ready to make the call?’

Fifteen minutes later a heavily built man, aged about sixty, well over six feet tall stepped out of a Mercedes saloon, along with a younger man smaller in stature, but carrying a handgun. ‘Hamed! Where are you?’ The first arrival called out as he barged through the door.

‘Up in the office Ismail!’ the guard called out.

Ismail Farahat ran up the stairs and came in to his office. The two guards were seated on the chairs and behind them stood the two intruders. The man was clearly Euro or American. The women was harder to place; she was heavily tanned and dark haired and said ‘Good morning Ismail Farahat, peace be upon you,’ in well-spoken Arabic, and then when Farahat’s companion came in a few seconds later she said ‘Rashid Hamsin, peace be upon you. It’s been a few years since we met.’

And to his complete surprise Farahat heard his nephew reply in English ‘Sandra Travis; what the hell are you doing here?’

‘I need to talk to you Rashid.’

‘You two know each other then,’ said Farajat.

‘Unfortunately, yes,’ said Rashid ‘She’s a British spy.’

‘Oh! One of those creatures,’ said Farajat, ‘and I suppose you’re one of those shit-stirring American CIA people,’ he said to Dan in heavily accented English. ‘You Americans with your British friends clinging to your hands like some bad behaved child, you just make trouble everywhere!’

‘We just want to talk to you. We’re not here to make trouble,’ Dan replied.

‘Wait,’ said Farajat reverting to Arabic. ‘So let me understand this correctly? You two burgled my business and frightened these guards just because you wanted to find Rashid?’

‘Yes,’ said Gerry, ‘we haven’t disturbed anything.’

‘Then why didn’t you just get my telephone number and give me a call? Why all this business?’

‘She said she would burn my fingers off with a welding torch if I didn’t call you,’ said the security guard.

Farajat stared at Gerry. ‘You really are a piece of shit aren’t you?’

Gerry stared at him for a moment. ‘Yes I am,’ she said. She walked over to the window and gazed out into the street.

‘What did you say to her?’ said Dan, frustrated by his inability to understand the conversation but aware that she seemed upset.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Gerry. She turned round and wiped her face with a tissue ‘Let’s go.’

‘Go where’ Dan asked. ‘We have to find out about this damned Gilgamesh. Aren’t you going to tell Rashid about his father? What happened to him, how he died.’

‘He doesn’t want to know.’ She sniffed. ‘I think we may as well just go home now.’

‘Gerry, neither of us has a goddam home to go to!’ Dan protested.

‘What about my father?’ Rashid demanded, ‘we thought he was killed years ago.’

‘Hooked him,’ Gerry said to herself, ‘now to reel him in gently.’ She wiped her eyes one more time and then told herself to cut out the theatrics before she overplayed her act. ‘It’s a long story; perhaps we can go somewhere more comfortable,’ she suggested.

‘Ok, we can go to back to my home,’ said Farajat. ‘You don’t want these people in the same house as Nadia and the children.’

Gerry turned round and stared at Rashid. ‘Children… you have children?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I have two. You haven’t done your research then.’

‘We don’t think you go by the name of Rashid Hamsin any longer,’ said Dan. He looked over at Gerry who seemed on the verge of tears again.

‘No, I am Rashid Farajat now.’

‘And where is your mother?’

‘She died five years ago. She never got over losing my father.’

‘Do you want me to drive?’ Dan asked as Gerry walked to the passenger side while she fumbled for the car key.

She snapped out of her reverie. ‘No no, I’ll drive. I was just going to the driver’s side as if I was back in the UK.’

She followed Farajat’s car as he set off up the street.

‘You don’t think they’ll suddenly take off, try and lose us in traffic do you? Or telephone for the police.’

‘No. They want to be rid of us as quickly as possible so they’ll cooperate.’

They followed the Mercedes to a well-to-do district of the city and watched as a pair of motorised gates opened up in a walled garden. ‘Maybe I should park outside.’

They got out and walked through the gates Farajat was standing behind the car watching them walk up the drive and Gerry heard the gates rumbling and then clang shut behind them. He showed them into a comfortable sitting room. ‘Please sit down; would you like a drink?’

‘Just a bottle of water please,’ said Gerry.

‘That would suit me, thanks,’ said Dan.

‘Rashid’s just phoning his wife,’ he explained as he walked back into the room a minute later with a tray laden with soft drinks. ‘I hope this is not going to be too upsetting for him, this story.’

‘It will be upsetting for him, and for me,’ said Gerry. ‘He lost his father; I lost my fiancé and my daughter and I’ve spent the years since we last met in prison.’

‘What the hell…?’ said Rashid from the doorway.

She looked up at him. ‘Sit down and I’ll tell you the story. I’m sure you’ll have questions, so just stop me any time.’

CHAPTER THIRTY

It was nearly midnight when Gerry brought her narrative to an end by describing how she and Dan had broken into Farajat’s garage.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t save your father. I’m sorry that you were ever involved. If you know where the Gilgamesh stuff is hidden you can tell us if you wish. I’ll not try and force you.’

Strangely enough she felt that some burden had been lifted by the retelling of her story to Rashid. Suddenly it no longer seemed important that she ever found out what Gilgamesh was about. She wondered if she and Dan should make their way to Indonesia or the Philippines where they could hide somewhere amongst their numerous islands. She looked at Dan for a moment. He probably had military notions of honour and duty and would feel a responsibility towards Felix Grainger and Richard Cornwall and maybe also to Dean Furness and Philip. She’d had enough. She just wanted the two of them to make a life for themselves somewhere safe.

‘Come back to the garage tomorrow morning,’ said Rashid. ‘I’ll have decided by then whether I’ll tell you anything.’

‘What?’ Dan exclaimed. ‘After all she’s been through and what happened to your father…’

‘That’s ok Dan; I’m happy with that,’ Gerry interrupted. ‘Is nine am ok?’

Ishmail and Rashid looked at one another. Ishmail shrugged. ‘It’s up to you, Rashid.’

‘Ok; nine tomorrow.’

‘Let’s go Dan.’

Outside in the car Gerry drove around the corner and then turned the car around.

‘Are we going the wrong way?’ Dan asked.

‘No, I want to see where Rashid lives; we’ll follow him.’

‘Oh, ok.’

They sat in silence for a minute and then Gerry leaned across and rested her head on his shoulder. ‘I like being with you Dan,’ she said.

‘That’s good because I still…’ she stopped him saying anything else with a finger across his lips.

‘He’s just coming out,’ she whispered. ‘Where’s his car parked I wonder.’

They watched Rashid walk a short distance up the road and then open another gateway and disappear inside. ‘He bloody well lives next door!’ said Gerry with a small chuckle. ‘Come on let’s get back to the Marafi’s place; you’ll have to navigate again.’

The demands of finding their way along the dark streets curtailed any further conversation until they were much closer to their friends’ house.

‘Do you think they’ll still be awake?’ Dan asked.

‘I know Adnan will wait up for us, because he didn’t give me a house key. At any rate he’ll try and wait up, but he might have fallen asleep in front of the television.’

She stopped the car beside the house. ‘He’s left the outside lights on for us anyway,’ she said. They walked up to the front gate and rang the doorbell, then when there was no reply she rang again.

‘He’s left the gate open for us’ said Dan who had given it an experimental shove and now pushed it wide open.

‘Oh shit!’ said Gerry. She pulled the gun from her waistband and ran up to the front door, followed by Dan who had realised the danger slightly later. The front door was open too and she pushed it open slowly and listened. Then she pulled off her shoes and threw them inside the hallway and there was an immediate crash when they knocked a ceramic jar off a table and on to the tiled floor. Then there was silence again.

Gerry felt round the side of the door and found the hall light switch and then she saw the body of Adnan Marafi lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

‘Leyla!’ Gerry shouted and she ran into the house while Dan bent down and felt for a pulse in Adnan’s neck, and then heard Gerry call ‘Oh no!’

He found her bent over Leyla’s corpse. The old lady’s hand still clasped a big kitchen knife but it had been no defence against the bullets that had caught her in the centre of her chest. She stared down at the dead woman for a few seconds and then looked up at Dan. He could see her tears.

‘Whoever did this was really clumsy. I’m sure they were meant to interrogate them, not just kill them. They won’t have learnt anything from them at all. Unless they’ve found fingerprints or something, they won’t know for sure that we were here. We didn’t leave anything of ours in the house did we?’

‘Maybe they’ve got the place under surveillance,’ said Dan ‘Could be someone outside; could be a reconnaissance drone. We have to leave now.’

‘They’d still be alive if we hadn’t come here.’

‘Not now Gerry! Come on, we have to go.’

‘Stay where you are!’ commanded a voice from the doorway.

They turned and saw a powerfully built Lebanese man pointing a MAC-10 machine pistol with a sound suppressor at Dan.

‘So you two are ones the Americans are looking for.’

‘Are you Saeed Massoud?’ asked Gerry.

‘My name doesn’t matter. In a short while they’ll come to pick you up.’

‘You killed my friends, you bastard!’

‘The Marafis… pah!’ He spat on the floor.

Gerry bent down and hugged the corpse. ‘Leyla, I’m so sorry.’ Then she suddenly snatched up the dead woman’s body and charged at Massoud. He was so surprised he barely had time to fire more than one quick burst. Two shots thudded into the corpse before the combined weight of the two women slammed into him and they all tumbled to the floor. Massoud scrambled to his knees but Gerry, much quicker than him, kicked him in the head and he collapsed face down. She jumped on to his back, wound an arm around his neck and pulled his head up.

‘Can you see her face, the old woman you killed?’

‘Yes… yes,’ Massoud gasped.

‘Good… look at her while you go to hell!’

Dan winced as she broke his neck, and then saw the blood on her leg as she stood up. ‘You’re hit!’

Gerry glanced down at where Dan pointed. ‘No I’m ok. It must be Leyla’s blood; one of the bullets went through her but it missed me.’ She looked around at the scene of death. ‘Whoever comes along, it’ll take them ages to piece together what happened here. Now we’d better warn Rashid. Oh shit Dan, I’ve got Adnan and Leyla killed, and now Rashid and all his family could be next. I wish we’d never come.’

The need to navigate the streets back to the street where Rashid and Ismail Farajat lived and agree their next course of action distracted Dan and Gerry from brooding on the death of her friends. They parked outside Rashid’s gateway and rang the bell. He appeared after a couple of minutes hastily dressed in jeans and the shirt he had been wearing all day with the buttons mis-matched. ‘You’re back already,’ he stated briefly through the cracked open doorway, across which Gerry could see a strong chain.

‘Yes. I’m sorry to have to say this but we’ve been trailed. You need to get your family away from here for a while… immediately — I’m sorry.’

Rashid stared at her. ‘You bloody mad dangerous bitch. Why did you have to come here? You’ve caused me and my family nothing but…’

‘Yeah I know, but you really have to go now!’ Gerry insisted. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘So you keep saying, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.’ Nevertheless he unhooked the chain and ushered them through the door. On the other side they saw a young woman with wildly tousled hair wearing jeans and what appeared to be a night dress with a sweater on top.

‘This is my wife, Selwa,’ said Rashid.

Gerry held out her hand but Selwa lashed out with her palm towards her face. Gerry effortlessly deflected the blow and grabbed the woman’s wrist. ‘Please don’t do that. Go and get your children ready to travel in the shortest possible time.’

She snatched her hand away muttering something under breath and then turned away and stalked off.

‘Here,’ said Rashid. He held out a sheet of paper with two rectangles drawn one inside the other. Gerry took it and saw two lines with distances on and a north pointing arrow. Outside the rectangle was a small square with a crescent moon in the middle. She gave Rashid and enquiring look.

‘That’s our family home in Baghdad with the wall around it. That’s the local mosque. You can see the minaret from the garden, if it’s still standing. What you’re looking for is buried in the garden. I think I’ve got the measurements about right, but it was a few years back.’ He turned the sheet over. ‘I’ve written the address here.’

The doorbell rang and a few seconds later Ismail Farajat hurried in. ‘I got your text message,’ he began, ‘what’s happening… oh, you two are back,’ he said to Gerry and Dan with an expression of distaste.

‘You’d better clear off now,’ said Rashid.

‘Not until we see you safely on your way,’ said Dan.

‘While you’re getting ready, do you have a computer?’ Gerry asked. ‘I need to book us flights to Baghdad tomorrow morning.’

‘Do you think they’ll be safe?’ Dan asked as they watched the two families drive away in big GMC SUVs.

‘I’m afraid they’ll catch up with them eventually and then Rashid will tell them everything he knows so he can protect his family. I just hope we’ve given them enough of a head start.’

‘What shall we do until the flight leaves? It’s going to be rather dangerous going through the airport isn’t it?’

‘Yes, so we’re not taking the plane; that was mis-information. We’re driving to Baghdad. It’s about five hundred and forty miles, so if we’re lucky we’ll be there tomorrow afternoon.’

Dan stared out into the dark desert as Gerry drove at eighty miles per hour towards the Iraqi border. ‘Is it safe to drive this fast? I don’t mean your driving; I mean is the road surface ok?’

‘I wish I knew, but we need to reach the border crossing point at dawn. I’m hoping we can join a convoy. It’ll give some protection against marauders and hijackers.’

‘Is driving across Iraq still dangerous this long after the war?’

‘I don’t know Dan,’ she snapped, ‘it’s one of the many things I didn’t learn about when I was in prison.’

‘Sorry.’

They drove along in silence for a few minutes.

‘I’m sorry Dan; I shouldn’t have got sharp with you.’

‘It doesn’t matter, let’s talk about something else.’

‘You could ask me who my favourite author is, what kind of music I like,’ she suggested.

‘Ok then, what kind of… hey; déjà vu! When we were on the road to Fujairah, we had that conversation back then.’

‘I wondered if you’d remember. A lot’s happened to us since.’

‘You bet it has, back then I was a Marines…’ His voice trailed away, and then he began again. ‘That’s when everything started to turn bad for you. You must have been a lot happier back then.’

She reached across and found his hand. ‘It doesn’t matter. Right now I think I’m happy with you.’

‘Good… great, even.’

As dawn broke the Iraq border lay about five miles ahead of them. The landscape was a featureless flat dull brown all the way to the Jordanian check point. The gate was decorated with a huge portrait of King Abdullah dressed in his military commander-in-chief uniform. Dan pulled up while Gerry took their UK passports to the immigration office. She emerged a few minutes later chattering to a uniformed official.

‘Dan, this is Ahmed from customs. He just wants to have a look around our vehicle. I think we have a small export payment to make.’

‘Sure,’ said Dan and handed over a roll of dollars that they had prepared. ‘Is that the correct amount?’

The official made a quick inspection and said something to Gerry at which she laughed, and then he wandered off and waved to the man operating the barrier. Gerry drove under the red and white pole and parked the car alongside a collection of saloon cars, utility vehicles, pick-ups and trucks.

‘Is this Iraq?’ Dan asked. ‘Where are their border guards?’

‘This is a sort of no man’s land between the two countries. The border’s not well defined. See those tents over there?’

He saw a few rows of black tents and noticed people moving in and out of them or just standing and staring back at him. ‘Who are they?’

‘They’re people in some kind of purgatory, waiting to get into one country or the other. In times of conflict, or rather worse conflict, thousands of people gather here, or in places like these. It’s been going on for decades now throughout the Middle East. Now let’s see when this convoy is setting off.’

After an hour sitting in the line of vehicles that snaked towards the Iraqi checkpoint the time came to hand over their passports to the Iraqi guards. Then Dan realised that there was a contingent of US Military personnel working alongside the Iraqis.

‘Oh hell we’re not gonna be able to pay our way through here!’ said Dan.

‘Let’s hope I can get through as a journalist,’ said Gerry. She handed over her passport in the name of Emily Stevens and her various credentials as a journalist; unfortunately they were all dated from the year of the invasion.

‘Please come to the office,’ the Iraqi official asked politely. As they walked off to the office leaving their vehicle empty in the line they heard a chorus of protests from the cars behind theirs, the drivers and passengers eager to be on their way.

Inside the cabin Gerry explained in her most polite Arabic that she had not worked as a newsprint journalist for a few years, but she had been working for the BBC as a television news producer. An American officer arrived half way through her explanation and frowned at her passport.

‘Can you just explain that briefly to me ma’am?’ he asked. He listened to her explanation and then looked at Dan. ‘And who are you sir?’

‘This is my husband,’ Gerry declared, grabbing Dan by the arm. ‘We’ve only been married a couple of weeks which is why we have different names.’

‘And what do you do then?’

‘I’m a graphic designer and an artist,’ said Dan in his best British accent. The cacophony of car horns from outside grew louder.

‘Ok, you can go through I guess,’ said the officer. ‘You know it’s dangerous.’

‘Of course!’ said Gerry and gave him a huge devil-may-care grin as she hurried back outside.

‘Five hundred and fifty kilometres; that’s about erm… two hundred, no three hundred and fifty miles,’ Brad announced as they passed a road sign that showed that they were on their way to Baghdad. He inspected the map. ‘We follow the A1 highway and go past a place called Rutba. Then it’s a long way until the next town Ramadi. That’s only about seventy miles west of Baghdad. Next there’s Habbaniyah then Fallujah and after that it’s Baghdad airport out to the west of the city. If the road stays as a good as this and we keep this speed up we can be there in about five hours!’

‘I don’t know if this highway goes the whole way,’ said Gerry, or if stretches were blown up in the war and not repaired yet. I don’t think we can make it as far as Ramadi. We may need to get some petrol in Rutba,’ said Gerry, and apparently there are still US army people there.’

Dan stared out over the barren sun-baked desert strewn with rocks and occasional patches of stunted desert plants. ‘It’s a bit of a wasteland out here.’ He turned to Gerry who was frowning at the vehicle in front. ‘What is it? You’re very quiet.’

‘I just thought it was a little strange how they let us across the border like that.’

‘Hey; that’s the first break we’ve had… let’s run with it shall we?’ said Dan. ‘I wish we had some weapons, though.’

‘There’s a gun under your seat.’

‘What?’ he fumbled underneath and found a Browning 9mm pistol.

‘Where the hell did that come from? I had a search earlier.’

‘It was hidden in the back inside the spare wheel.’

‘That was a lucky find!’

‘Not really; I’ve known Adnan a long time.’

Dan nodded and subjected the weapon to a careful inspection before replacing it.

‘General! We may have caught a break. Two people travelling under UK passports crossed the border into Iraq from Jordan. One of them was using the name Emily Stevens, and that’s a known alias used by Geraldine Tate.’

‘How were they travelling?’

‘In an SUV, but they don’t have a record of the licence plate.’

Bruckner frowned but did not express his annoyance aloud. ‘Ok, good work. Pass the details on to my team. And can we get a drone up to take a look for their vehicle. He was about to call Hugh Fielding with the news when he had a sudden thought. ‘Do we have the vehicle details of that guy Adnan Marafi?’

‘Hold on sir… yes, we have that.’

‘Good! Pass that on as a strong possible.’

‘Yessir. Do you want the drone armed?’

Bruckner pursed his lips, and then shook his head. ‘No, I want to see where they go.’

The convoy pulled off the highway and took the local road towards Ar Rutba. The town was entirely surrounded by a high fence and American military personnel were manning the gateway.

‘They’ve obviously had a lot of security problems here,’ said Gerry. ‘I really didn’t want to go through another ID check, but we…’

‘Benzine, benzine!’ shouted a teenage boy, struggling towards their vehicle under the weight of two twenty litre jerry cans of fuel.

‘Great!’ said Gerry, ‘just what we need!’ She began to negotiate a price in Arabic with the lad while Dan ran over some puns on the name Gerry and jerry can which he wisely kept to himself. After the refuelling operation was complete she paid the agreed sum and then pulled an old canvas sheet out of the back of the car and then opened a rear door. ‘Hold this up like that would you?’

‘Whatever for?’ he asked as he took it from her.

‘So I can take a piss behind it, since you ask. I might be a highly trained agent but remember I’m also a girl so I need to squat down. And don’t watch me!’

The convoy set off again after about half an hour. Dan took over the driving and Gerry stared out as they passed a herd of goats grazing incongruously beside a wrecked Iraqi armoured personnel carrier and shortly afterwards a few men leading some camels. Gerry watched them as they passed them by and then said ‘Next stop Baghdad.’

They had no way of knowing that as the convoy had pulled away a jeep without any military markings but manned by three US army rangers had pulled out and was now trailing the convoy. One of the men was talking to Neil Samms on a satellite telephone as he and Vince Parker flew towards Baghdad airport.

As they approached Ramadi the desert plants grew more vigorously and there were clusters of palm trees to relieve the monotony of the landscape. They stopped outside the town where the vehicles were fuelled and the drivers and passengers could stretch their legs. When they passed Habbaniyah the land changed abruptly as they drove through the wetlands on the banks of the Euphrates River. Soon they were passing Fallujah, just over ten miles from Baghdad, where they saw burnt out battle tanks and wrecked buses and trucks. Helicopters swooped overhead inspecting the convoy. ‘I hope they’re not searching for us,’ said Gerry.

‘Just routine patrols,’ said Dan.

A line of tall buildings appeared as they crested a rise in the ground. ‘Look, there’s Baghdad!’ After they passed the airport the traffic began to build up and the convoy split. The city scape was filled with trees, tall buildings, some in good order and others with holes torn through them. Everywhere there were tower cranes hanging over construction or reconstruction sites. Mad traffic came from all directions; drivers hooting, weaving in and out, accelerating, slamming on brakes, shouting and gesturing and showing a reckless disregard for the rules of the road. Dan drove the vehicle to a halt beside a ruined office building with a heap of rubble in front of it and gave a deep sigh. ‘Well here we are. Now we just need to find our way to the house.’

‘I can’t see the street on the map,’ said Gerry, ‘but here’s Khulfalfa Street and here’s Mutannabi Street and the museum, so it must be in this area.’

‘Well if we can’t find it we can always ask for directions.’

‘That will be a blow to your male pride then,’ said Gerry with a grin.

‘Yeah I know! You’ll have to do the talking while I hang my head in shame.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

‘That’s got to be it!’ said Dan.

‘Where? Which one?’

‘Over there. Remember Rashid said that the wall had been blown down and he had mended it with concrete blocks but could only get blue paint.’

‘You’re right, and that seems to be an Arabic number twelve by that broken bell push.’

They climbed out of the car and walked over to the gate. ‘Give me a boost and I’ll have a look over,’ Gerry suggested.

She grabbed hold of the top of the gate and peered over. ‘The front door’s just as he described. I’m going to climb over.’

‘Are you sure? Maybe we should come back tomo… ok, you’re over.’

‘Ow!’ said Gerry from the other side.

‘What?’

‘I just banged my ankle on something. Hold on, I think I can unbolt it.’ The door creaked open on its hinges. ‘Welcome to the Hamsin’s,’ said Gerry with a grin as Dan walked through and peered about.

‘I don’t know how welcome we are.’ Suddenly he was struck by the fact they were close to their objective. He gave her a big hug. ‘Hey we’re here! So where do we find it?’

She gave him a quick kiss. ‘We just have to measure out the distance from the south west corner and then you just have to dig it up. Simple.’

‘Oh I have to do the digging do I?’

‘Of course; digging is men’s work, but I’ll take over when you get tired.’

‘Thanks. Now which is the south west? The sun’s setting in that direction so it must be that one.’

‘It’s the one closest to the mosque as well. You can see the minaret over that corner.’

‘Ok. Did you remember to bring a shovel?’

‘No, but maybe there’s one around somewhere. After all they had to use one to bury it.’

‘That was years ago Gerry, we’ll be lucky to find… hey look there’s some kind of storage shed there.’

They both ran over towards it and found an old rusty padlock on a clasp. Dan rattled it and pulled at it. ‘It’s locked but the wood looks a bit rotten; maybe…’

‘Mind out the way,’ commanded Gerry, who had picked up a large rock. Dan stepped back while she hammered at the padlock. It fell clear. She pulled open the door and seized hold of a shovel that was propped against the side. She handed it over with a grin. ‘Here you are; you can make yourself useful at last. Hey, here’s a tape measure as well!’ In high spirits she ran over to the corner. ‘Take the end. Now it’s five metres from that corner along the wall to the east.’

‘Yup, that’s here, said Dan.

‘Ok, now it’s one metre at right angles.’

Gerry measured off the distance and picked up a stone and drew in the sandy soil. She looked up at Dan with a smile. ‘There we are; X marks the spot; let’s start digging!’

Dan plunged the blade of the shovel into the soil and levered up some soil. He dug the shovel in again; the handle broke off at the blade. ‘Fuck!’ he said, the wood’s rotted.’

‘Never mind, I remember seeing a building site in the next street,’ said Gerry. ‘I’ll run over and see if I can find a shovel. You wait here and preserve your strength.’

In high spirits Gerry began to run down the road, and then decided she would attract too much attention by running. She pulled her abaya around her and walked around the corner. There was the building site where a house was being repaired. She stepped through a gap in the wall and looked around. She saw a tarpaulin weighted down with rocks and she pulled up a corner. Yes, there was a shovel that seemed to be in good condition. She held it in front of her and gathered the abaya around it and began to shuffle awkwardly along the street. After a few paces she lost patience and decided that she might as well just carry it as if a local woman might handle a shovel as a matter of course and she paced confidently round the corner with the shovel swinging in one hand.

‘Are you back already?’ Dan asked as he heard the gate creak open. The next thing he knew was bright flash, a hideous impact in his chest which made him cry out in agony and he collapsed to the floor. He tried to shout out a warning to Gerry but the effort of drawing breath made him gasp and then he coughed up some blood. He closed his eyes but then told himself he must stay awake and when he opened them again he saw Vince Parker staring down at him, and he felt a bitter regret as he slipped into unconsciousness…

Gerry froze on hearing Dan cry out. Then she ran back to the Hamsin house and saw that the gate was now wide open. With a deepening sense of anguish she ran around the back and saw a dumpster beside the wall. She climbed on top of it as quietly as possible and drew the shovel up after her. Peering carefully over the wall she suppressed a moan of despair as she saw Dan lying motionless on the ground. Then round the corner of the house walked a familiar figure with a silenced gun in one hand. Clenching her teeth to stop herself screaming in anger she waited until he was closer and then in one swift movement she stood on top of the wall and jumped down at him.

Parker caught sight of her as she loomed over him. He whirled round and fired off a shot that tore a gash along her lower ribs before her foot slammed into his chest. Somehow Gerry managed to retain her stance as she landed on one foot. Parker was on the ground in front of her. He tried to bring the gun up but she whacked the spade against his arm and he felt his fingers go numb. Then he saw the savage, merciless rage in her face and the edge of the shovel flashing in the setting sun as she raised it above her head. He closed his eyes as the blade swung down and tried to jerk his head aside. His final thought was that she would not miss.

‘Oh shit!’ said Neil Samms as he saw the impact of the shovel on Parker’s head. Gerry whirled round and saw him walking around from the other side of the house. She glanced down at Parker’s gun which lay on the ground beside his outstretched fingers and then at the gun in Samms’ hand. ‘My time has come,’ she thought to herself. She wondered if she should make a frantic, hopeless attempt to dive down pick up the gun roll over and come up firing, but she knew that he would be ready for that. Despite the goofy grin he was a professional. His next words brought her intense relief.

‘I’m not going to kill you, so long as you do what I say. First I’m gonna make sure you don’t try anything stupid. Come and lie face down next to Parker with your hands above your head.’ He pointed at the corpse with the smashed skull. She lay down as commanded and then watched him bend down and drag Parker’s body so that it lay on top of her back. ‘Don’t let me see your hands move,’ he said. ‘If I do I’ll use the shovel on them.’

Gerry watched him pick up Parker’s gun, check it was safe and then tuck it in his belt. Then she heard a groan. He was still alive!

‘Dan!’ she called out.

‘Gerry, I’ve been shot,’ he mumbled.

She wanted to push herself up, throw off the corpse and run over to him. Instead she decided to plead. ‘Samms, please, can I take a look at him… please.’

‘Well, whaddya know,’ he replied with his familiar sneer. ‘The bitch is showing some emotion, or at least a fair imitation. Yeah you can take a look at him. But move real slow, or I’ll blow your head off.’

Gerry scrambled out from under the corpse and knelt beside him. ‘Ok Dan, wake up wake up Dan wake up, damn it wake up!’ She saw his eyeballs twitch about under his lids and then he opened his eyes.’

‘Hi Gerry, I’ve been shot; it damn well hurts.’

‘Well there’s nothing wrong with your brain, then. Now you’ve been shot through the chest, but it must’ve missed your heart,’ she said whilst unbuttoning his shirt and tugging it aside. She inspected the entry wound below the collar bone, a small hole surrounded by bruised and bloodied flesh. ‘Can you roll on to your side?’ He bent his leg up and groaned as he pushed himself slowly over until Gerry could see his back. She grimaced as she saw the exit wound, larger and ragged but not as traumatic as a hole torn by an expanding bullet. ‘Ok it’s gone through and if you don’t feel too bad I reckon you’ve just got ribs and lung damage.’

‘Oh fucking hell!’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Is that Parker and Samms? How did they find us?’

‘Samms I need to bandage him, stop the bleeding. I want to use Parker’s shirt.’

‘Ok, you can do that. Get on with it quick.’

Gerry pulled the shirt and the leather belt off the corpse. ‘Can I sit you up a minute?’

Dan struggled to a seating position and she used the belt to hold the shirt around his chest. He gasped in pain as she secured the belt, mumbled ‘broken rib’ and lay back down.

‘Ok, now we’ve got to get him to a hospital,’ said Gerry.

‘Dream on, bitch!’ Samms replied. ‘I know there’s something hidden in this house; you came to find it. We came here to take it.’

‘But you don’t know what it is?’

‘I’m sure he did.’ He jerked his chin towards Parker, ‘but not me.’

‘Just as well, otherwise you’d probably end up dead, just like everyone else.’ She gazed for a moment at Dan. ‘Are you ok?’

‘Yeah, I’ll be alright. How did you track us down?’ he asked.

‘You were followed from Rutba, and then tracked by drone in Baghdad.’

‘By a drone?’ Gerry asked with a frown. ‘I didn’t know they could do that.’

‘Ok, enough of the chat.’ Samms pointed to the shovel. ‘You just went off to get that, so I guess what we’re looking for is buried out here. That’s why it wasn’t found before.’

‘You mean it was you guys who ransacked the house?’

‘Yeah, I think it was done five years ago. The family’s not lived here since, although they’ve been back from time to time to check on it.’

‘Who in the family?’

‘The wife and daughter. The son’s dead. The father… well you know about him. Ok, you’d better get digging, and who knows if you find it quickly, we might have time to get Hall to the hospital before he croaks.’

Gerry picked up the shovel and then plunged it down, gasping from the pain in her ribs.

‘What’s the matter with you now?’ Samms asked.

‘Flesh wound,’ she said. She untucked her shirt and looked at her side. Blood was oozing from a ragged cut two inches long.

‘Just a graze; you’ll be alright. Sooner you’ve done, sooner you can get a sticking plaster.’

The ground was hard and took an hour of toil until Gerry reached a depth of about two feet. The shovel clanged on to metal. Ignoring the pain in her side she dug with renewed energy and soon unearthed a black plastic garbage bag with something metal inside. She put down the shovel and heaved the object clear of the soil. She placed it carefully on the ground in front of Dan’s feet.

‘Open up the bag and take out whatever’s inside,’ Samms ordered.

She discovered a corroded metal tin with some Arabic writing and a faded, discoloured picture of a palm tree and a bunch of fruit. ‘Shall I open it?’ she offered.

‘Why not?’

Inside was further plastic wrapping protecting a passport, a sheet of paper written in Arabic script and two small bundles of money, one turned out to be US Dollars and the other the Iraqi currency from years gone by, on which the image of the dead dictator was prominent. She opened up the passport and immediately recognised her companion on the life raft, or a much younger version. ‘This is Lebanese and it looks like Yusuf Ali Hamsin. Do you want to have a look at it?’ She took a pace towards him and he instantly aimed the gun at her.

‘Don’t you come any closer than that!’ he snapped.

Gerry cursed under her breath. Samms had correctly assumed that she had been hoping to get within reach of him.

‘Read out that letter,’ he ordered.

‘My beloved husband,’ she read, ‘as you planned we have left our house. Rashid has returned to England to continue his studies. Tomorrow I am leaving for Amman where I will stay with my brother and there I will see our daughter and tell her what has been happening. I am leaving your passport here and enough money to enable you to make the journey to Amman. I pray that we will meet up there soon and that all this madness will soon be over.

Your loving and dutiful wife Tabitha.’

‘Ok leave the stuff beside Hall and then take up with the shovel.’

Gerry continued digging for another few minutes, then she dropped the shovel and stood up with her hands clutching her aching side. ‘I don’t think we’re going to find anything else,’ she said.

‘Keep digging,’ he insisted.

‘I really don’t see there’s any point. If anything was…’

‘Keep digging you piece of shit,’ he snarled or I’ll blow your fucking brains out and bury you in this hole.’

‘I think she’s right Neil,’ another voice spoke, ‘you’re not gonna find anything.’ Gerry looked up towards the section of the wall over which she had clambered.

‘Hey is that you Colonel?’ Samms asked, just as Gerry identified the speaker.

‘Jasper White,’ she muttered.

White swung his legs over the top of the wall and jumped down into the garden. He glanced at Vincent Parker’s corpse and then knelt down beside Dan Hall. ‘How you doing son?’ he asked.

‘I’ve been… better,’ Dan gasped out.

‘We need to get him to a hospital,’ said Gerry.

‘Quit whining, would you?’ said Samms, ‘you don’t really believe you two are leaving here do you?’

‘Shut up Neil,’ said White. ‘Well Gerry, it seems like the search for the Gilgamesh document ends here. The only remaining question is to tie up a few loose ends.’

‘I say we finish them off here,’ said Samms, leave them for the Iraqis to find.’

‘Give me your gun Neil,’ White ordered.

‘You gonna do it yourself? Sure, here you go.’ He handed it over to White, who gave the weapon a quick but thorough check. ‘Glock GL23, standard FBI issue,’ he said. ‘And that one I can see tucked into your belt; could you lend me that one too?’ White asked. Samms complied.

‘Sig Sauer P250,’ he murmured.

Gerry shuddered as she watched him give the second gun an inspection before tucking it into his belt. Then he looked up at her.

‘Would you go sit down… next to Hall, if you don’t mind?’

Gerry backed slowly away trying to keep her eyes fixed on his rather than at the gun he had waved casually towards her. She sat down next to Dan and felt him reach for her. She felt a ridiculous moment of embarrassment as she clutched his hand. ‘Oh shit he’s going to kill me!’ her mind sang out, ‘and he’s going to kill Dan I’m going to die here, why did I come here at all I don’t want to die I want to live and I want Dan to live!’ She saw White glance at Samms and then back at her. ‘Oh god he’s going to do it now!’ She gripped Dan’s hand tighter. ‘I should have stayed in prison not gone on this useless bloody trip. I’m sorry Dan, oh shit.’ She closed her eyes and moaned very quietly.

‘Now Gerry, what you wanted to do was find out who killed your guy Philip all those years ago, right?’ White asked.

It took several seconds for her terrified mind to process the question. Maybe he wasn’t going to kill her yet. Maybe she would live for a few more minutes. She opened her eyes and stared at him warily, wondering where he would go with this question. She swallowed hard and managed to answer fairly normally. ‘Yes I do, and I also want to know who it was that put me in prison.’

‘And I guess that you hold me at least partly responsible for that?’

‘It wasn’t me who killed Dean Furness’ said Gerry, she shook her head. ‘I didn’t do it.’

‘Ok well I reckon the two people who killed Philip Barrett are already dead,’ said White, ‘and you killed them.’

Gerry managed to think more clearly. ‘Oh, do you mean… Carson and Parker?’ she said.

‘Yeah, that’s what I figured. But when it comes to Dean Furness, I don’t reckon it was you who killed him.’

‘No it wasn’t.’

‘Who do you reckon it was then?’ he asked.

‘I wish…’

‘Neil, who do you reckon it was?’ White turned round and aimed the gun at Neil Samms.

‘I really have no idea…’

‘You shot Dean Furness when he went to Gerry’s apartment.’

‘No I didn’t.’

‘Oh come on Neill, if I was gonna kill you for it I would have it done it years back when I found out,’ he said with a smile, ‘After all you were only acting under orders, weren’t you. I just want Gerry here to know who it was.’

‘Oh well yeah ok, it was me.’ He gave a small grin, revealing his gold tooth. ‘I was ordered by General Bruckner.’

The Glock gave a sharp crack. Samms gave an anguished gasp, staggered back and grabbed hold of his upper arm.

‘Hey Colonel, you shot me!’

‘Yeah, and I’m going to kill you Samms, I’m fed up with your stupid grin.’ He dropped his aim and shot Samms through the knee. He gave a surprisingly high-pitched screech and collapsed to the ground.

‘You’re gonna die Samms, for killing Dean Furness,’ said White. He picked up the shovel and inspected the bloody blade, then looked at Gerry. ‘Do you want to finish him off?’ he asked, offering the shovel towards her. She stared at him, transfixed. She felt Dan’s grip tightening on her hand and briefly shook her head. White made as if to hit Samms with the shovel and he cried out again, and then he began a pitiful moaning which got louder as White slowly aimed the pistol towards his head and then stopped when White pulled the trigger. He looked at the corpse for a moment and then turned to Gerry.

‘You’d better show me where your car is parked; you need to get Dan to a hospital.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Gerry stared at Rashid’s garden gate remembering how she had helped Jasper White drag Vince Parker’s corpse alongside Neil Samms. White had then told her to drive off. She had looked back and seen him pouring petrol over the corpses and as she had climbed into the car next to Dan she had heard the whuffing noise as he had set them alight. Now she opened the car door and climbed out carefully while holding her hand briefly to her painful ribs. The doctor who had tended her bullet wound had assured her the gash was clean and given her what he hoped was a broad spectrum antibiotic injection and some tablets, but admitted that he did not know if the drugs were genuine or not. He had urged her to take Dan to the American base where he would be assured of good treatment and Dan had insisted he should go there too. Gerry had argued with him for a while but the doctor had said he could operate but he had no anaesthetics and if she really wanted Dan to live she should stop wasting time.

She sighed and walked over to the gate and pressed the bell push, just in case Rashid had been foolish enough to return already. There was no sound of an inner door being opened, and no response when she banged on the door with her fist either. She looked up and by the light of the moon she noted the strands of barbed wire across the top of the gateway lintel. She returned to her car and then drove it up next to the gate. She pulled out a rear seat cushion and stood on the roof and put the cushion on top of the wire. She climbed over the gate and jumped down the other side, wincing as the landing jarred her ribs.

Then she had a sudden sense that she was not alone. She turned around slowly and was confronted by a woman wrapped up in a gown with a shawl over her head and her arms folded in front of her.

‘I think you must be Sandra, or Gerry,’ the woman spoke to her in good but heavily accented English. ‘I am Tabitha Hamsin. You had better come inside.’ Gerry followed her into the house. ‘Come into the kitchen,’ said Tabitha. ‘It’s not so comfortable but I find women always talk to one another most openly in the kitchen, don’t you agree?’

‘Er… I don’t know,’ Gerry mumbled. Perhaps in the kitchen, maybe down the pub, possibly in the office canteen. Or in a prison cell. ‘I suppose so,’ she added.

‘Here, take a seat.’ Gerry sat on a chair at the big wooden table and watched her hostess. Her face was lined but she was a handsome woman with very long dark hair shot through with white streaks. She was slightly overweight but straight backed and elegant. Gerry recalled that she was twenty three years older than Rashid so that made her in her mid-fifties.

‘Would you like some coffee, or a cold drink?’ she asked.

‘Coffee please, milk no sugar.’

Nothing further was said until the two of them were seated opposite one another. ‘Excuse me I’m going to have a cigarette,’ said Tabitha. She pulled an ashtray across the table. ‘Do you want one?’

‘No thanks,’ Gerry replied. She watched Tabitha light up and take a drag.

‘Now you’d better tell me your story,’ she said.

‘How far back do you want me to go?’

‘You can go back as far as you like but maybe start with why you kidnapped my son. Perhaps you can explain why you are so careless towards other people?’

‘I’m not careless.’

‘I didn’t mean careless; I meant callous.’ Tabitha saw her guest appear to flinch at the accusation. ‘Perhaps we should speak in Arabic. Rashid tells me you are remarkably good.’

Gerry spoke for nearly an hour and a half. She explained why she had kidnapped Rashid; how she had become pregnant; how she had helped him escape; ended up in prison; given up her baby for adoption; how she had been released and been sent on her journey to the USA; why she had met Ali Hamsin in Guantanamo Bay and how they had ended up on a life raft together; how he had died; why she and Dan Hall had come to Amman and then finally to Baghdad; how Samms and Parker had died; her failure to find the Gilgamesh document and her return to Amman.

When she had completed her story she stretched her arm out across the table and rested her head on it. Tabitha stared down at her and they were both silent for a minute.

‘What a miserable life you have led,’ Tabitha said eventually.

Gerry looked up at her and then sat upright. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What have you got to show for all this pain and sorrow? The only time you seem to have been happy was when you were in prison; I’m surprised you wanted to leave. The only close woman friend you’ve had seems to have been Angela who shared your prison cell and the only man who you loved and who loved you was this Philip who died.’

‘That’s not true, Dan Hall loves me.’

‘Yet you left him with the Americans who you think will probably send him to prison, assuming he lives.’

‘We hoped that if we found this Gilgamesh document then it would give us some leverage. For one thing I wanted to be able to guarantee your family’s safety, and also I want to… oh, it doesn’t matter now.’

‘Do you think it would have given you this leverage?’

‘I don’t know,’ Gerry sighed. ‘I don’t really know exactly what the document said, if the threat of revealing its contents would have been enough.’

‘The document said that the United States Army would stop short of Baghdad. Qusay Hussein would provide the whereabouts of his father Saddam Hussein and his brother Uday Hussein. The two of them would be arrested or killed along with various other members of the regime. In exchange Qusay Hussein would be allowed to take over power in Iraq. The United States would not object if he became President for his lifetime. In addition the United States and the United Kingdom would raise no objections if Qusay’s son were to succeed him as President in the future.

‘In exchange the American and British oil companies would be given a license to operate the Iraqi oil industry and profit from the oil reserves of Iraq with a fifty percent stake in the current assets and a sixty percent stake in any further fields developed.

‘The United States would also be permitted to maintain a military base including nuclear weapons close to the border with Iran.’

Gerry stared open-mouthed at Tabitha for ten seconds or more and then slowly shook her head. ‘I don’t fucking believe it! Shit! How do you know?’

‘I read it. I read Ali’s translation and I read the original, or rather the photocopy that Hakim Mansour gave to Ali.’

‘But was it genuine?’

‘How could I tell? I assume the signatures were genuine but how could I tell?’

‘You mean it was signed by…’

‘Yes, and with that seal attached and also by the one from your country, who struts about the world and proclaims a clear conscience despite the thousands of deaths and the mayhem in my country.’

‘No wonder that people have died.’

‘Yes I can understand why. It would prove very embarrassing.’

‘But what happened to the photocopy that Mansour made,’ Gerry asked. ‘What happened to it after you read it? Rashid told me it was still buried in the garden.’

‘I wish I could help you,’ said Tabitha. ‘I left it buried in the garden as Rashid described. Perhaps Ali disclosed where it was and someone found it. Perhaps when he was in prison or when he was working for Qusay Hussein when the war began. Maybe someone dug it up by chance. I’ve no idea where it can be now. I’m sorry.’ She paused, and then stared at Gerry.

‘There is one thing that I have found curious about your story; why did they let you live? Why did they just send you to prison?’

Gerry shook her head. ‘I really don’t know.’

They were both silent for a while and then Tabitha asked ‘What will you do now?’

‘I will go back to the United States and tell them that I have found the Gilgamesh document and it is hidden in a safe place. I will describe what it says and tell them that if they harm anyone associated with it, you and your family or me or my daughter, then it will be published on the internet. I will demand freedom for Dan Hall.’

‘How will that work, if it is lost?’

‘But it isn’t lost is it Tabitha. If some stranger had come across the document then they wouldn’t have left behind your husband’s passport and one thousand seven hundred US Dollars in cash for his safe passage. You took the Gilgamesh document away and you have it hidden somewhere safe.’

She reached inside her pocket and placed Ali Hamsin’s passport and the money on the table. Tabitha put her hand to her mouth and stared at her wide eyed. Gerry suddenly realised that she was scared of her and what she might do to get the document.

‘I’m going to leave now,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to cause you and your family any more distress.’

‘No wait. I have something which should help you.’ Tabitha hastened from the room and returned a couple of minutes later clutching a sheaf of paper. ‘This is a transcript of Ali’s Arabic translation which he made for Mansour. He wrote it out with pen and paper, but this is a typed version. It will perhaps persuade them that the original is available. Before I give it to you I want to say something to you.’

‘Ok, go on.’

‘Don’t let your life become one of killing and revenge, and then further killing. I think you are a very unhappy woman. Pursuing your enemies will bring you no peace or happiness. If you kill them then you will create more enemies and you would never have an end to it. If the man who took my husband from me were here in this room then I would spit on him but I would let him live.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

General Robert Bruckner finished reading the report written by Jasper White. It stated that he had arrived at the Hamsin house in Baghdad the evidence suggested that after an exchange of shots, Tate and Hall had killed Parker and Samms. Hall had also been shot and White had taken him to the US Embassy base for treatment. Gerry Tate had disappeared. Hall had informed White that they had failed to find the Gilgamesh documents. Tate had been wounded, but he did not think it was severe. After she had recovered it was a fair assumption that she would be seeking revenge.

Bruckner rubbed his chin. He walked over to his drinks cabinet and poured out the end of a bottle of Glenmorangie single malt whisky. That was the bottle that Sir Hugh Fielding had given to him back in February when they had first discussed the plan. He would have to notify Hugh as soon as possible so that he could take any precautions he thought necessary to ensure his safety. He stared out of his study window into the dark night. With only a little imagination he could picture an enraged assassin aiming a high powered sniper rifle at him. He closed the curtains and sank into an armchair and considered the message from Tate that had been sent to him via Richard Cornwall.

Wherever he hid away, she had said, and whatever precautions he took to guard himself, she would find a way through to him. Maybe not this year maybe not the next, but one day he would find himself in the same room as her with nowhere to run and nobody to help him.

He believed her, and so he had decided he would do nothing to protect himself. When she came he would try to talk to her, but he had decided it was pointless living his life in continuous fear of her. Besides, if he asked for round the clock protection from an assassin, he would have to provide a full explanation, and it would be difficult to explain how the events of several years ago had suddenly led to him being in imminent danger.

Without actually announcing his retirement, he completed his current projects and reports and asked to be excused from any further work for the time being. This was accepted without any question, and probably with some relief by the younger members of the directorate. After all he was coming up to sixty-five years old and it was entirely appropriate that he should stand down. He felt secure within his own home with its elaborate security system and while he was officially on active duty he was entitled to a trained personal security specialist who acted as his chauffeur.

Four months had gone by without incident and he was being driven back to Washington after visiting his daughter when a tyre blew out. His suspected that the tyre had been shot out but the vehicle was fitted with run flat tyres and he ordered the driver to drive on until they reached a busy service stop. A subsequent inspection showed that a piece of rusty nail had punctured the tyre.

On another journey a motor cycle raced by and then stopped abruptly a few hundred yards ahead. The rider removed a helmet and long dark hair blew free and the woman disappeared into the trees. The chauffeur stepped out, donned his flak jacket and prepared to hunt down the rider. A few minutes later he came back somewhat embarrassed and reported that the woman was taking a toilet break. She gestured angrily as the car drove past while Bruckner gave an apologetic wave.

On a different occasion a UPS delivery driver was subjected to a thorough search and an interview when she turned up at the wrong address with a souvenir hunting knife.

Bruckner reacted to all these false alarms with the same weary resignation. In a way he was somewhat relieved when he woke up one morning, came downstairs and found her sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee and reading his copy of The Washington Post. He stood in the doorway. She looked up at him and smiled. ‘Good morning General,’ she said.

‘Where’s Patterson?’ he asked.

‘He’s tied up in his room. He’s asleep.’ She glanced up at the wall clock. ‘For about two more hours, I think.’ She stared at him for a few seconds. ‘There’s a few things you can do for me.’

‘And then you’ll kill me?’

‘First of all I want to know that you’ll release Dan Hall, and drop any formal charges against him plus you’ll call off any attack dogs from us both.’

‘You think I can do that?’

‘Of course you can. You can do anything I want within reason; otherwise the Presidents of Iraq and Iran and the Ayatollah will receive a copy of the Gilgamesh document. After that it might go viral on the internet.’

She handed him an envelope. He opened it and withdrew a few pages of typewritten script. He only had to read for about fifteen seconds to know that she must possess the original.

He stared at her for a moment. ‘So what are you going to do with this?’

‘First of all, whose idea was it?’

‘It was partly mine and Hugh Fielding’s but mostly Hakim Mansour’s.’ He paused, pursed his lips. ‘Mansour was a very intelligent man, very subtle. He foresaw that one day things might come to a critical head.’

‘You thought it was a good idea, keeping Iran under a brutal dictatorship?’

‘Half the countries in the region are under some kind of dictatorship. The best that their people can hope is that the dictators are fairly benevolent. Now if the Gilgamesh operation had continued as planned, three things would be in place.

‘One: the United States would have had control of Iraqi oilfields and Iraq would become a swing producer. They would have displaced Saudi Arabia from that role and we could have stopped the price of oil rising ever higher.

‘Two: the Iranian government would have had a US military base on their western border, for all they know with missiles targeted on all their cities and strategic locations.

‘Three: Saddam Hussein would have been removed from power and his son would have taken over with his freedom of action constrained by our military presence.

‘Now Miss Tate; which of those outcomes would you say is undesirable?’

‘Undesirable for who? The State Department or the people of Iraq? That’s the trouble; people like you see everything through a lens which only shows you what’s good for the USA.’

‘Bullshit! Your people are just as bad! Look at the legacy left by your empire throughout Africa and the Middle East.’

They glared at each other in silence.

‘So what happened?’ Gerry asked eventually. ‘Why did it all go wrong? Why did the invasion take place with its chaotic aftermath?’

‘It went ahead because our government found out that there were no so-called weapons of mass destruction. They decided that they could just roll in the tanks and troops and set up a regime in favour of the US. You know the rest. The people in Iraq only needed us to topple Saddam Hussein; apart from that we weren’t welcome. But we dismantled their state and created a huge power vacuum and nobody in the Bush administration had a fucking clue how to fill it.’

‘So the Gilgamesh plan never made it past the White House?’

‘A plan that left a Hussein in charge?’ Bruckner forced a bitter laugh. ‘You can imagine how that went down. No WMD, no bargaining position. I decided to send it to Mansour nonetheless. We hoped we might be able to make some use of it. But the signatures on it are not real. Bush and Blair, Rumsfeld, Cheney; they have absolutely no knowledge of it being sent to Mansour.’

‘You expect me to believe that?’

He shrugged. ‘You’ll believe anything you want.’

‘But you ordered it to be buried, and anyone who knew about it was buried as well. I find that hard to believe for something you now say was merely an elaborate hoax.’

‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘But I’m the one responsible. So have you come to kill me?’

‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘There’s no point. The dead stay dead, but I do have a question.’

‘Just one?’

‘No, but this is one I find quite puzzling. Why did you have me arrested and put in prison? Why didn’t you just have me killed along with Phil and the others?’

‘Well it’s because you were pregnant.’

‘What? Really?’

‘Of course. Fielding thought I was being a sentimental fool. He is actually more ruthless than me.’

‘Was,’ said Gerry.

‘He’s dead? You killed him?’

‘You’re not going to believe this, but we were having a conversation a little like this when he had a heart attack. I actually tried to save him you know. I performed CPR for nearly fifteen minutes while I waited for the ambulance to arrive.’ She smiled. ‘I had persuaded him to sign a letter declaring that Richard Cornwall was a loyal servant of the Crown and recommending that he succeed him as Director of Operations.’

‘And do you think that Fielding’s recommendation will carry sufficient weight?’

‘By itself, perhaps not, but you are going to add your support for Cornwall’s promotion.’ She opened a document folder and handed over a letter. ‘Here you are. This is the kind of thing you should write.’

He looked at the letter. ‘Very well. Cornwall’s a good man.’

‘Yes he is, and so is this man.’ She handed him a photo. ‘You have Dan released, you leave us alone and you leave the Hamsin family alone.’

‘That’s all you want?’

‘Yes, but I have another question.’

‘Go on.’

‘When I was talking to Ali Hamsin on the raft, he asked me if it helped a man’s family to know that he died by bomb or bullet before or after his country had been freed from Saddam Hussein’s dictatorship. reign of terror. Less than three thousand people died in the twin towers of the World Trade Centre but four thousand coalition troops died and perhaps four or five hundred thousand Iraqis died in the invasion and the years after, and yet his country had nothing to do with the atrocity in New York.’

‘Yes I’ll accept those figures. So what’s your question?’

‘Bush and Blair and the others seem strangely unrepentant about the whole ghastly, chaotic mess they left behind. How do you feel about it? Do you think it was worth it?’

‘Of course not. I hoped Gilgamesh would stop it happening.’

Three days later Dan Hall was escorted away from his work detail and into the presence of the prison governor. Without furnishing any explanation, the governor informed him that he was to be released with immediate effect. Dan’s first fear was that there would be someone waiting for him on the outside with evil intent. On asking what arrangements were available to allow him to proceed home, as he put it, he was informed that a tall woman was waiting for him outside the main gate. She had assured the governor that she would give him a lift to wherever he needed to go. With eager anticipation he walked out of the gateway a free man, encumbered only by a rucksack.

‘Dan!’ the woman yelled and he quickly dropped his pack and braced himself as Gerry ran across the street and gave him a huge hug.

‘It’s good to see you, I’m sorry it took longer than I expected, how are you?’ she asked, and he was instantly aware that his eyes were growing moist, which he felt uncomfortable with. ‘I’m fine!’ he said. ‘How come you’re here? How did you manage to get me out?’

‘I found the Gilgamesh document so I could strike a deal with Bruckner. And I’m here because I love you. Now tell me how you really are!’ She backed off a pace and looked at him; saw the tears in his eyes. ‘Well you’ve lost weight, so let’s go to the best restaurant we can find have a good meal and then we’ll buy some beers, go back to my hotel, have great sex, tell each other our stories and I for one will probably have a bloody good cry.’ She reached into a pocket and pulled out a cell phone. ‘Hold on I’m just going to tell Jasper White you’re out.’

‘Jasper! How is he?’ Dan asked.

‘He’s retired. I had a hell of a job persuading him not to go for Bruckner, but he seems fairly happy. He’s met somebody too. He introduced me to him.’

‘Him?’ exclaimed Dan, amazed.

‘Jasper’s gay. Didn’t you realise? Men can be surprisingly un-perceptive.’

‘Oh! Was Dean Furness then too?’

‘No, but Jasper told me all about it. To cut a long story short, Dean Furness was local CIA in Berlin, investigating this character named Dennis Gorley, who Jasper had got friendly with. Jasper was still in the Marines back then. Anyway it turned out Gorley was really an East German named Friedrich Steinbruck. This was just before the wall came down in 1985, so it would have turned out real bad for Jasper. Besides which, Marine officers were not expected to be gay, so his career would have tripped up. Dean went to see Jasper and together they trapped the guy, and Dean kept their personal relationship covered up. He found some incriminating photos which he destroyed.’

‘Oh! Was Dean gay too?’ Dan asked.

‘No, but his elder brother was, and so Dean was sympathetic. Several years later Jasper joined the Agency, and he found himself promoted above Dean. Dean was always a field agent, but Jasper climbed the ranks back in Langley. He and Dean remained close and some years later Dean got into trouble himself. He was taken by an Iranian border patrol, but Jasper found out where they were holding him. He mounted a rescue mission and brought him back.’

‘Good for Jasper.’

‘Did you realise that it was Jasper who told Richard Cornwall how I could find you. He put a tracker on your camper van when he found you in that camp site in West Virginia before you were warned to get away by the owner.’

‘Oh I see, that explains a lot.’

‘Yeah, and remember the old hippy guy at the campsite with the motor bike who stopped Parker from killing me.’

‘Yes of course I remember him… wait! You’re not serious! How could we have not recognised him?’

‘Well he’s the last person we would have expected to be helping us. He wants to see us when we’ve got ourselves sorted out.’

‘Good, I’ll look forward to that.’ He stopped and gazed at her. ‘Gerry, I know we’re going to eat dinner and go to a hotel and all that, but you’re… well you’re a different kind of woman from most. I need to know… are you and me an item from now on then?’

‘We are, absolutely.’

‘There’s a package delivered by UPS,’ said Hilary Morris. ‘It’s heavy, so I left it in the lobby.’ She watched Steven, her new English husband carefully inspect the package before heaving it up and carrying it through to the kitchen where he dumped it down on to the granite island unit. He looked it over and then tugged the delivery note off the outside. He read through it and then said ‘bloody hell it’s from Gerry.’

She thought his expression suddenly turned somewhat wary, or even slightly embarrassed, but they had only known each other for four months and they had only been married for three weeks so she was under no illusion that she could read his every mood or expression yet.

‘Who’s Gerry?’ was her perfectly reasonable question, but he was already tearing through the packaging and after a few moments he pulled out a book which struck her as rather old, entitled “Desolation Island” by Patrick O’Brian, with a picture of a historic ship on the front cover.

‘Gosh, it looks like a first edition!’ he exclaimed. He carefully pulled out another book and held it reverentially. ‘So is this!’ He lifted out another which was titled “The Far Side of the World.”

‘I bet they’re all here,’ he said with some excitement.

Hilary peered into the package and on top of a book titled “HMS Surprise” she saw a card which she deftly removed.

“To Steven, thank you for your help and I hope any future surprises are pleasant. Best wishes Gerry,” she read. ‘Gerry’s another one of your sailing buddies is he?’

‘Yes that’s right,’ said Steven.